Tag: Caribbean Poetry

AH FEDERICO,

     
                                                          [for Victor Davson . Andrew Lyght]

    
         Late afternoons, at six and a half, cycling through the cane    
         fields I'd think of you gone younger days; how you helped turn
         our sea wall into Ciné sets : our jetty not for goggled bikers;
         the row boats that set out to confirm the rare loom of ocean
         liners.

         Aristocrats of yearning ~ our limbs no longer in lift wait
         after watching I Vitelloni ~  we stirred like runaways
         in the troolie shade at middays.

         We found alone fat women ~ vendors of wharf lapping stern
         rites : powdered for evenings they let us dock if we glided
         in like gentlemen lodgers . give takings sweat spread sheets :
               Oompah!  
             
         Flatland dried out of inspiration? Start seeing what others   
         don't, Giulietta smiled : the make beliefs in our forests where
           one strong man turns Amerindian and rivers rumble like motor
             cycle flocks gunning for the falls [trails to palace gates 
                          mist . peacock sightings]

         Roraima dipped the brush with art galleries : New York, new
         havens . eyes widening as strokes reveal how our kites flew :
            back in short pants out in the Georgetown light, waving
              to Marcello who tried writing in a coffee shop here after
            he'd shrugged off the beach fish washed up sweet meets.  

               Sea air routes now risk grave ends . mass heads strike 
            out core hollowed. No question : who knows cares why
               what odyssey.

         One fine day ~ Ciao! to time past prime ~ Fine to stilt acts,
         the clown nose snake whip snapping at our brides : we'll join
         your tent circus band in new orbit : ring dance to flute
                day lighting stars.

                                                                   – W.W. 

 

               

 

 

  

               

           WITH POLO AND ANTONIONI 
            IN CHINA

           Things have never really worked, though we vagrants
                have always fished around and changed our clothes
           and donned masks most revealing of our nature
           and murdered others for wearing their own masks
              paid for or stolen in recognition
                  that things as we know them do not work. 

           So stories of the past have to change their tense
             and their conditions: Things work and
           they are working while we dream that the waters
           we have plunged into are melting our sarongs
              and all we can do is walk on the waves
                  back to some shore or into the Sun.

           Back on all shores, we are walking all around
             and past and through others so as to get  ̶  
           beg buy or steal  ̶  something we deserve and think
           we do not have

                                     to think about, only use
           to stamp our latest version of ourselves
               as final model of things so-so 

             ̶  till the next bomb's proof that both we and things do
             work, as we continue to search for fish
           and tell of our nightmares with a smile or sigh
           turning them into things merely like our selves
               walking naked on the waves of our day-
                   dreams, complaining of things not working,
          as they should be  ̶  the way they always have been.

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

 

  

WHITE WILLOW WIELDERS

                            
   
               Manners befitting barely shine on bats that swing :
               pain long poised like bails on stumps sap stiff with
               standing; the unbelief of most except whose heads
               turn hardest back from win delay : ground eaters
               chipping feat away. 

                                                April '16 ~ land mark the days,
               green field maroons : no healing greater in the world
               the trophy lift the victory lap  ̶  chest Warrau bare, Who
               dare?  ̶  past boundary six ball arcing high for need
               full crowd breath catchment.

               Pad gloves on off . fingers up you out signal lots
               cast . seed beds left unmade : care take yourself.
               Suns you plant become suns.

                                                                – W.W.

 

 

                     

       

               

                   

  

                                   

                           ANXIETY

                           is the armour of growth
                           the pain of a dry seed
                           fallen on sandy soil
                           and waiting for the wind

                           Or say a splint sparks ten
                           times before one flame blooms.

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

 

NO COIN FLIP FOR THE OTHER SIDE

   

                                                                             

                                                 "….giving testimony, fighting against the nothingness 
                                              that will sweep us away."
                                                                                       – Julio Cortázar, "Hopscotch"

                                
                     Sorry, mate! I can't unveil the source. Contrary to what
                     you've heard  ̶  cloud lawn reunions, screenings of world
                     history, last dust galaxy swirls  ̶  there's just this aqueduct

                        to all and nothing : a deed chalked gate _ boneless             
                        sluicing _ then, breathless, light white wait.

                     An activated slit issues the 24 hour pass : terms of agreement?
                     you may return  ̶  one loop, one day  ̶  through any portal
                     in the world : the old workplace, a war zone rubble fled : 
                     camp ward yard fall crash site opening back.

                     Free again! yes, look around . tidy up unfinished threads; see
                     how those stubborn DNA worms have turned; how the kids
                     are doing; your tormentors! Your will undone on earth. 

                                                 Ask, Who the new feint champs? if faster
                     fasts exist . inspect new miniature devices, our heat melt
                     sink swim lists.
                                     Peel figments from brain child to clan you failed
                     or fondled then no more : biosphere complete.

                                                                                   No, no  ̶  I can't             
                     reveal my sources . No, I won't give away the ending.

                                                           Fine! go ahead : invest in real        
                    time shares . yeah, yeah : bond blues stock memory 
                    loss  >  earth . earth :

                                                                 – W.W.

 

                               

                           

                           

 

 

                                        

                            DEATH

                            A shell cracked A yolk sucked              
                            about the yolk out of the shell
                            that cannot spill that was always cracked
                            yet spreads and clings always leaking

                            The frozen memory The melting memory
                            of a melting dream of a frozen dream
                           
                            The blinking memory The staring memory
                            of a dream without eyelids of a blurring dream

                            The rock mask The shifting mask
                            of a shifting cloud of a stony cloud

                            The fallacy The triumph
                            of flesh of butterflies and roses.

                            The slack Sleep's po-faced
                            irony of sleep concentration.

                            Justice without Reading
                            judgment without text   

                            The ceremony The mirror
                            of indifference of nothing, and more. 

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

 

 

 

 

HOW THE CASSAVE MEASURES

 

                                                          "…..light like a feather, heavy as lead."
                                                                 Bob Marley, "Misty Morning"

               Flesh and blood unrest in youth with no tide no kumina
             chip foot print . grabbing any need repair with hands on
             wheels untrained for lanes only to be followed by gold
             rim rides from bonier faces pulled from gun lagoons for pock
             mark cases  ̶  as if scatteration was every general's first
             business of order.

             Which leaves the rally run come mask force with fronts
             to tier, galvanize alley ways for little ones to crouch
             behind till the day is over.

             Even our Nan's sheltering ankle hems step tight 'n' tense
             as the sun takes cover, time left no longer sustainable by
             dance habit such is the thatch dread of lamp flicker . boot
             raid limb lay rip _ redress . all you own.
                                        
                                            You reel? so you fold back . as fight
             we might at the holding yard where roosters louder call
             at dawn than head wrapped song and where . to next
             wind strong? 

             Kingdoms come . hearts packed wait each last flight out :
             crows hover blades swish dust requesting unlock words
             which, bark strips round her bed, our Granny passed :
               my Soul to Thee . with eye lash dew : "Mon Dieu!
                    what kept you so long?" 

                   As breath ends cabin belts release . navel cells
                   applaud a ground safe landing, faith complete.
                   Out side clutching lines doubt sky board times
                         >  short as a prance, this life.

                                                                      – W.W.

      

 
 
               

 

                  
 

                      

                          A FEATHER'S GRAVITY

                           'Strenght through assertiveness!'
                      And through strength?  Ageing, disease,
                 corruption and slow rotting
             to translate such compost into buds. 
             This is the field of flesh as a lot
                of stinkweed. Even popes get sick
                     and end up begging Heaven
                          for mercy. Even kings,
                          rich cowardly bullies
                     and heartless thugs must, on their
                death-beds, regret their feats of force.
             Not even a healthy lazy sage
             is free from earwigs and razor-grass. 
                Perhaps all such men are trying
                     too hard?  Whatever became
                          of plain-old wood-chopping
                          and water-fetching?  They
                              also are hard but at least
                the path they form between the shed,
             the river and the stars is not forced,
             except as a mantra may be thought
                to be forced, but is a willing
                     surrender to a sure glimpse
                          of Light beyond the gnomes
                          of pressure by weight, Light
                     beyond the weightless undines,
                 sylphs and angels of air and fire,
               Light behind masked eyes of hinting stars.

                    (from "Readiness" by Brian Chan)

  

      

GONE THE BLUE THROUGH

                                                                               for Alison K.                      
                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                               
            Back then few could imagine how planes refuelled
            in the sky; everything had to be grounded : ambition
            like car engines switched off while someone with a wipe
            rag checked your gradient, and mongoose village eyes
            assessed Atlantic storm marks ~ day break egret strollings.

            June afternoon's green house, the Morne deck view : sun 
            ironed leaves seemed wearable ~ the wind patient like brides
            maids waiting for turbulence to toss high sigh . unzip
            in amber sky.

            We could make out just below the rusted galvanize roofs
            of Placide Valley . history was hardly kind to shell drawn 
            island turtles on haunch lime.  

            Our smiles wheel feeling about intended lift as if already air
            sworn ~ long felt latitude lines known ~ already there!
            before "solar" like "audacity" coined clearance for so long 
            on one leg standing . elections coming.

               Lock unlock would set the hand that chance tapped our
                 crouched shoulders  >  the open will fill mission.

               Indigine news?  like close shave fears click! peel 
                 away as fin blades gleaming path shear clear
                    cross overcloud burst range.

                                                           Our miles flamingo forming :
            as North-South plains dry burn again
            as East-West wing tips stretch again
                                                    Ends up . gone the blue through :

                                                                                 – W.W.

 

 

             

  

 

                
                     CONVERSATION

               
                     When in silence alone I walk on
                     the winter city's hard
                     concrete going nowhere, my knees start
                     to needle me with their whispered screams.    

                     Now as beside me you walk above
                     words of hot stone your heart
                     translates to feather cloud, water wing,
                     stone light, I feel no pain but the wave

                     of love rising and falling along  
                     the seashore of our breath
                     out of whose spine sprouts our wall-less house,
                     all windows and doors, of shining speech.

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

             

 

VISHNAVI IN ALICE LAND

             
          
               Local gentry pass around her _ One of you now. She likes the cane             
               field forbearance of shires, Mt. elsewhere in Mozart moments.

               For other metaphors and worlds who would not scratch away
               at ground bird humming weeds undraining furrow seeds.

               Tells no one of one dog dream retracking : lost 'n' dressed in  
               city streets pushing a red wheel barrow, ear rings snagged in old
               North hair extensions; while vowels leave lungs target circling, 
               lips measure their poured proper tea.

               What happened to your bundle, county lab coats poke; don't you
               walkers cross the desert with knotted bundle?
                                                                                      She's up for stuff
               like that : didn't walk didn't cross I flew . and my baggage fell
               somewhere over the ocean if you must know.

                   In a silk chamber, ripe contractions pinging, Come Soon
                   uncramps, kicks warn : birth roots lease hold strain there
                   after.

                Now do us both a favour, she backs back to the wind, harness
                  sire my fate, at least for awhile, till I release the old
                    form new leaf tendency.

               Was your prime cut satisfactory, this heritage chef might
                  table. So much depends on what now? long friends point
                    grey skies unable.   
                  
                    She could fall through again : compost or pose from cloud
                 or cave  ̶  tell tale seams faux glazed  ̶  dot marked Here
               Here! head light ending . Not so Sorry?  say, Cheerio, then.

                                                                                 – W.W.

 

 

                              

  

 

 

                            VIRGIN WHORE

                         She wears dark glasses to mask her eyes red
                           with fear and grief and fury and bliss
                     but the cold lenses also clear her vision
                       in these glaring streets which she walks, aware
                           of the easy horror and sadness
                     and nonsense and beauty about her, needing
                       to cringe weep scream bless but merely mumbling,
                          like the mad woman she's meant to be,
                     with a voice not her own, though no one's else's,
                         whose lonely freedom is its one meaning
                          as rooftops and gutters and pavements
                     strung together by the words hooked in her flesh
                        pretend the hooks have never existed.
                            I listen beneath her breast, read and
                     sing her dribbling tongue, and score her bleeding feet
                        and the daily changing lines of her palm.

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

 

            

VIJINIE EN PRINTEMPS

                                                                                     

                                                                                  for  L _ C _ & _ Z

 
            These days Vijinie and I have reached our city limits  ̶  which 
            way through district road rim crumbling partners duty lottery
            bound : harmonium sold. 
                                                      We haven't felt the Kaieteur
            rocks since our first river rapids . blade flash in Carib sync;
            strapless soundings past fall stairs to myth made treasure
            caves : worth more our weaving lives. 

            Dreary one grows at home page formatting  ̶  Holy gladioli!
            bursting pods!

                       The issue for us now: destination, destination. 

            A grand hotel links transit fare and parks in the dark suggest
            a squirrel furtivity; back seats we never felt inclined . the inter
            screen net face  ̶  her daughter's constant touch place, Vijinie
            frets  ̶  fixed stare inset hand holding.

            Bird nest away on virgin island?
                                                     Sky grey surveillance might type
            set hawks side track our orbit path : seat choice discreet lips
            bite grip the other till Come in now! some desk watch sniffs
            and rails our mount rush Kilmanjaro. 

                   D'accord : plateau for out source leap clear found.

                                                                       Now comes the hard
            part : deep breath savings . moves that suit space simulations
            for our planet wide arms glide ~ the life sole purposed soaring
            synth : Amalivaca!                                              
                        
                                              Flight control : you won't believe  ̶  
            how attendant we are to loved ones safe on the ground.
                                                                                                 
                                                                                      – W.W.

 

 

                        

 

 

                                     
                          CALL

                          Now I must be content with the flesh
                          only of your voice through this plastic
                          hollow at my ear that tastes the salt
                          in your laugh and swallows the silence
                          gluing our words of resignation.  

                          But no complaint: never too much pain,                
                          always just enough; and we will keep
                          magneting ourselves into words
                          that amplify our avid missing
                          of each other until we arrive

                          at that moment waiting to use us
                          as only one of its many rhymes
                          by which it will prompt itself to be
                          more itself, without apology,
                          and uncover itself, without shame.

                          How else can it be? We are born of,      
                          and into, overlapping desire,
                          and out of such mutual dreaming,
                          this egg of disembodied yearning
                          is one day bound to translate as flesh.

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

  

BAT WINGS FOR BREAKING BALLS

             

              So how does it feel, he pivoted, stretching possibility on your island;               
              how old did you say you were? Twenty six?  My . goodness!
              And still a taxi driver . taking this lens capturer of sun laid 
              yoke to the airport  ̶  see my shoulder parrot posts. [

              From the back seat who understands why axles drive on blood cut
              corners, and one pothole 'n' route hijacks your grid. Or why some
              evenings midriff Meena looks at you . view find taboo . look spins
              parasol lines from henna palms.
                                              Tree hollows signal roost at some flambeau
              road junction . Please Wait . fixed wing circle breakers, safe
              flight home. [   

              Some nights you sink, Yes, let the locust swarm the days
              remaining : close! wild coast rites, blow! ashes; service for
              shadow limbs in pain. Boxed straight you cross  ̶  no rise back
              wind I used to know him bare face lime.]

                                                           *

             I know I'd feel fear foul ~ futurus interruptus ~ cooped on a bloody
             cruise ship : captain crew sea sky port frame ~ hubris sharking white
             cap flotage; enough to turn friend fiend. I mean, people would
             reach to leech

             or fathom swapping mates room hasps unhinged ~ fat wives belly
             pushing hard men over board. Then there's your money well of little
             word bond lift off shore so grope hands hoist your deck cheer rocks
             away all for the rake 'n' fun of it ~ ghastly business!

             Wish you all the luck of the world, young man. All the luck
             of the world! What am I saying?
                                                                                EXIT : are we coast
             clear? [ Atlantis . like white rum off the breath . making you scent
             fast turn and waiver. Wheel tight I grip 'n' tack I don't . pretend
             it's choice : sure, almost there.]
                                                                                       – W.W.

 

                          

  

                                                                                          
                                             
                                

                            ORSON'S OASIS

                          Is that my own words surprise me evidence
                             of Recognition's ubiquity,
                          or of a 'comprehensive understanding'
                             beneath a patent stupidity
                          that knows no star of speech but 'the universe
                             in a grain of sand' in the desert
                          of a blank page which the parched crab of my hand
                             gropes across towards some oasis
                          of meaning perhaps only one more mirage
                             desperate but no less essential
                          to breath than are rainclouds to dry tongues and wells?

                         
                          This sideways-slow but crystal-clutching-fast crab
                             has stuttered often words blind to pain
                          and joy, the very seeds of all utterance,
                             seeds whose flares and flames can melt the snow 
                          shrouding the only food the delving crab needs:
                             Truth's impersonal crystal of Earth's
                          carbon transformed to a lucent loneliness
                             that would now belong to a new Earth
                          on which collective crystal-clouds, unsnowed, rain
                             that charity that erases all
                         debts of cold hearts, false words and their cruel coin.

                               (from "Readiness" by Brian Chan)

                                     

SERENE . NOT ALWAYS THERE

                                                                                 

                                                          "It was a feeling of need and perturbation and sadness she
                                                                could not account for  ̶  an acute spirit of meeting and
                                                                parting and of eternal distance that was still nearness."
                                                                                   – Wilson Harris, "The Whole Armour"

 

              Beyond serve nerves of steel they claim could insulate space rafters,
             observe the player who brings to net no practice in fame holding.

                  "She tends to drift away, lose focus . doesn't want the win that
                   bad." Lean in : the deer hunter's third eye has opened runway
                   clear through sport page leaves . it heeds the conch alert. 

            Face towels gauge the sun's stake hold, that glare never in doubt
            in search of sag point. Moon shot bellows vapor risk. Galleries row
            packed look on cheer swizzle chat ( > one day lisp fade away).

            "But in the middle of a thought . sex . congregation? Call that good
            timing?" On any stage for the good of the flow churn units break,
            prayer bows pin east; chambers redress a breach head on its way.
                 Yo, who caught the future's wink? 

                                                        *

            Pointillion pixels screen the frameless face sometimes near
              tears. Grass clay take note as wrist snaps back ace makers,
                as hearts draw string speed muscle tight : Boy, chase that
            called out burner.(Even in good seats the old body frets.)


                                             On side switch light might amble in
            a miss fit toss time out : some star far set in motion world code
            centres scent implosion; just so the cause unknown bests shade
            index.
                            Not over  ̶  valley riffs leaps above dance invocation
            in the fault box  ̶  around in lead feet turn : optics refit, arms paid
            dear for the end swing whack. 

                              Ordinarily, tugging the tail of the tiger, we'd go: I need
            a moment : enter the pain shed . pride thigh wrap  ̶  there, now. 

                                                                                        – W.W.

 

 


                         

  

               

 

  

                                INFLUENTIAL EFFLUENCE

                                Yes, all must fade, but those who would not  ̶  except
                                as form-shifting stars with their effulgence not 
                                limited by labels of 'burn-out' or 'fall'  
                                        (which are masks of fear,
                                   failure and final loss),
                               stars whose new scrawls figure form's humbling fate but
                               on as many night-slates as there are eyes ripe
                               to become conscious sparks of undying Light  ̶  
                                        those who would not fade
                                   determine to relay  ̶  
                               to our still breathing world of both reluctant
                               and willing witnessing  ̶  their lives masked as knots
                               of nests of eggs to be untangled and hatched
                                      by brooding midwives 
                                  of births beyond the self,
                               births that restrain the self's egg to so release
                               its ripeness from its stubborn shell that would keep
                               failing, burnt-out, falling ideas of its form
                                       which, fading, must kneel
                                   to stars that pass to stay.

                                   (from "Readiness" by Brian Chan) 

   

 

 

EVEREST PEAK : DIABLO HEAT

                

          Climbers past, not feathered for memoirs, relieved to be done,
          admit to weird post office dreams. They see savannah walkers
          carrying ballots like cement blocks in lines that wrap around
          Mt. Everest building . a freaking castle? on the mountain?
               "Si, señor!" . and pole flags victory clapping.


          They hear the grey skull scratch, Boy, up there not easy; chief stick  
          on teaming shaggy like sled dogs; while 'norita servers turn and toss
               hot plate complaint like wish bone out gorge windows.


          They brace as pledge cords snap  ̶  Ay dios mio! Where the fuck those
          people going?  ̶  as tree limbs burst old empire banks put rusted cargo
               ships on notice : the salmon are leaping! man woman child
               steeping! steerage rules broke . writs sent out for repair.


              Plunge accounts like rum flow down : pre-dawn summit 
                  sightings  ̶  the palms of angels catching water
                       drips from cloud torn linings. 

                                                         *         

           Leagues past cigars and beards, our island shores : well, so it seems.
               Need lease? consider Petit Jamoon Bay . our Walcott sea sides
           noblesse drawn. You could by any home stretch of the imagination
               chest swell . I-ditate . bottom up the seasons bare.

               Full disclosure : we're capped in bottled thirst-slake drafts. Snow
               storms sweep blind . sift grain worlds resettling : just not here. 
           
               There you frost breaker dare you, plow the tomato red to green;
               our seed beds lay unburnished, sun rain night time mean. 
                                                                                             But your pick 
           axe hooked that all the while, Mr. Marley. The best of us Google 
               now : iTag, mercy on us \ . 
 
                                                                                       – W.W.

 


                 

 

    

 

                                   
                         ALPINE GHOSTS

                         Entire mountains can be erased 
                         by mere clouds

                                              loitering

                                                            on their
                              way out of being
                              their focus of none,
                         and, from reaching our next clear path
                         of Heaven, discouraging us 
                             with their slow grey threat
                             which our fading feet

                         nevertheless ignore to flesh out 

                         the echoes

                                        of the steps

                                                         of men
                         long dead, men long dead,
                         men long dead, long dead. 

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