Tag: Guyana Poets

FLY PAST SUMMER RHAPSODY

 

                                                                  “Yes, everything coincides.”
                                                                       – Julio Cortázar, Hopscotch (1966)

                  
            We crossed the street and entered this park;
            people were so sure grass turned the music on
            set : sunning half nudes said . the bee hive dreads. 

            Who on a chip kept count as aliens danced
            bending for every conceivable triangle?  knew what
            it cost from crawl to fly, boredom to 'rave > just pinch
            open Amazon mammoth jaws.

            Word sent forward about found metrics for civilization
            spook particles, vibes before broadband . not our
            Bob adjusting Nobel road tight strings.

                                   Play, It’s not what you think. Smoke
            like felony this riff, exhale great expectations
            like earth a new planet | the gene pool red
            blue cool . remains from tolls we paid. 

            Bad nights gave confession in noon stalls, oh yeah,
            first light geese wedged golden lays . dreams
            spoken for.

                                                                – W.W.

 

                

                 

 

           

             COMING TO PASS

        
             A straw of smoke
                in a vast bright sky
                is this moment  ̶  not
             so much passing
                  as pretending to pause
                  like a quivering hare
             on a crisp lawn,
                       each dreaming the other, both
                       busy at hearing the hints
                       of their swarming harmonies
                       of atoms always fading,
                       even as they're regrouping,
             ever prompted
                   by a disturbing breeze
                   drawing and erasing
             desire, pressing
                it not to settle
                for the latest chord
             of its leaning. 

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

  

 

 

07.17 : ‘SEABIRDS BLOWN OFF COURSE AND STARVING’

                   
               ‘The birds are usually lone adults or juveniles  
                 that strayed.

                They spend the majority of their lives at sea,
                rarely venturing in sight of land  ̶  sort of 
                an enigma for us to understand.

                 Fueled up at feeding grounds in the Caribbean,
                 and living off fat reserves, they glide up the Gulf Stream.

                 I’ve never seen anything like it.

                 Eventually I stopped looking and starting rescuing 
                 birds, a birder said.’
                                                         – W.W.

 

                    

              

             

 

                MY LAST ONE 

              
               The wind offers to relieve me
               of my habits and other drugs if
               my mind I let her feather. 

               Other, commonsensical folk
               see it this way: ‘There’s a storm coming’,’
               and close their windows and doors.

               I leave cracks in mine, to let in
               the wind that blows my papers about,
               making me dash to save these

               always being born: these I think
               I’ll keep – as though my whole bay would crash
               if I let go but one leaf  

               that anyhow belongs to her
               who signed it but for a few to read.
               My last drug’s the wind herself.

          (from “The Gift Of Screws” by Brian Chan)

 

 

 

BREATH . CAST LAST DEBRIEF

 

                                                                            for Carl Hazlewood

                        
              Link all broke, Diallo hoped, toss at sea shilled                        
              folk : not like falling traffickers off ship mast . tempest
              pennant days and whales| nor rain then flood mud
              slide tarpaulin wrap.

              Wet shock . the cold Med swallow : one mother's grip
              child pried apart, chin last up . bubbles at the mouth 
              spare floaters tent scrapped under bridges| clear
              those café tables . rag tag les banlieues.

              Who here knows best their cobbled streets like river
              beds for make shift sleep . plait their loaf stretch dark
              trace race through the tunnel.

              [Mi kno' wha' you a talk bout . tire wiry Irie, passing 
              through . checking the evening Ethiopia update : Express
              eastbound delay.] 

              So we are at an end here . hail sails need wind . grief
              harbour. Our questions come this far of the world camp
              break truck queues . search satellites for air.

                                               Swim lively, metro tadpoles;
              paint the great wall. Mind the mate gap| of you to come
              not good| your nothing to begin with. On the rim rock
              steady as you go.
                                                                    – W.W.

 

                      

                   

 

 

              MISS DICKINSON ADJUSTS MR KAFTA'S CLAIM

                  There's a hierarchy of the sky  ̶
                  an accountancy of angels  ̶
               a Civil Service of the soul's clouds  ̶

                  to which any wretch may apply
                  for assistance with his changes
               on his climb out of one mold of clod.

                  It depends on from which level
                  of the spirit he will persist
               in the filing of his petition 

                  for one hearing  ̶  by a bureau
                  of saints trained in systematic
               attrition  ̶  of his argument  ̶  one

                  of a hundred billion, but his  ̶
                  against his lot of the long wait
                in line for his one moment in this

                  life  ̶  one private consultation                            
                  with the Ombudsman of the fate
               of complaints and appeals to the Light.

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

 

FRONT DAMS OVERLIPPING

                 

            This is our path, Our Path, the Grand Snail announced
            preparing to settle somehow a stand off with a parade
            drill of worker ants.
                                          Family members, meanwhile, get
            dressed : they can't afford to miss the bus . zebra blood
            cross pots 'n' pan strikers. They're too distraught for
            discourse : the Parsimony of Executions by Sword. 

            No, not on our island, though notions are known
            to blow like litter hate to state. Your starapple tree over
            hangs my front yard . Who's responsible? if crapauds
            fall.

                Tired of growing older men feel mission positioned
               to pass laws on girl marriage, full steams
            our Pandit with an acceleration that trips everybody.
            Wisdom feet don't get hard enough to plant and leap.
                                Here, just one Brahmin
            votary is required to veto 'n' waist dress down, send
            in security memes to lobby the bubbies . swollen
            the womb up holds an orb glow for palmsters.

                                        All the screen                                                  
            pat vetting 'n' pinning at border hems, how fare
            slips breed Cain and bad taste  ̶  What's the tip felt 
            capping point?
                                        Better perch
            cerulean grip, our kiskadees chorus, feather shedding
            this caveat : the core unmelted helps us choose
                                        Play poker 

            slow . or tango last with A'toinette found on the fly
            rod ~ only one chance you get ~ for, Oooh, that
            green light ~ peel dive feeling
                                                               – W.W.

                     

               

                  

 

 

                 ALTHOUGH AND BECAUSE

            neither happiness nor ease nor contentment
                   pushed or pulled me in my search or hunt, but
                   love was the only reason I went 

           out of the overlooked goldmines of the soul

               and into the world's overgrown deserts

                   with my heart masked as a beggar's bowl,

 

               bliss and peace and gratitude have bloomed in me

              ̶  shy orchids that sometimes become my tongue

                or angels that kiss my forehead free

 

          of its grooves of disappointment  ̶  and of pain

             in spite and because of which no mother

                worth her salt of milk and gold complains

  

         about the difficulty of giving birth

             and bread to babies with nothing to look

                forward to but the diamond of Earth

 

                   with its perfect flaws.

 

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

 

 

 

  

EH EH, SPOILER RETURN

                        

               Blip . Plop! the fishermen register; though fitting
               sea catch phrase confirm page loss.
                                                Still, six bells ring the Pitons
               silhouette . flambeau path light the heart.  
               
               A treasure chest you must have buried . either that
               or icon space tight arch you heaven 'n' plight back  
               here ~ word up no fear : skulls brown glisten . lips 
               on risens latch.

               Drive sticks now scan life resumations : Mon Dieu!
               they'll freeze, brush plays again! where will your prayers
               take us, home mapster from Chaussee?

                                                                Newest news?
               Helenic guide girls skirt 'n' blouse pride luster in
               the square. Union labour take over Hotels see? walk
               in mattie class up and cotch.  

               And those Estate acres? grass set in different
               minders? fear coffin metres, but hear nah : kweyol
               observice spike again . syllables wild so hard to roll

               call names, but sweat no squad drills, Cap.
               
               The schooner fit to ply fame freight . up down mountain
                   road; and old deck hands still chair our reading
               rooms. So welcome back, surfeater of the sea.


               Catch you at the gulf course?  yuh pardner studying wave
                   break speed? What metaphors! heron 
                      blueflagfanning breeze.       

                                                            – W.W.  

 

         

              


               
               

                 PRAYER # 10987654321
 

                 I asked for rain and rain has come
                  ̶̶  not for me, but because it must,
           as one poem of man's moment, a tendril
                 of our Mother's green womb.

                 My asking then was less the seed
                 than one bare branch of a vine full
           of clouds past and to come whose memories merge
                 and burst a node of now.

                 Or call my prayer a bridge between
                 a present that had to be parched
           and a present that has to be the green praise
                 of your rain by one man.

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

 

  

 

PRINT HEAD POINTERS

              
         Penny fed our meters park . you need a place
         resluicing hoe slash sugaries?  mate click . emdash
         for our explanting hub . load gnarly down . have
         with us what little. 

         Our service case shows pride tagged out of line
         path sweet tooth filings : we bare embed tea terrace
         cheer . type set free unleashing  >  our jack jill
         hill help agency.  

         Plight interests : see this wound . stitch threaded
         red?  that dream cage client flightiness?  we'll take
         prefect ~ send us your mired ~ brush fair glow high
         house not English windowed. 

         For you we'll fight off john crow inc ~ "Cric?
          Crac!" upon our rock : what will your words in
            bound spell next.

            Toil repotting over here our garden handles : our
              way of seeming . like you . cane fusion cool.

              Your islands <  > our union . lamp lighted we
                play and hip ~ every now every then very much
                 ~ pim pim Pimpim hooray.

                                                         – W.W.


                 

                

              

         

   

             
         BLACK COFFEE IN A WHITE CAFE

         In this bright day full
            of emptiness, all words fall
         like screaming birds shot
         by hungerless men. 

         Through that rain of corpses,
             I see you at the open door about
         to cross the rug bridging
         your dream and mine. Two dreams 

         are always crossing and some-
             times their authors know how not to let
         the chance of a third, even
         as it appears, fade. But white

         fences are no less effective
             for being almost erased by the sun,
         for the more children play behind
         them, the tighter their
                                           gates stay shut.

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

 

 

  

         

BACK STEP BLUES

              
           nettle in the head, tipple so the spirit pools
           trace misery rules . ridges sleep wreck deep.

           No one returns for Fridays not Insured, left to
           fend . tend shell stock on the beach. Crossings
           nailed ship hatch mortals. 

                                                  Trade school winds,
           tug wharfs near reaching drowners ~ steer ways
           rock boots climb.

           And cast off pleats long purple; speed rope on
           tract scratch wordlings . sound wonders greet.

           Wave pulse . wing flaps ~ clear! dust spirals
           forming ~ peak. 

                                                   – W.W.

    

                 

              

 

  

              
          WAVES OF WILL

             Seawaves do not enter a shore
             out of habit: each wave erodes
          the arrogance of yesterday's maps'
              demanding definitions.
                No wave ever enters
                any shore: the sea is

               quivering within  ̶  and brimming  ̶

            the Earth's bowls whose rims are all cracked

          and keep cracking the more, the more glue

               of precision we apply:

                 change is the only wave

                 that does not itself change

                 but waves of the sea's persistence
            will keep drowning themselves only
         to rise to more and more peaked versions
              of their trembling determined
                 to execute its will 
                 of re-edging the Earth.

            (from "Within The Wind"  © 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) 

            

 

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) 

 

 

  

 

VILLAGE BOY SHORT CUTS TO SHIRE

  

 

                                                                                 "Marvellous gift…always said so 
                                                                           …wish I had it."                          
                                                                                                ̶  Samuel Beckett, "Happy Days"

                               
                   Back into the fold they'd smack your head if eyes so
                   much as think of link with bouncing black as night limb
                   intimations. Our path was set, the English pass marked
                   our veils and hair.

                   Raised watching cricket we kept faith seeking fast balls
                   out hit seamers high beyond the boundary. From safe
                   crease to rest stop we scurried, rum happy runs
                   in the stands.  

                   At public school with numbers pure mind ruler we'd  
                   ground algebra in masala, fence our neighbours whole
                   sale loss  ̶  distinction incubating, indenture optimized.

                   Our family choice, the surgeon god play: scrub up, scruples
                   under, invest through neat exclusions; chide swab the closed
                   heart bleed stitch tight what's torn with in house wiring 
                   suicide cells. 

                   Not bad for a village lad whose father knew plantation
                   thirst and cow and hurt left unattended. You should see
                   Pa when he visits his grand child here in Ox shire.

                   His cutlass gasps pride edging forehead lines; bare foot
                   he shuffles out to lawn chairs flowers biscuits Tetley
                   tea. Here the greening rain salves old sod turning hands.
                   Good paddy, our Son, he smiles, viewing the dinner
                   cutlery. 

                        Head stones will scroll
                        House once stilt stuck
                        Home yard broom free
                        These bones we grow
                           or throw 
                        Good gracious me.

                                                        – W.W.
                  

 

 

 

                            

                            

 

 

                            

                          THE ANT

                          The ant's a terrible thing,
                              being, I mean,
                          so intent upon doing.
                          Consider this one taking
                              home a massive
                          morsel of that dead fly's wing,
                    
                          going the same way he came,
                             passing others
                         coming to duplicate him,
                         this worker wasting no time
                            greeting his peers,
                         giving each only a shame-

                         less superficial kiss
                            before moving
                         on. Should I crush one of his
                         brothers, he would simply pass
                            by and forget
                         it. Such singlemindedness

                         (Mr. Tang says one straight line
                            completes Tai, the
                         Chinese character that signs
                         Great) frightens me, reminding
                             me of maniacs
                         like businessmen going blind 

                         straining at their proving grist.
                             But the ant, in
                         his moment of an utmost
                         outside of men's best and worst,
                            stays well beyond
                         burdens of future and past.

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