Tag: Guyana 2014

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)