Tag: Caribbean Poetry

BLUE HUNDRED NOTES FOR JULIO

                                                                                             

                   
              Evening moist bites on dry bed lips testing the initials
              of youth dew kiss still cling sharper than the first search party
              mapping curve mound signs; or spring tide swell moon up
              on the sea wall  ̶  permit at last to storm.

              On air brushed island bicycles, cow amble and cart
              in our path, we lost ourselves in Walcott-like land tie dyes;
              prince and princess, never more crowned, cool valleys
              like Marley's, never more owned. Valve insert keys golden,
              our kingdom full come. 

              The morning you disclosed your ovaries contained no eggs
              designed to child; straight backed away  ̶  your ten o'clock intern
              ship call [On the Rayuela Périphérique: * Even if Heaven is
              close by, all life in front of one.*]   
                                                                  Did you know then who you'd
              become? your hands scrubbed in would people house wife smiles?

              I'll go happy parts of us clasped to my chest rare coins on eye
              blinds open (nose holding casket scents).


              I'll clutch these strips, not yet expired, like magnets on
              the chance there's the same swipe system for the paradise side:
              a rainbow One source blues stop @ "Bird & Miles"  ̶  a pint round
              about midnight for Julio  ̶  as hip hop tattoos sneak a peek.

              Ripe plum pluck and good luck! risks of innocence distinguishing;
              Fellini's FIN.
                                                                  < Yo, corbeau! head red 
              that garden lizard's fire fly snaps, the tree climb pause to pose,
              Eh-eh, what became of,  
                                                                             
                                                                               – W.W.

 

                      

                 

                     

                                        ̴  Ça va Julio Cortázar (1914 – 1984)  ̴

                           
 
                             

                    COCTEAU


                    I:                 

                    My taste for moment-to-moment death yeasts
                    the liquor of life that waters the taste.

                    This tongue is ghosted by my brandy's ice-
                    dry vapour drifting in and out of being.   


                   II:

                   Now I am a stone in a running river,
                   split by the sun into a thousand moons;

                   now the river drained to a widow's bed,
                   a tongue of sand clogged with a million stars. 


                   III: 

                   My house is all windows of seamless glass
                   with soldiers drifting by them, like stray clouds.

                   On its walls, I'm a shadow with ten eyes
                   whose target is any, whose aim is all.

                
                   IV:

                   From branch to branch of this flowering tree
                   I hop, a bird who has traded his wings

                   for a hundred songs from as many beaks:
                   fickle to each branch, faithful to one tree.

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

  

  

 

HOME COME TO COUPLING

                              
                 

                    Night watch the eagle prize titled, you dove breast day
                    maker. Heart heave not too close to his scout feathers long
                    aloft  ̶  home  ̶  fortunes balding.
                                                                   Tier attired for mate he'll trade
                    our plantain rough stuff for chips and retrofits.

                    If your skiff never left its island berth he'd have his way your 
                    way not grained to stay. In sandals he might propose a resident
                    vista: you could do a lot worse dashing wool hat through the snow
                    bells up North ringing. Our bearing strait is not a site for frost
                    no cross road cues.
                                                                                            Besides, observe
                    how, sweet on after noons, our grazing office pens shut down  ̶  
                    Islanda Nervosa, tide orange yields shore lime.
                       
                              Friends fast talking might conceive a link with him sets up maypole
                    limb weave. Our suns need rest sheds; desire, a colony turning
                    cheek on stilts, could wobble to unattainable.

                    With pipe line accessories he'd front gait an invest in native
                    shingles, fruit fresh trays, a choice of shanty smiles; the root 
                    scent dialectals give off soothing travel scrapes of skin. 

                    My smooth avocado, he'll pre-enter  ̶  you not quite in the right
                    position to (you) know  ̶  Silo maintenance costs!  ̶  skim cream
                    your prime till tempers set off alarms blow horn men hear.  

                                                                      Brace for it  ̴̶  his thinking dug in
                    you sweet sour sap juicing; faith cupped for tea steep rounds.
                    Wait for it  ̶  rush come of sacrifice redeemed rewinding.

                                                                            Otherwise, time to remove
                    the moon boots  ̶  okay!okay!  ̶  time to poke the marabunta nest.

                                                                                     – W.W.

 

 


                         

                            
                              

    

                         

                       +ADD+SUBTRACT+DIVIDE+MULTIPLY+

                           Wanting what You are for myself,
                            the self which I forget so
                         as to want You, is like striking
                         flint against my heart's stone whose spar-
                            king greed seeds a thousand fires
                         that feed every storm we invoke.

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

                   

                        

DESERT ISLANDS BUCKTA POSING

 

                                                                                                           
                                                                                   for Terence Roberts

                            I

                       Like cow down on grass reservation oceans away from  ̶  right
                     click  ̶  camera eyes securing fear contagious, our shelters huddle
                     up.
                                 Gone the estate thatched roof levels. Demerara windows
                     rattle. Age tilled fields choke at what those Ox yoked registers
                     have provisioned. 
                                     Rum and racket fire unrest all night; street chandeliers
                     deflower the hours. Until their day the meter men read leaves.

                                       Watch as cut off this old lady's bones await departure 
                     in galvanize rust wrap. Next door a dry good Boysie build one
                     double decker grilled roost with chariot parked and back yard
                     pooled for swim mate ceremony  ̶  making patently no difference
                     to heads of deportment around the world. 
                                                                                                          So sky
                     ward off the past  ̶  a kind of luxury  ̶  he must be guard and 
                     feeding something: baskets of coinage hanging like bats; hairy 
                     spider lips  ̶  with balcony to belly up window blinds to peep
                     whisper kneel behind; focus on quiet sucking.    
                                                                                                 Cane sweet    
                     habits slow to burn, oui!

                                   
                         II

                     The sun probes each day's caries, bite clamps we grind on.
                     The years hang sheets of flesh wrung signs young life will
                     all its moisture spend here.
                                                                Faux book bound mirrors flatter fault
                     line tremblers, peon feet stick tending mud with cow. In wonder
                     land like Sisyphus our Kaie climbs gold rungs up to falls you can't
                     imagine.
                                                   Quick! blame the coca brokers, the pain
                     box drain no longer working; seed beads sewn on chest
                     vests east or west we wear.
                                                                      And wait, nah! we still arriving
                     from old continents: jaguar optics, bit inland map reading. Need more
                     time to hack scrub out: particles faith lionising, limbo spine toll
                     gate raising.

                     As midnight cools the savannah  ̶  listening above the crickets
                     for jangling spurs, good old Clint!  ̶  grab iron fire ball full moon
                     tales  ̶  Yep, just a few flight deck finishing touches left.

                                                                                                  – W.W.
                                                                            

 

 

                                

       
                                                                                                           
                            

  

                         

                      IN THE DESERT


                      To shorten the distance between oases
                         carefully cross each, and hold fast to none. 
                              Take each one's pool and fruit as your breath
                                 made lighter the briefer their taste,
                                    but a dark stone the longer
                                    you remain, more and more sand
                                 collecting about your ankles 
                             till the water and figs disappear,
                          leaving you in the shadow of a stump
                       to pin on it a picture of its green past.

                  (from "Nor Like An Addict Would" © by Brian Chan)

   

 

OLD HORSE MAN’S LAST COOL

    

                            
                       His time place purpose model was probably not Napoleon
                       whose memory he might have scrolled urging his frost
                       gripped units: trust those bayonets like desire  ̶  Engagez,

                       Engagez! clear the path to Moscow's gate: wait turn back
                       bend cold fear to foraging  ̶  roots grown down fill stomach
                       hollows  ̶  never mind the boots ice crusted left behind  ̶  Engage,
                       Engage!

                       This stylist for ragged lives needs no saddle and wouldn't gift
                       a pony to grand kids. One shouldn't be attached to horn
                       hat rolls and rein hard rules, he would repeat, shifting on 
 

                       his velvet cushions, easing out an arc of cross-legged
                       beaten air. He's wired like veins you never see unless
                       you tap. Rows calm before his tiger tender with sun

                       glasses. Not much is required of you on his mark; arched,
                       under the styling cape, head piece  ̶  Détends-toi!  ̶  receiving.
                       Close barber for bitch fibres in his days remaining.

                                                                          Faith leap in stocking
                       peeler hands, breath all for giving  ̶  your spinal pose will stir
                       the spirit up, uncurl the future's limbs. Not for one pigeon  
                       side glance should you flinch.   

                                                                                    – W.W.

  

                                     

                        

                       

                         THE WAY

                    1

                         What is meant by it? What kind?
                         Where does it lead, Laura Dern?
                         'I have a specific gift.
                         Whatever rôles are mine will
                         come to me.' Non-action: here
                         is nothing that is not done.
                            Might births breath, breath midwifes might. 

                    2

                         Push it  ̶  and there is no ahead;
                         pull it back  ̶  there is no behind.
                         Lift it  ̶  and there is no above; 
                         press it down  ̶  there is no below.
                         Face it  ̶  you will not see its face;
                         look at it  ̶  and there is no form;
                         listen to it  ̶  there is no sound. 
                            Firmness as stewardship of the soul.  

                    3

                         Build it up  ̶  its glory's no higher.
                         Detract from it  ̶  it keeps its value.
                         Multiply it  ̶  it stays the same x.              
                         Divide it  ̶  to no less than itself.   
                         Hack into it  ̶  it grows no thinner.
                         Slaughter it  ̶  it does not stop breathing.
                         Dig into it  ̶  it cannot be plumbed.
                         Fill it in  ̶  its depth remains unchanged.
                            Courtings of formlessness serving form.
              
                    4
 
                         It threads its course beyond the four vast points,
                         seeping into the tiniest spaces,
                         boring into even the slightest crack.
                         It and its traveller are not alien
                         but lead to a light every newborn brings
                         back to our world of the Great Forgetting.
                         But even when it becomes your neighbour,
                         you shun it for disrespecting all rules.
                         Still, attend to it over your mind's fence.
                             Patience the humane masseur of its knots.

 
                              (from "Readiness" by Brian Chan) 

            

 

TAKING DARLINJEE ON

  

 

                                                                                                     
                                                                    "I grow coarser; and more modern"   
                                                                          – Rosemary Tonks, "The Sofas,
                                                                             Fogs, and Cinemas"

 

                         When she came along  ̶  pink moon petals from rock bare  
                         out source East; not shielding difference with head light deer
                         freeze dart  ̶  I tell you, she was good. Night fevers she'd
                         distill pale morning accounts, whatever this folder wanted
                         with her.

                         Always the smile  ̶  you'd think she'd closed the filing
                         cabinet just in time [ In the State of Rayuela : * She had
                           smiled at him, as if she were trying to understand.* ]

                           In the vault  ̶  our breath thrust rushed up zipping end
                         of day  ̶  no past time keys to parse whether she preferred
                         the desk top. All season fingers changed the code made sure
                         whatever happened our game off grid bird feathered
                         up the nest. 

                         Transfer years forward  ̶  dark sides zebra crossing  ̶  she'd grown
                         cherub wings  ̶  Still single? watching profits grow?  ̶  main
                         frame no longer corporate testing  ̶  nonrecharging blue the red
                         tomato slicing appétit!   

                                                                                     I was left dictate 
                         standing down sure no more what floating pain the future 
                         would send in  ̶  company boss hardly beloved, intern
                         diversifying stock, the thirst fund slaking taking all
                         for granted.      

                                                   Others saving for the after life defer
                         the big game hunger: how and where and still we crouch
                         scent trade self definitions; app raise the rear view wrong
                         sometimes with only dragged cross hair loss sluggish stream
                         to show for it.                                                                                       
                                                                  Your undone so  ̶  "Good morning"
                          ̶̶  unlinked one.
                                                               Believe we must I guess some logging
                         synergy continues long on. Fire the joyas burn again head
                         lift; not smiling much though.

                                                                                              – W.W.

 

 

 

                        

  

 

 

                                     

                             NOW
           

                             The only future that calls to me
                             is the one that is no longer one.
                             The promising golden sun of dawn
                             gives way to a crystal purity 
                             that in turn becomes the blaze of noon. 

                             There is a Chinese clock that shows time
                             neither linear nor circular
                             but an ever-unfolding flower
                             always shifting, remaining the same,
                             a figure beyond hope-or-despair.

                             And yet, and yet, running up the stairs
                             of lust for the sun of my own soul,
                             I meet your rising full moon and fall
                             back down the cave where the lone wolf hears
                             tomorrow's moans matching now his call.

                             (from "Nor Like An Addict Would"  ©  by Brian Chan)

  

 

 

ENIGMA OF DONE

  

                                                                                 
                                                                 "What happened to your little lungs?
                                                              Where is all your breath?
                                                               Used it for stupid chatter?
                                                               Sustain the notes!"
                                                       - from "Orchestra Rehearsal", Federico Fellini  

 

                            The do you were expected to but didn't does cause
                          trembling on our island; heart rung low like insect nights  
                          soft mouths didn't after dinner firm him up host his
                          parades; or bad old days strip juicing estate cane.       
     

                          Now you run inside to pray, just two minutes, the tow
                          truck done haul half your faith away. MPs or men in 
                          empire khaki does promise to investigate then break
                          for pim-pim, pim-pim, or siren nature call.

                          Right up to the last lash day labour was basting ribs in sun
                          broil state. Now fellas think they serving every trough wet
                          beak with office cool fans; carrying on as if hard work
                          gang memories still facing cork hat summons  ̶  Harumph!
                          not done with you yet.

                          Bass lick free to march the road, done with rice field back
                          benders, so hard to stand in line again for anything. Arrested
                          development?  A case few court wigs here feel tiered
                          to hear, though gun men posting ten to one might demur over
                          rule and point.   

                          Some kind of relay switch, a chrome button thing, set near
                          where hard ears play, could push start for the stars fresh oil
                          pan humming. What comes next will I bet you take your time;
                          head notes in tune from scratch.  
                      

                                                                         God speed, wave path maker;
                          wind rush projections seem favourable. Steer clear of ghost
                          ships Prepare to grapple! ports of pain and don't too much flare
                          rose slip shell.
                                                                                                    Stern flag?
                          Your tides know only sea grape moons?  Aie aie aie.    

                                                                                                – W.W.

 

 

                        

      
 

                                                                                                                                                  

                            
                        JOB
                 

                         I do not dismiss any sacred
                      utterance of experimental breath         
                         that has chosen me as its agent
                       ̶  not because I am good for nothing else
                      (although it's true: as Sandrissima says:
                          'Making strange noises is your talent'),
                      and surely not because it pays the rent,

                        but since long ago I made myself 
                      available to whispering angels
                         needing to leave behind mementos
                      of what they felt to be of more moment
                      than points their usual nudges suggest,
                         I remain one of their servant-men
                      in a zone where men as servants are spent,

                         and the few remaining feel naked 
                      and breathless in a maze of sharp fences
                         scrawled with scars of some future hell-bent
                      beyond the hints of harbingers Heaven-
                      sent, beyond the need of their instruments
                         whose bell-voices will not relent, yet
                      must also rehearse both ends of Silence.

            (from "Nor Like An Addict Would" © by Brian Chan) 

                                         

 

 

CEDARS OF LEBANON

  

                                                
                             Images in those days sun filled a world not flat
                                    with sugar and rice and so all spiced
           with evolutionary contours; trees and flutes, songs and heavens confirmed.

                Millennium news head line how earth winds move: the dust of skin
               from blast dried bones; breath tags blown across oceans; toll take not 
                               now trending:

 

                                                    [2006]

  

                  From mass graves coffin hands rescue souls for village burial

                        Scent of pure faith ripening still under the rubble

                          The bridge our sons remaining will rebuild

                       So many shell clusters memory triggers claw fingers

                           Taxi driver delivers counting beads for cardio monitors

                              Our neighbours night wrenched morning sickness

                                  You were so peace loving, Majd

 

                                                                                 - W.W.

 


                          


                          

                                                                    

  

 

                          
                            A SCRAP OF PAPER,

                            the torn tongue of yesterday's hurry
                            a memo. about this tomorrow here,
                            with no thought for the stump of ruthlessness
                            now scowling at me like a totem.

                           (from "Thief With Leaf" by Brian Chan) 

 

 

  

 

RUN TOWARD THE TAPE > GO HOME

                       


               Outside chance. Night before you register prepare
               with pasta party number tag the thigh stretch
               marks and faith check readings

               while for cross-legged divining heads convene the race
               has started: Sunday thousands herd chase
               thousands asphalt pounding zone cheering 
               phone

               snaps city quarters exits closed and dark faces half
               nude marriages waving from fifth floor boredom
               cross the bridge sweat

               the fiber winding rush down the park and water
               bottle stands a cardboard Go Vincenzo! sign along
               the line police watch beaks twitch glance quick

               scan stragglers bearded; the clock astronomical hand
               counting breath takes right down to micro
               seconds reels you like body news fierce fast coming
               in

                 Finally

                 two stewards beaming, perked up for disclosure,
                 time stamp your arms wide Welcome.

                 I've heard nothing beats the credits 
                 scroll: break the tape silence
                 demons after you  ̶  head light
                 years up flights of stairs  ̶  the rest way
                 beyond what was humanly possible               

                 from nothing     random stars     chute 
                 open    the splash    
                                             olive
                                                crown one
                                           winners all.

                                                              – W.W. 

 

 
               

  

 

 

                              
                      TO THE EARTH OF INEVITABLE
                          ASCENSION                                                                                         

                                   
                         I, your partial son, praise the whole of you
                     as I have praised some brother tree or man, and
                         hosts of sister grass-ears or bird-tongues, and
                         our one seed, your spouse, our father the Sun.    

                         Now I admit and honour at last your
                     rich graveyard of compost and manure of birth,
                         and so encourage your slow pilgrimage
                         whose Mecca and Jerusalem will be                 

                         not only your own end of starhood but
                   also the willingness of men to allow
                         in themselves the seeds of stars, seeds that will
                         sprout and pulse in harmony with Light's breath.

                         So now I plant such rhyming seed in you
                    and sense the receptive ripples of your womb,
                         and trust such innocent incest shall prove
                         new husbandry of all our shining fate.   

                   (from "Nor Like An Addict Would" © by Brian Chan)

 

 

 

STAND STILL ON THE KNIFE EDGE

                                

                    So who would stand still at the smile of a bear? Only our
                    Amerindians, their eyes and ears our flow past conductors,
                    through whom configuring sails once tacked. In bed 
                    rock fables river crafts they interleave the sun (who knows
                    what the sun comes up with these days).

                    No bears in our rainforest, so no way to test our hammock
                    hung devices, climb the encrypted
                    peace on their faces, find out what we're truly made of.

                    Easier to test this article: a blade resets in every sheath denied
                    its beard lush faith: slide it out slit a wind
                    pipe blood wipe on sleeve or leaf then slip
                    it back: dare the darkening gap prove there was even the intent
                    to harm.

                    Though since forensics can expose an Eden we do not
                    condone relations with the leaf
                    becomes a copy carbon risk we should maybe get rid of?

                  
                    Fascia weaves untie, my friends, from whip lash together.
                    Most now watch quietly pray
                    post card credits pay.
                    Rust claims anchors spice wharves music chairs in the gardens. 

                                                            
                    So who needs cast iron beams when our Amerindians can
                    build a conical thatched pavilion
                    that screens our heritage seams? It burns to the ground? honorific
                    men can walk on water
                    extend a hose from a hire truck; put sonnet estimates of loss 
                    left flickering out.
                                                      Come on, aging coast guards slide
                    rule ambition moon light hem lines. It's in our bylaws
                    of nature. What's the matter with you, anyway? 

                    Not a day goes by without more grist for the mill. Wait,
                    wait refresh that  ̶  pixels for the pick axe, breach stain
                    for the sniff hounds. I'm saying, you can't plant this dig
                    this stuff back up here.

                                                                  – W.W. 

 

                                              

                           

                  

                                

   

                               

                            DECISION IN THE DESERT

                            To reaffirm the one vital fire
                              in zones where no flame seems
                              able to blaze is not
                            a seed beyond hope of fruition

                              and may not be a seed
                           at all but the tree of fire itself,
                           the eager burning within you, all
                              you can know of the Sun.

                              But to keep on searching
                           for fire-gold within trenches you know
                           are hollow is the dilatory
                              feint of addicts of fear.

                           So let the ghosts of flint or sigh tell
                              you whether you should stake
                              an oasis claim or                         
                           keep walking through your latest mirage.                            
          
                    (from "Nor Like An Addict Would" ©  by Brian Chan)     

                                                       

 

 

 

B C D-DAY COMRADES

 

                                                                                      
                                                              "My heart heaves, herds-long…"
                                                               – Gerard Manley Hopkins, "No Worse,
                                                                       There is None"

                                                                                                                   
                        Same old El Dorado hook, find oil generators
                        same caciqui Raleigh premise, land and lords of gold.
                                                                               The dray cart
                        bony death trot. Shades of grass that fail to warn as one
                        eyed reptiles uncoil time to mate.  

                                                                   No morning prayers, out of
                        nowhere Crow & Co. in day clean amber hold.  

                                                         Just the dowry bed rule wish to have
                       you  ̶  brace display stare out at starry starry nights, the moon
                       in hand grip earth lock; vows breeding in. Your navel 
                       ring lustre up for this, peasant bride?  

                       First secretaries lean to pitch the heed, proof cleavage
                       read, as blade strips cane leaves pity pleats on window
                       dress; on forest feathers city crown dust sin positioning;
                       the alphabet dilapidated sites.

                                             What horse sense could resist the feed
                       bags in office treasure? the transfer > flight track shape
                       shift lift to grouse nests in, click, a maple leaf fall free state?
                       learn to curl limb eat brick cold, stuff loss you can write
                       songs about.

                                                                                                  The word 
                       webbed frog leap over muddles, cycles back and forth on
                         old plantation grids; not miles, teeth grinds to go before
                           the pedals stutter: whose net worth's caste? 
                                                                                                  The fear
                           down floating creek black water deep as Kaie falls
                         bush in master river bending: whose heart caves beak
                       craves darkness?

                       Patria! is so they roll. Hasta Siempre so we fold.

                                                                                                 – W.W.

 

 

                               

      

 

                     
                             
                             TO A COLONIST


                             You slant by and I know you
                             as someone who is what he
                             knows, something so certain it 

                             has no notion of itself,
                             no name, no voice, only mask
                             of itself as a man with name

                             and words to say to other
                             ghosts whose maskness makes you wince
                             in despair of blind false fools.

                                    You know too much not to be
                                    hiding all hints of yourself
                                    behind your wall of stone facts  

                                    by which you try to limit
                                    the world of the mind to your
                                    golden models of a past 

                                    a stigma in your eye bright
                                    with anger for a world stained
                                    by your own shadowed vision. 

                             But arrogance is excused
                             by neither experience nor
                             ignorance nor innocence.

                             We either surrender pride
                             or flag our stones to ragged
                             fire; either grant stone is smoke

                             or rage till smoke it proves us
                             when easy all its walls fall
                             as hard as we believe them.

                          (from "Fabula Rasa" by Brian Chan)