Tag: Brian Chan

GULLY PRINCE SONG

                                                                                                                                                                        

                       No, they can't export this, can it like pine apple
                   for super city market. It was meant for our island
                   road, that girl with headphone queued for transport Half
                   Way Evening, Kingston, the air acrid with hail; for rose
                   hip swing line carrying on Savannah Noon, Port of
                   Spain; this fella catching her eye, face mask
                   message instant love play marronage.

                      They assemble wails of redeeming, blue chip
                      dip for fall chance rise; pride Ska high hard I blaze I.
                      
                                                                       So it don't travel
                      up North heart chart; that alright, man. Usher it side               
                      ways, back a wall, ripples to belong  ̶  here, here
                      see it?  lignum pleading. 
                                                                                – W.W.
                                     

                              

                  

                           

                                                [In mem. Rex Nettleford]     

                         

                             

                             
                    YOUR SONG

                                             of solitude and desire you sang
                    with such ardent simplicity, I felt
                    the smoke of your breath entwine with mine
                    to climb up the vine of my back, stretch
                    towards the raincloud of my heart
                    and burst it. But instead of the river
                    you flooded in me, what I hoped
                    you saw in my face's glass was the sun
                    of your own smile shimmering through the mist
                    of these eyes too overwhelmed to tell less.
        
                       (from "The Gift of Screws" by Brian Chan)

 

                                           

 

RETURN REDUX REDONE

    

                                                     
                  So someone throws a stone at his window, a senseless act
                  since smashed glass loses love recycling value. Once past
                  the shock there's recoil at what looks like ingratitude
                  considering how much travel he'd invested  ̶  the good
                  doctor; he could scalpel humours with a shaman's feel to heal.

                  This is why they come back, redressing to blend in, roles
                  of comraderie contracted; put humbly, home again hands
                  hard on the teat of weaning service.
                                                                   What an arc, young Castro.
                  In these parts there's not enough land mass for patriots
                  true like you.

                  In time, though, you might sense momentum falter; fingers
                  grasping bare root stump toe scuffing smooth talk all you
                  want for hold. Aura, it seems, doesn't always help you sir
                  past rankled line servers. So much too late to learn back.
                                  
                  Certainly, one could argue, one hoped to foot print about with
                  out power strip trip or faith trick under mine.

                  Just one blinder of trust is all it takes to tilt ship shape up
                  side down, propellers air writhing; how, kaisomen steuups,
                  could a charterer not see that coming.

                  No, they can't make you divest fresh habits of chewing; reach
                  for the gravy, your entrails on the plate. 
                                                                              And, hear nah, before
                  you know it, throat tenure's up, you're another old man waiting
                  to be admitted: a case of Saman tree silence  ̶  leaf distribution
                  done!  ̶  base stop for some upstart dog leg initializing; or
                  drag yuh tale, drag yuh tale. 

                                   Feel the town beach prayer mills grinding? plumb
                  the ground: the vendors of tribe face lift, the cans of prude
                  on shelf; core improperties like tract infection, the scratch
                  that, closing time, takings to add.
                                                                             
                                                                       – W.W.

 

                         

                 

 

 


                  HINT

                  Fallen leaves that lead back to the tree also
                  extend from it, as much as do full branches,
                  as issues of the map of its utterance,
                  the way the stars that seem random are balanced
                  by a centre whose nature it is to keep
                  dividing itself into more and more points
                  of light so that we shall uncover never
                  any absolute but the hint of its winks.

                   (from "The Gift Of Screws" by Brian Chan) 
             

 

 

 

 

VOX POPULI

 

                                                                                                    for Linda & Carroll & Zulaika

                                                                                                  

                              Across parting seas whose arguments freeze in fold
                         back a player strums and chips; voices adoring pour
                         life sought after.
 
                         From hearth razed rubble in city husks once home
                         militias lift their heads, leave time out, let them through all
                         wave and recognition.

                         No unpaid piper children red scarf taken; rosary 
                         with followers hailing making Mary scene. Tide
                         high expectation:

                         a mother will give birth to twins; a space ship lowers
                         stairs; a scent to rapture near, always near.

                                                                                                       -W.W.

                       

                                                                             

                                                                      

                          

 

                      
             

 

                                 
                                 WAITING

                    
                                                  like a radio for your voice
                              to speak through me, I can only buzz and hum
                              as though my dial's at an open station.
                              So I pad about like a caged cat
                              and on the wave of that rhythm contemplate
                              the about-to-ring bell about my tight throat.

                         
                                      (from "Scratches On The Air" by Brian Chan)

 

 

TRIALS TRIED NEW NEWS PAST DUE

 

                      
                   On system fail watch, awaiting the auditor, the man
                  whose road flags marched up the liberation party leaned
                  forward hawked bright red in his spittoon for naysayers.  

                  Is Funny, he told the bed pan nurse, how body parts you take
                  for granted tear and whimper; sags like fuming diapers call
                  attention; how lungs wheeze insipidities and bladders quibble
                  down right Honorables droop. 
                                                        And, man, the brush pass of disease
                  to gum, like union members threatening strike, joint  
                  ventures lean to ramshackle  ̶  you see this?

                  Listen, he surged, his grave tone pealing: we were the first
                  born Comrades: our Viva! and army, we own stage craft
                  copy. 1979: our time to do  ̶  no wait wait, listen!  ̶  
                  bare back we gripped the hair trope of revo, break clean
                  chant from ghetto. 

                  Turn simple, home made for all; tools to extract sown in
                  plants; hard boil Crown stool flushing out to sea. Ok,
                  lost heads Fort split Salvation we didn't foresee the midnight
                  track suit change?  blood stain didn't bleach.

                  Now white sands cruise the tourists back; safe hands hot hot
                  for winter pain spread cocoa blankets, squeeze fresh out
                  of shell stock courtesies.
                                             Who says the workers, sinking back to bread
                  fruit trees, won't sweep our way again?    

                  Sun bells tongue spermy futurisms; fermentories you can't 
                  see beat chests heat jewels become you. We learning just 
                  don't fuck with our curves (beach warning flag) loss heals
                  (guard knee abrasion). 

                                                                 Green flash: who knows
                  what typhoon escort wave's now on its way, clean sweep 
                  idea. And, hear, enough with poets colon scoping grief
                  wrung fame: the people's island schooler  ̶  what's his 
                  game? paints metrics you can't trigger. 
                                                                            – W.W.
                                                                                    

                    

  

                     

  

                      BRIGHT AND LONELY BATHOS

               

                      The midmorning Sun keeps a calm eye

                            on a million stifled storms,

                            on a thousand restless calms,

                               on a hundred clean hands,

                        on ten fears for the too-well-known

                         ̶  the return to which raises scars

                     in two hearts as on the broken land,

                              and one mind sparks

                              while all hearts shrink

                          and the city expands.

       
             (from "Within The Wind" ©  by Brian Chan)    

  

 

FOR VIJINIE GIRL TOUCHED SHORE BIRD FLOWN

 

 

                   Those enclosed lamp lights in windows alert to passing
                  ship offers of first mate  ̶̶  you'd wake and grace the morning
                  yearn the keys to cabin closets; the farthering stern boil
                  not yet under way.  
                                                                     That half moon need to know
                  how hearts on deck grasp grip at wanting grounding 
                  sheets of wave; first gush first outcry breaking sea 
                  weed dream to day. 

                  How else could you have felt the tide take floats of
                  innocence trembling, while conch shells raise  ̶  what wind?
                  what change in webbed bird step whose unswept shore? 

                  The bare foot years the wish for paths for choice full
                  blooming styles; for moves past screaming Madre mía!
                  playing that teacher out for touch, the taxi drivers rear 
                  view cue; hot lid nails made cool with shadow polish.

                  Stitch by stitch, decorum easing pleats for peeks, that lust
                  mote wedge at the corner of eyes, young men on line on
                  hold importing sweets.

                                             The bark of dogs  ̶  the gates you dared!
                  stretch beats of wing  ̶̶  line curve in air.

                  From lies the sting you didn't expect in the Admin's bite left
                  neck memos. Thank the stars no Toyota blood pack swirling
                  terror dust blade upswing testing how far fast you run before
                  the tumble pins you down  ̶̶  goat foraging not far from grasses 
                  past when loins ate hair; brush close to scarf rules cheeks                     
                  bright tight for after calls to prayer.                                 

                            Vida de mi vida  ̶  your lighthouse radiant
                       beam through storm so sure  ̶  long before tattoos
                       were vogue, our high seas etched high marks  ̶  
                       how you've grown, wave girl, now you're known.

                                                                                        – W.W. 

 

 

                         

             

                                                      

 

    

                              OBSERVANT
 
                         
                             If innocence is impulse without lust,
                             it is your guileless grace that I desire.
                             If tenderness is a rose's cool musk,
                             it is the perfume of your fresh petals
                             that touches, angels me, a faithful cloud
                             that will outlive my seedings of its rain.
                             If caution is a flower of value,
                             it is the bud of your care I would keep.
                             If watchfulness is an eager eagle
                             of vulnerability on the hunt
                             for a chance to bridge the nearest abyss
                             between this need for real food and that want
                             of warm wine, then I long to become one
                             alert feather of your generous wings.

                              (from "The Gift Of Screws" by Brian Chan)

 

 

                                

   

POEMS FOR WHAT REMAINS PRIDE TIES THAT HOLD

 

                    
                Like fans of morning ocean breeze we stir to ferocious cock
               waking turns, monkey noise unheard of inside temple walls;
               grace hands smoothing the closed sheets.
                                                                                       Ankle bells
               main road transport heat, rumours of mad cow mad ras
               scowling the city.

               We cherish lines to pin garments wet for sun stroke, we 
               call the children inside. Prayers we chant but don't export
               trusting the cicadas to join in like khartals, keeping us
               safe from drum down areas in darkness.

               The sweat slash burn off cane paths made a wish
               for the order of dry good stores, land fixtures     
               with address;. No head pails spilling sorry come
               tomorrow; fresh hurt. 

                                                          Bright nephews fly off, cricket
               white countries, doctors for the frail health of front page
               news. You can redeem air mail miles saved 'cross generations.
                                                                                                 Wait  ̶  
               see our tooth bent Saddhu smiling? work done, cycling home?

               We buffer the web work of spiders in the Fate House  ̶  
               our hairies, their cabinet big filings for first bite; fence
               filigree like wire barbed to deny and fare well.      

                                                             Our front steps glow with deyas
               for shadows returning from fields of mud; our martyrs. Our
               grave yards breathe weed free, not like elsewhere bones broke
               tossed in corbeau holes, clods from sodden manner; the feral
               things they do, you know.

               How did estate huts trade up for orhni leisures? Our gods
               watch willing. What goes on inside us should not concern
               the teller. So flaring green the grass in villages left unsired;
               too old if we owned gold stalls we'd offer to the cows.
               Past longing, if you insist.
                                                                Count the pipal shoots
               arriving, bracelet arms inset to serve.
                                                                                – W.W.

                            

                   

  

 

 

                         
                  THE AUTOHARPIST AND
                  THE TRUMPETER

 
                  The price of pride is a certain
                  loneliness, and the lonely fear
                  of never being recognised                             
                  fuels vanity's loudest lamps.
                  Solitude, like community,
                  must be earned, each other's wages
                  of awareness  ̶  else sheer blindness
                  circling in its accustomed fear

                   ̶̶  fear no bird always at the centre
                  of the air's pressure can afford: no
                  matter how many pauses of perch
                  it may take, it must always remain
                  alert to the will of the wind and
                  the whims of its own wings' responses
                  within a humility that wears
                  no name's arrow or shield, yet declares
                  itself lonely vanity's victor. 

               (from "Within The Wind" © by Brian Chan)

          

                     

DROOPING PANTS KNOW WHAT YOU DO

  

                        In days whipped by if you didn't raise your hand to get
                      noticed Salut! you wound up halo weaning, a lynx
                      eyed old fart knee bent in prayer stall; the back rub
                      beamer for girls twirling @dresses.           
                                                                                  Or a diamond
                      leg trapped in tennis shoes longevity; hard as ghetto
                      to burn  ̶  Achtung. 

                      Pop guns build Museotheques, disks cased in gold.
                      There's always an Error message, but white bone fear
                      of hip funk servers could freeze connections, skin scratch
                      infections that embed and repeat after you.

                      Youth limbs  ̶  nothing better to do, belt free to waste good
                      pay days  ̶  are best advised: here, conjure this  ̶  scrub in,
                      your street hood's cramping; trunk grooves cut down 'ill
                      howl to heaven smell of bitter root  ̶  one shot.

                                        Flight capsules stand by  ̶  crowd wave lock
                      in count down  ̶  blue screens eclipse red moons. Cell sure
                      mobile glow beats no place to go. And site this: sun tan
                      schedules await the newest Royal embryo.

                                                                                       Maybe if
                      we slipped something in their food? a gatekeeper  
                      posts. 
                               This all on boarding  ̶  rivers like Jordan  ̶̶  
                      who cares where bends shape falls whose faith fools
                      love. Oh snap! Arc de Rainbow. In step all good?
                      Nein.
                                                                                 – W.W.

         

                                  

  

  

 

                   
                   THE INSOUCIANT CONSIDERATE PRINCE
                           
               
                     Why should one, heeding the call of Things
                         To Be Done,
                     descend out of the realm of the Sun
                     where all knots and walls have already sprouted wings? 
                                    
                               Things can wait, in the sweatshop below
                             in the den
                         of Duty, that servant with a bone
                         at his teeth as he sucks at his master's marrow.

                       Only after one has broken fast
                           with the Lord
                        of unhurried Light, should one reward
                   the demons of Do with ones attention at last.

                      It is their hunger feeds their demands
                         but they're just
                       clouds, under our Star, waiting to burst
                  when our rays trigger their rain to a million hands.

                     (from "Within The Wind"  ©  by Brian Chan)

  
         
                                   

 

VIEWS FROM ATOP MOUNTING

 

 

              I

                  In matters of island property, like carving the mountain
                 view, there are palpitating issues, you could say  ̶  downed
                 tree lives and dress rehearsing wives not withstanding.
                
                Your chance for happiness? so far the data's inconclusive.

                 After the Everest summit shiver  ̶  alone at the top, peasant
                 ant hills below  ̶  you get used to uncommon breath,
                 cloud loitering, sunrise room service. You could count
                 the air arrival miles you racked up and there's ample time
                 to declutter the sledge hauled bags of hunger years.

                 New technology approaching the villas gets turned back
                 by villagers with machetes who can spot grass snaking
                 pump lines stretched away. Their gods must be appeased. They
                 want jobs  ̶  like Security Sensor? for blocking intruders
                 on our Heritage grounds?  Keeper of the seals.

                 On print outs your body throws up shell casings and numbers
                 to baffle any beach reader of sea leaves. Goodness knows,
                 the organs try but can't up lift much more "as per". Lung
                 pipes get sucked blood crimping your face glow and unless 
                 there's a tennis court so little is required of the heart. 
                 Guts you have.

 

                   II

                       
                 For credit checks, Sunday morning's best. Womb worn
                 women in church shinery get to step the verge. There's ripe
                 fruit and reason to smile.
                                                                Pray for no rain storm  ̶  all
                 that top water racket tearing down like indicators of unruly
                 market shares.

                 Best advice: build a Jericho wall. Some sweat marked taxi
                 men get it in their heads to organise the tourist drive by: 
                 Who lives there, mobiles snap? 
                                                                   In time you learn to trust
                 only the deference of grass to lawn presidents, the terrier
                 teeth of smiling coconut peelers.

                 Out on the terrace, at sunset, you could chill with a stone
                 ground law maker; pour Scotch movie gangster style 
                 as flowered village girls come up to the iron
                 gate  ̶̶  Dog alert!  ̶  belle eyes ringing, Need a handy 
                 lady, guava sweet beak? 
                                                               Dragon fly blades slash
                 any hope of sighting sky cranes on coast lines over seas.
                 One day the gaze will show you the door. Ledgers bow.
                      Yes, I should go now.               Cliché cliché.
                       
                                                                                                       – W.W.

              

 

 

 

                         A STRAY

                                            wisp of cloud
                                                                     drifted
                    up from behind a mountain, crumbled
                    and dissolved. Was I the only witness
                    of its determined self-erasing course?
                    The mountain sighs: Of course not;
                    nor was it an omen of only your
                    death: ask that crow in flight
                    and he will tell you: We are all
                    drifting in and out of being:
                    ask that mountain ever reaching
                    for the nudity by which it keeps redefining its focus
                    of nakedness, while we, bird and cloud
                    and man, by contrast of our faster fading,
                    lend it an illusion of fixity, feed
                    its dream of timeless solidness whose value
                    as eternal witness of our cloudiness we invent.

                 (from "The Gift Of Screws" by Brian Chan)

 

 

 

POEMS FOR VIJINIE BAD GIRL VIRTUAL BEING

 
                                                                                      

                                                                                 "Fu tru a libi faya      /   "Truly, life must be
                                                                          f ' wi masra Gado"  /    tough for the Lord."
                                                                                           ̶  Johanna Schouten-Elsenhout, "Virtue"

                           Vowed they would fix it, the flat tired nation, with memory
                         wound stitched, fiefdom pulp beats. Now fine tempers
                         bruise under their skin pecking orders, timers for youth 
                         oven access; the belt loose No, please! shielding.
                                                                                                No lift tools,
                         stems wait wilt. What foot stool custom helped them up
                         there, coin chests saddled upon you?
                                                                                                                                                         
                         Dot titles sharpening names, blade fall, the old imperial drum
                         role; things that matter less or more  ̶  brace to jump the track
                         rust of grail service. 
                                                      The wage estate's in shambles. Strip 
                         gangs burn cane reeds tender on strike dates. I run
                         with you I clear ash swirling air strips for you.

                         Their frog throats swell, low copy high swallow.
                                                                                                 Here's a path
                         for unexploded shells: spear tip the crab fist pounding
                         up through mud; seize the scuttled shore before the tide plays
                         out and longing dried in the sand holds, in the belly pincers.

                         Through thread veins, breath not ceding, run our conspiracy
                         file  ̶  did the barrels shipped back make it past the organ
                         swellers? inside you tossed on beds of river weeping? 
                                                                                                  Paddle, glide
                         like Amerindian; take for your parting prow this hand,
                         our midnight chart through forest quiet.

                         I sing paint dream you  ̶  You there, stay the course!  ̶  
                         I follow ways you stream, you swat the Admin's crevice fingers.
                         I wait with ointments, with oxygen tent, Enter keys.
                         On heart shelves, our expectations lined up,
                                                                                                    I reach
                         and dust spines of raptures chiming; not a grain slips by, 
                         Oh those glassed hours.
                                                                                -W.W.

                      

 

 

 

                         ATTRACTING A BRIGHT ANGEL

                 
                                                                     with the hint
                        of a horn to a quiet song, I know
                        you at once, your body all wings of light
                        lifted by its own music's waves of sure
                        breathing, yet hovering
                        between magnets of recognition and routine,
                        desire and duty, ah-yes! and oh-well,
                        your smile a mask of baffled power,
                        of your admission of now-or-never,
                        a chance you first deny through the exit
                        to never, before turning back to charge
                        our one heart's battery, your eyes' light over-
                        flowing its chalice towards my hunger
                        to be graced by the wingtips of your breath.                   

                          (from "The Gift Of Screws" by Brian Chan)

 

 

 

 

 

ISLANDS LEFT LOVED FUTURES FEARED

 

                                                              
                                                                                            
                                                                                  "…age vexes age..."  
                                                                   ̶  Walt Whitman, "Song of Myself"                                    

                  

                       They want you on stage, old school vine, brick role 
                     till dust; comrade with angina in the village square, dying 
                     for a champion's green mansion; to smile again, crowd
                     pleased, as the motorcade (Havana pipe fitters) horns past. 
                                                           They'd like you to serve, lithe wine girl,
                     scented for taste  ̶  egret at standby; entry positions cheeks assume
                     on carpets; for murder hiring hands, quality assurance.
                    
                     Sunscreen Times, you want bacchanal? 

                                                                                  Contractor claws gouge hill
                     face, Solar Control stations coming. That sewage welling up in back
                     yard pits? tip of oil lakes underground  ̶̶  bet!  ̶  bubbles to take
                     breath away. While seine pullers sort pleading catch, bass licks
                     and dhantals jerk knees. With no slide rules, fellas consider guns
                     smoking  ̶  Excuse me, where the fire hosing dragons?

                     Up escalators tripped ashore the other day courtesy of fat
                     pay rollers in Chinese deck chairs making valued customers
                     of every bowlegged tree climber whose splayed toes scratch 
                     fear at the foot of the stair; our first shopping mall floors
                     gleaming door man screaming, You can't come in here
                     like that.                          

                     The sun's melting pace quickens Day-O! Transport touts squeeze
                     in more wet prunes or, stripped to the waist, pole stroke pink
                     face rafters with pony tails; tulips for hard dough. In bamboo
                     halls the forest children sing till hearts burst strumming all 
                     that's metered in us. And now, ready to order, the dead
                     who weave our north south hammocks signal.

                     Faith and I used to park by the airport, hug; wait, watch  
                     the evening flight take off. The up roar of the beast head
                     lift of skirt sky boosters boarding the body; the spending
                     spree on runway thighs  ̶  Haya! Vaya! Sapodilla  ̶
                     our crack, our thunder.
                                                      And so much sun! how alien, much less
                     shut cold, could home fires possibly feel out there? Green
                     light, two one  ̶  away, you!  
                                                               > limbs great wide, wind tango.

                                                                                            - W.W.

 

                

                         

 

 

         

                                 PATH

 
                              The higher you rise, the more
                             sheer the air, the more calls
                                the sand swearing its
                           sliding is surer than your
                             need to become the sky
                                 of your first calling
                           beyond settling for Earth's core's
                              pull or for her grasses'
                                  siren songs of Springs
                           whose purpose is to propose
                               their passing promises
                                  the final real thing.

                               But how sure of this other
                               first call are you?   What is
                                 it? This becoming;
                            this summing-up surrender
                              of name and clock and clothes,
                                though they keep clinging
                            to your bones even after
                              bones exchange their loud tilt
                                  for the balanced nude
                            spine of silence.   It is here
                               time's thorns rise to the rose
                                  of breath's timeless song.

            
                           (from "Within The Wind" © by Brian Chan)