Guyana Poetry – FARJOURNEY CARIBBEAN

NOW . LEFT OF CALL TIME

Not even the driest humor could jook! make humour
   shrink; über less in terra stages every last ‘n’ first
   time . act the beaver faith retriever.

   Runways at forest edge oblivion
   strips for our departure ? forgoing all the blood we let
   angels restart ~ Merci, cellTower ~ particles of odor vie fly
   here there encrypt in screen swipe nowadays.

   Some air shows like Sahel dust propel face
   touch infinitesimal; it matters you don’t think until
   solitary the viaducts choke . migraine shields mock Hope
   you’re happy now.

   Clam shellfish types set up mausoleum webs . in stuff
   their resumés ? like Egypt pyramid relic wraps to carry on
   over.
Who D’cries box burial ? grounds not fit
   for hair loss care; get the Premium Conditioning package
   all that permutation . closer to home Economics, don’t
   presume après the sky falls.

   Knowing nothing
   knocks to wake you for the gate sleep keepers, why
   bother ? schedule post Op ash Wednesdays.
Flat
   line order the Fin d’oeuvres : ask the Cloud play All
   Season standards / Dig in! / taste what the wiped plate
   rim secures . at which point ? what could go wrong.

– W.W.

LESSING

Stepping out of bed, he yawns, stretches and bows
In the Sun’s direction, ironically at first,
But next, not so, his blood rushing to his head,
Pressing him to transmute his gesture like base metal
Into the gold of genuine surrender
To the outer gold acknowledging its twin,
Reaching off the varnished floor to his bare toes

Whose feet are suddenly flooded with a need
To affirm their actualness by springing
To a rabbit-like hopping around the room,
As though racing to a point of goodbye to themselves,
And, hopping, Lessing feels the fascia under
His latest skin flapping like a gusted flag
Dying to be freed from its skeletal pole.

(from “Charon’s Anchors” by Brian Chan)

TOOLING AROUND IN FANCY

   You have no idea . base wounds hand sewn
   up link to muscle mind . through glass tower
   shafts, cross acres of crop cut : till hills of lush
   sweat slope away . cane row precision saved.

   Vaulters gold bricks in mortar pound . reign
   serve : *Password* Go sieve the world.
Swipe a trace on any slab
   face on security grid ~ trip hunt fortune keys
   catch ‘n’ release . cell riffs in marrow.

   Whose bare worked back side steps right off
   so stainless time rims pass ? touch unwanted.
All wheels! emission metro grade
   Circle up! old village roads boot tracks ~ bird
   wings love bird baths ~ horses wonder spur.

   The evening wait of island trees ! the brace
   North as wind tight panting benders ~ galling
   gestalt! ~ audition over . splayed roof sheets
   galvanizing, bamboo shoots repost . who that
   swishing candle ? Erzu, I so glad to see you, gyurl.

– W.W.

QAT

   *IN DOAULA (where she’d learnt shit meant also
   Ab$tract dollar$), Qat used to chant Christian Rap
   In cafés and markets, and still conjures up
   A good-Old Testamental retribution-picture
   If you get her good-and-pissed, outraging her
   Sense of decency and l’il faut de Justice:
   Pour tel, elle se connait votre moyenne, mais

   *TO OTHERS, she beams an ‘exceptional light’
   (Her boss’s term for her ‘performance-presence’)
   Of hope to the puzzled polymorphs she has
   To lead through the purgatory of this afterlife
   Called CaNada with all it kindly demons
   Of indifferent incomprehension matching
   Its new inmates’ need for instant empathy.

(from “Charon’s Anchors” by Brian Chan)

GO FUND THE MOUNTAIN TELL

for Terence Roberts ( Gt : In mem.)

   They containerd the axis : the sorrow once shared
   what the gap through paling, speck on the horizon
   plied . now roll call; the über blood carriers ‒ all
   the Sign in gates flocked out; trapped so, we didn’t
   no! we didn’t know.

   Days stalled long, man ! dawn cleans no farther;
   shirt tail dinosaurs can’t change the code; trails
   Search log the missions row till river mists lift
   Run the risk mind . strip climb Kaie’s gold ladders.

   Guardians faith empties fill with bubble blowing
   drills . as sweaters peddle beads for desert night
   sky miracles : the Thirst on knees relieved.
Scan the homage
   late models : ship coordinates for swim eyes only
   up welling seas.

   Which is what sent our arcs in orbit : now where
   were we ? not always there, for all the lush land
   rover dust . haze slow to settle.

   Off again from flood ‘n’ fire
   news rafters pole, reach shores no safer . bets even
   rust red terrain egg planting.
   Tag played ~ we’re it, man,
   kind of planet puzzlers ~ to stay awake for ? what
   on earth remains.
   The apple Adam
   bite Eve scene ? Hurry! can’t be late for that shoot.

– W.W.

MARA

   *YET self-exhausting Mara is reluctant
   To bury the corpse to whose dying breath she,
   As its witness, has become hooked, like a fish
   Resisting a taut line tugging it up towards light,
   Up to its last chance to become more than fish
   Through glad surrender of its accustomed flesh
   In service to the changes of other flesh.

   *SHE now fondly recalls Sun-Dung ‒ her fellow
   Corpse she sometimes called by that last name he loathed:
   He claimed his mother Else marked him with it, less
   To invent his father than to slot her child-fadduh,
   The man that got away and perhaps never
   Was, as the Gershwins and Gloria Grahame knew
   (Else craved chocolate but needed chocolate-box art.)

(from “Charon’s Anchors” by Brian Chan, 2018)

ALREADY YESTERDAY TODAY

   Though you couldn't tell if from iron balconies
   flaggers Ciao! dockers who lift air station space
   for swimmers with talkin’ funny bubble burstin’
   veins ‒ Remember? the old plan for dark kin
   skill strivers ‘n’ martyrs |. now late night watch
   what happens.

   More oil surfaces pour tonnage into bulk tankers
   that lumber through deep water portals ~ on off
   cap tight shore bankers bite drill ~ dress turn
   leave . window sill sun seeds fermenting.

   ✓ So a bottle washes up onshore
   finds a fisherman who swears ! knows nothing
   about no note. Wedge in tight for now the earth
   moon mate text . loneliness expects to return.

✓ Memories like wires heat up each
   cell not guilties net breach plead . resumés trap
   dust too windmilly for print ‘n’ bargain day | whose
   light draws near?

✓ On call numbers globe spin ball
   toss tear tickets fall . hands that clip throw cart
   wheels, piano felt tuners; cream promise firm
   mix barrel churn, wait tastes dispersing >

¿ better we get
faster ready . algorithms go tomorrow.

– W.W.

QAT

But Qat bears no haze of Hero or Martyr
Doing the rest of the herd a fat favour.
No, her inspiration-slogan is LET US
   MOVE AHEAD: there it is, in red, at the very front
   Of her desk to greet clients suffering (Qat,
   An ex-orderly, can spot pain a mile off)
   From migrationitis, a disease as old

   As the need to quit the womb and kept active
   By a conspiracy of two betrayals:
   Nostalgia for an innocence that used not
   To need to name itself or warrant its right to be;
   And the fat Future that cannot come to pass
   As Today, unless it keeps flagging its parts
   Of Promise with new labels of changing codes.

(from “Charon’s Anchors” by Brian Chan, 2018)

BREATH . NOTES LAST

Dare whisper don't chest heave a rose through
teeth high file a prayer as you lean in . kiss
the forehead not the lip | hold the heat let need
plead clear the air; and Listen : for you one
breath score Sent ~ the balance wind gauge
find.
Weird this to share
with any one who would believe ? key notes
struck in open casket you released . the light
swish felt ¿ source close . so, Where’s the evidence?

Wreaths of complaint : the body lay
buffed tight so ! tributes seal scar issues . flowers
matter little till this day.
Wreaths in reverse : I see
now! admit much I got wrong. I would right hand
cantabile play things over . Everest flag brag take
back as papers breast itch fingers sorting left
lump confirmation wait.

Breath’s worth something . anything ? who
grants a poke, sucks trickle love ¿ who’d rapids
elevated run . yet for the plunge save nothing.
As front wheels up the heavens fork below
spread wide peacock hung notes gong perdendosi
shivers fold | come what, wings looking good,
next there all even.
– W.W.

LESSING

The yellow-orange dawn-light blazing ,spreading
Through the janelas leading out past trompe l’oeil
Sacadas wall-bound outside the open drapes,
Now calls him to do his last transporting: of himself,
This sky-high room become his balloon of breath
Whose walls he would puncture from within
To fly above the map of all his failures

And losses so vital to his knowing what
True success and winning might begin to mean
In some other zone of breath-beyond-breathing
Where a clarity beyond all rigmarole-traps reigns.

(from “Charon’s Anchors” by Brian Chan, 2018)

DOG LEG WORK

Our island dogs come with Beware! overseering
Good boy! duty pats ‒ so naturally we avoid
them, not believing for one second night barks
to day bites . fence mates unrelated.

Many protest What life is this? we get stoned
for looking homeless and bottom fed . sheep keep
fellowship, book rule matter shorn.
Honestly? we prefer
flying kite with string . to boarding card from scratch.

Not sure where to turn some woofers stop off some
play sniffy | they hump hikeup’ble tales for news and hope
done! they don’t get coital stuck ‒ like with post
colonial take strain < ? > our tug either/or face away.

Assuming propriety ships are required for the coming
soon of oil here . after we could build glass view
elevators, and avenues for poodle walks; plus vets
and Ms widows who teach gallery breeds how to Aie
aie aie! bête-à-tête underminding.

Street strays no futures fear . gear game from yesterday.
Tongues panting some wag readiness for entry
revel corners, stash pit patrol.
Bone worthy? you’d be
surprised what leg whites our islands toss ~ loin browning
feasts of booyah baisse ~ Walcott beach, yeah . Sunday
palm refreshing.
– W.W.

CHARON

A bowl of food, a pat on the head, a kick,
However friendly, from Qat’s lickable foot
Would prove to be not enough for poor Charon
Who didn’t like being that poor, one more salvaged pet
On a cushion. Now in North America
Where less is more is a joke, he just wanted
More; not getting it, he felt starved and fed up.

In this New World he sometimes forgot it was
His lot to be a dog that would always need
As much attention as matched his faithfulness
To his mistress of the moment (more than one passion’s
Itch at any time was that self-styled ‘senna-
mennalist polygamous sonofabitch’
Capable of scratching, bowl, pat, treats, kick, scram).

(from “Charon’s Anchors” by Brian Chan, 2018)

COURSE GRADERS TWILIGHTING

   "O, troubled island, go back to sleep,
   back to your peaceful ways,
   when your weeping was quiet…"
   - Mervyn Taylor, "Bad Dream"

On our island ‒ *dot poor land . rock climbing
waters ‒ switch on off whiteness feels tasked : map
word stitch our wear 'n' tears. They reach back pack slate
updates for empire roof sites . not that pissed they
raise fist to represent. Fear canines feed | randomness arrows
village roses mate and here we are.

You could purchase our J’Ouvert costumery . smear
black and pray the stand pipes run that day; otherwise
it’s your jump! our passage upthiers chipwarming . bare jab
jab duckassing sugar beat.
*dot Admins chair wheel
mahogany peck in orders. Who fucks with found oil
who pans its marigold revisions?

Far older night strips wrap around cold
dawn our mountains. After a long drive ~ the road
wind jammed with flute ‘n’ brass wedding parties
and crossing cows once ship stalled breaking haste
waste records ~ you arrive.
*purple cap baldness
at the crown : name batch number melding plot
now ones and nothings | runway blue lights left
on :
– W.W.

CHARON

*HIS Sun-washed mother’s Sun-stained polished floor gives
Way behind Charon’s eyes to the dark rough planks
Of the old Georgetown-to-Vreed-en-Hoop ferry
Into which the disgusted woman had once tugged him,
What else was she supposed to do, the blooming
Boy wouldn’t lef she alone, wouldn’t stay home ‒
Like every other stray from the Colony

Gaanallovertheplaceallovertheworld,
Charon can hear her thinking that’s not yet thought,
Feel her feelings that don’t dare give themselves voice,
And, whoever else might be the pilot, it is she
Who is leading him across to Work-in-Hope
Beyond Georgetown floating away from the boat
Whose heart one day must mid-river stop beating.

(from “Charon’s Anchors” by Brian Chan, 2018)

VIJINIE’S DAUGHTER . Bonjour SIM CARD

   Sent forward from Japan . of Kaieteur where?
   no one ever heard; for new cocktail nice name
   maybe one day limes mix.

   Grown past time for metaphysics ~ her mother’s rope
   bridge, our peak Amalivaca ~ how are you : wedged
   to like partials, observing how circuits break smack
   in the riddle of rib cage strainings : doing? she asks.

Tree limbs we still keep trim for leaf
   count, hedge cover : far shed from book lamp
   bed fruit peeling . ceiling thump thumb message
   staring.
Rivers caravan the world winds ladder
   mountains : why strip to tango same old Orinoco,
   touch Salvador the ash fray base? she tasks.

   Couplets metered long ago clipped our made kites
   fly sky low . island stanzas down tied witch paper
   mate with "bitch" . soaked fuh so in spirits.

   Card game our deck feet chip, link sync
   to syrtaki . play Bonjour! list, side swipe the dark
   off night, ship light.
   Vijinie all the while
   smiles . show showers Konichiwa! love blossoms
   her daughter’s hoist the sail tattoos : go ahead
   lick clicks on this if morning mists persist.
   – W.W.

SAND. CAVE. GRAVE. CLOUD

Numbed by a love x-ed out,
he sees his mind and words
turned to noughts and crosses
and listens to the mocking jackals
of his fate in outer space scattered
like cut-loose exploding astronauts.

Without her whose flames burnt
his blood deaf, he cannot
breathe ‒ yet he breathes, he bleeds,
he can still hear storms he knows will pass
without a drop of rain for his heart’s
desert that can only scream its cracks.

He chokes in the coffin
of a promise he has
promised never again
to break, so as now to break no more
than one heart, his own ‒ surrender made
not in fear, courage or greed for grace,

but in absolute trust
that nothing else will melt
this lock or raze these walls,
nothing is more full of the Sun than
the tenderness of the willing wait
lighter than its choice, slower, but fast.

FOR JUDGE DREAD .| |. BOY BLUES

               Raised near gully jostling with misfortune great
               and small sucked all run home from him . left family
               stake half named.

                                           Yard bass string leash and line
               the man, him couldn't upgrade or band : hard bolt
               dough track > out board 'n' tack.

Sound bad self central, mi know : through all the wild

life confirmation was what him truly hurt for.

Some time him round come mount our mother

burst her stitchings : still, off our zinc no rain

hard drain . him back meant bite relief for lip

dry grass.

Age slips soon send red now

alerts him couldn't over stand : surge entry hose

trickling, check valve pointing under ground.

               A kind denial set in so him weave with the weed <
               For-Iver-Ras > when that wear off fresh churning
               start make heavy to bear him heart .|. beat! pardon
               your honour.

                                            We beg him, Please, na
               gwan so . cutlass blade hand grip him rave : Look!
               so him own shack bred ungrateful.

                 Our father, on the avenue stare clear, yeh man!
              not our warm blood signature him draw there though
                 all the same.

– W.W.

DEPOSITION TO THE PAROLE BOARD

           Ladies, it's no use telling this
          prisoner that the 'world out there'
           is all that's possible or worth
           talking about within your walls
           of wisdom mortared by silence.
           It's like asking him to talk stone
           and iron and forget windows
           and the shadows of clouds and wings
           that his dreaming eyelids absorb
           as much as they do sun and moon.
           Don't come to visit him only
           to tell him all is determined
           in and by the desperate air
           you choose to believe you have no
           choice about, like peeing or birth.
           This man chooses carefully his
           crevice and moment to piss through,
           makes sure he shocks the warder's eye.
           He knows he chose his mother's womb
           and knows his dreams already are.
          He has surrendered time and so
           needs no desert island to feel
           free to move from this edge to that.
           His cell's the smoke of his own breath.
          His only real walls are your words.

(from "Gift Of Screws" by Brian Chan)

STOP SIGNS : BRIGHT ONE MORNING

                                                         "To the rescue, to the rescue,
                                                                         To the rescue, out out out Out…"
                                                                 – Bob Marley, "Sun Is Shining"

               For paper feeding eyes things shell break fast;
               the child today his birthday in grandfather's arms
               might squirm . want his tattoos.
                             Our islands let age docking hours pass
               port cushions back . in and out of morning breath
               and what to do? with all those books . knees done
               red hill bending.

               Irregularity of late able. A woman passing. Yard
                man, slower on errand runs, assumes one day his
                card will come . your list 'n' smile the give away :
                   song chest sunk, breath savings.

                                                                    No matter : the halt,
               if stone or beak blood staining, props as up sponge
               news; and editors of broke lock file make sure
               a link resets brief candle outings.

               Just an inch, mind you, aisle anodyne : how watch
               rooms block flame pinching, what rain waits near . step
               help thread so bare your estate might prefer from now
               all loyalties wait at the gate.

               As duppies say : rage rage against! land fills mind
                 folds night weed : term of will not known until . winds
                  release . traces feast . all across the world high
                    up your east.
                                                               – W.W.

[In mem. Peter Abrahams ~ Kingston, Jamaica ~ January 2017]

DESPITE

              Those afraid of dying to light claim you
                  are as old only as you believe,
                  as though youth were eternal entrée
                  and age and death uncalled-for desserts.

                    But ask the ancient throat of the calf
              if its years or sheer impulse to breathe can
               change its fate of the butcher's blade wiped
                 bloodless, honed blameless between slashes.

                   Spirit takes form, and forms are over-
                 taken and swallowed up by others
             of demanding breath that quickly forgets
               to nourish the spark that gives it flame.

                 Still, this voice persisting with its forms
                  ̶ though it can see they will be chewed or
                 eschewed to dust by old goats and kids
             neither fed-up nor starved-to-death enough.