Tag: N.D.Williams

NY SLIDE XXXIV: THE SUPER’S DOWN

         

   When finally he got back home there were police cars and an ambulance in
      front the apartment building across the street, and knots of people on the
      sidewalk. What was going on?
        Someone shot the Super of the building. Put a bullet through his head. How
      did this happen? When did it happen?
         The two overweight women didn't recognize him in his jacket and brief case;
      they shrugged their shoulders. He didn't speak Spanish well, and he appeared
      to creep up on the women, startling them. Like everyone they waited for some
      sort of closure to the excitement; the dead man taken away; the police cars
      and ambulance driving off; the apartment building with its graffiti and broken
      doorway handed back to its occupants.
        When did this happen? Radix asked again. The women shrugged their shoulders
      again, shifting their heavy bodies. Hey, I live on this block too, he wanted to
      shout.
        He had an urge next to see the dead man's body. He remembered vaguely a
      stocky man with a cigar stump in his mouth and a bunch of keys at the hip,
      going in and out the front door with a mop and pail; and arguing, always
      arguing, in defiance or defence, with tenants in the building.
         He crossed the road, ducked under the yellow police tape and peered into
      the entrance. He saw a covered body, just the shoes and socks on the man's
      feet. White men in dark suits stood around; they turned and looked at him,
      struck by the jacket and tie, the intense curious face. They asked what he
      wanted, did he live in the building. Radix shook his head and backed away.
         Down the block four kids were playing street basketball; the hoop, an old
      milk crate nailed to a lamppost. Two police officers, no longer needed,
      ambled back to their cars, smooth white faces grim. They had the air about
      them of men called in to put down some local disturbance, leaving their cars
      up on the sidewalk, just about anywhere until this nasty business was over.
         The basketball got loose and one of the officers caught it, did a quick
      dribble, then shaped himself to take the shot. The boys froze where they
      stood and watched. The shot hit the rim and went wide. His partner cracked
      a thin smile and shook his head like a disappointed coach. Radix went inside.
                       (from "Ah Mikhail, O Fidel!", a novel by N.D.Williams, 2001)

NY SLIDE XXXIII: ROAD RAGE

 

          He felt first the surprise of impact; he saw the head of the driver snap back,
     his hands raised in the air a little theatrically. The lanes beside his kept moving;
     vehicles behind him tried to manoeuvre out of his lane, honking in frustration at
     what his apparent carelessness had caused.
         The driver approaching him wore a baseball cap and sneakers; his shirt was
     unbuttoned; he seemed not to mind the cold temperature; he had a beer
     drinker's belly and a very annoyed manner. Radix watched him, ready to admit
     it was all his fault, waiting for the first indication of how the matter would be
     resolved.
        He sensed someone else watching: across the road, standing on the cracked
     asphalt, a man and a ferocious looking dog. He was dressed in a grey sweat suit;
     his face under the hood looked grizzled, gaunt. His dog sniffed the grass and
     tugged at the leash, wanting to move on; but the man wasn't ready. Radix caught
     his eye, felt his anticipation of something dramatic about to happen.
        Meanwhile the driver had inspected his rear bumper which looked dented but
     was otherwise intact. Radix' vehicle had gotten the worse of it, a smashed head-
     lamp; and as he tried to gauge the extent of the damage the man raised his arms
     in a gesture of disbelief and anger.
         He came up to Radix, "What the fuck?"… staring, waiting…"What the fuck?";
     then he walked back to the front of his car and reached inside, for a cigarette
     pack.
         Though not threatening this behavior left Radix uneasy.The man lit his
     cigarette and with his arms bracing the car appeared to be pondering his
     options. At intervals he said "Shit" with strange vehemence, as if building up
     emotional steam. He seemed to be waiting for Radix to say something, and
     Radix knew that the tone and choice of his first words would determine what
     happened next.
          He glanced at the man with the dog across the street. He could feel the man's
     knowingness, his amused appraisal: Like fish out of water… Don't know what 
     the fuck you're doing, right fella?  He looked back down the road, at miles of
     backed up traffic. People driving by gave him quick looks of fury. A wind gust
     sent dust in his face.
        A woman's voice from the man's car, screamng "For chrissakes, Angelo, shut 
     the door!" shifted his attention from Radix. He answered her in Spanish. They
     had a fierce rapid exchange, the accident forgotten for the moment; then the
     woman got out and came around to inspect the damage.
         She moved briskly as if accustomed to taking charge in mishaps like this, when
    her man wasn't sure what to do; and she smiled at Radix and commiserated, "Hey,
    it's not so bad…could have  been worse." Then in a firm tone she said, "Get in
    the car, Angelo,"  annoyed, muttering  "…the fuck outta here."
         Angelo came back to inspect his bumper one more time. He pointed and shook
     an unhappy finger at Radix: "You better learn how to fucking drive!" And with
     that the matter was settled – the man getting into his vehicle, moving off with
     sharp loud revs, daring anyone to hit his car again.
                                                (from "Ah Mikhail, O Fidel!" a novel by N.D.Williams, 2001)

  

NY SLIDE XXXII: ROADWAYS HIGH AND LOW

 

           Approaching his car Radix noticed a tiny pool of what looked like…what was
    most certainly…green engine coolant fluid near the front tires. Panic with tiny
    fingers gripped his heart. He bent down to inspect the fluid. How could he        
    be sure it came from his car?
        He got in and turned the ignition. The car started after the third try but the
    engine shuddered and rattled ominously. At the second traffic light, with the
    interior warming up and everything else sounding normal, his anxiety faded. He
    drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and looked out at a city heading
    home under grey skies.
        On the overpass he looked down and saw four lanes of traffic jammed up on
    the highway, stretching for miles, crawling forward. He'd have to go down there;
    he'd have to ease his way into that crawl. There were alternative routes but he'd
    never taken the time to explore them, knowing only one road home; hating
    roadways, the time-consuming need to travel on them; drivers who showed no
    concern for human limb and life.
        At the access road to the highway other drivers were having second thoughts.
    One fellow, already half way down, threw his car in reverse and came barelling
    back, the driver's head craned round, he didn't give a fuck what anyone thought
    as long as you got out his way.
         Radix decided to stick to the local roadway. It ran parallel to the highway
    until the highway went up and above ground and ran for a mile or so on concrete
    reinforcements, offering the convenience of not having to pass through local
    communities.
         But the roadway, an uneven strip, its lanes not clearly marked, soon backed
    up; traffic lights at intersections up ahead kept changing, from red to green
    then back to red for long minutes. Yet nothing moved. He began to regret not
    taking the highway which he could see above him, cars moving slowly, but
    moving; there was flow up there, and order; no bumper poking and jostling for
    space. The cars up there seemed… and before he could finish that thought his
    car struck the rear end of the vehicle in front.
                                        (from "Ah, Mikhail, O Fidel!" a novel by N.D.Williams, 2001)
 

POEMS FOR NATION HORSES (SHOW & WORK)

 

                                                                            "In paradise all clocks refuse to chime
                                                                    for fear they might, in striking, disturb the peace." 
                                                                                      – Joseph Brodsky, "Lullaby of Cape Cod"

 

 

                       
                   Not yet a nation, worried what other nations might think,
                   we send show horses off to the world, our more or less
                   refined. One stand out steed, tasseled & pimp referenced
                   for you're Ok awards (a player who tenantlike knows them, look
                   how he bouncing with pedigree!) through shires, rows of trees
                   will bear the standard: our forked up best from bush lots of aspire. So,

                   you guys, harnessed at home, lucky if working,
                   best stop complaining; some day the wild coast fevers, wounds
                   stitched up for now, will squish death creeping. Don't sweat
                   our stadium amps & champs; and, look, kites commissioned for the sky!
                   They do declare our borders, shores (the sluices open wide)
                   can handle business runnings (private vice on the side.)

                   Our cropped over State's from Empire…godfactors…the numbers
                   to rule and so forth…What?
                   for a breaking volcano? an island beach? swop our waterfalls?
                   …surely you joke. Seal off
                   the cynics, sphincters for weary elitist viral lies. Like the forest
                   green we screen playactors by appointment and party ties. 

                   (Yo! terraqueous furies, our nemesis; cart wheels of progress, the field.
                   The game's for left right bipeds in dressage and dray. Ph.drivers wanted.)

                   You watch, the stream of faithless, pipered rats en route to rivers
                   will make a U turn, haul deliverance through Arrival days.
                   Till then, home rules apply:
                                                            cheek by bowl, vices hide;
                                                              ground fast looming, pull up, tribe!
                   (Yo, comrade! want not what you need not.
                   The force is not with you. Abide.)                         
                                                                                           -W.W.

 

                       NOTIONS FOR A NATION

                       A space other than the room we
                       are sitting in, talking about the
                       Other we will never be but are.

                       A club we are dying to join
                       for which we must produce credentials
                       impossible by our own standards.

                       A Promise whose spirit of Real
                       Estate keeps trickling out our fingers
                       to wrap itself round our hands and feet.

                       A land stolen from other tribes
                       we give some back to so they'll have no
                       excuse for not cleaning up their act…

                       ……………………………………..
                        (from "Fabula Rasa" by Brian Chan)



NY SLIDE XXIX: SONOFABITCH RAMOS

            Brebnor told them one day he'd found his car radio antenna had been snapped. He'd
        replaced it only to  find it bent and twisted into a bit of artwork. He'd straightened it
        out, but the next day the would-be artist/vandal struck again.
           "What makes you suspect Ramos?"
           "I know he's the culprit. He's got a guilty smirk on his face, like he knows something."
           "Where do you park now?" Lightbody asked.
           "Right across the street…on the west side of the building?…on Myrtle Avenue."
            Lightbody said, "You know, this kid, he comes up to me one day, and he says to me,
        What do I have to do to pass this class? So I look at him and I say, You know what you
        can do? I'll tell you what you can do…You know where my car is parked?…since you're
        no longer interested in Earth Science, why don't you wash and wax my car…every day
        …You do that, I guarantee you'll pass my class."
           Ghamsam was the first to laugh. "Did you really tell him that?"
           "C'mon, Ghansam, of course I didn't tell him that. Do you think I'd strike a deal with a
        thug like Ramos? I said to him, Mr. Ramos, so far you've done everything in your power
        fail this class. I would suggest you don't make any travel plans for the summer."
           Brebnor looked away, impressed with Lightbody's firm handling of Ramos, but
        churning inside with leashed fury.
            "Where do you park?" he asked Lightbody.
            "The Mobil gas station?…It's about two blocks away. I pay the guy couple o' bucks to
        keep an eye on it. I walk the couple o' blocks. Good exercise. I think it's worth the
        money. I don't have to worry about some vandal slashing my tires."
            Brebnor groaned and decided not to ask if he could park there too.
           This Fall term he was lucky to be assigned classrooms on the west side of the building.
        That way he could keep an eye on his car parked across the road on Myrtle Avenue. It
        meant being on his feet most of the time, walking to the window as he talked, and
        throwing quick glances outside from the third floor. If in the middle of the lesson his
        glance told him something was happening, or had happened, to his car while his back was   
        turned, he didn't know what the fuck he'd do.
                              (from "Ah, Mikhail, O Fidel! a novel by N.D.Williams, 2001)

    
          

NY SLIDE XVI: LABOUR DAY

               On Labour Day Radix was pressed into driving upstate to visit Amarelle's sister
          who with her husband always arranged for friends from the city to get away from
          that boring Labour Day parade, with its corrupt union leaders and fawning politicians
          walking down Fifth Avenue; away, too, from the violence prone West Indian carnival
          in Brooklyn with the steelbands and the bum bum rollers and revelers playing mas'.
          Get away from all that, drive along beautiful highways to a place called Poughkeepsie, 
          where they promised good food, clean air and quiet leisure activity.
              There was the problem of getting there.
              The Bronx had its own travel frustrations, the narrow choked roadways, careless
          people walking and claiming as much right to the streets as any BMW; the potholes
          that weren't there yesterday. Radix had grown accustomed to all that.
              When he started travelling too far out from those landmarks and had to rely on
          those green oblong signs he felt a strange fear.
              He wasn't much good at road map reading; he felt certain he'd get lost somewhere
          along the route, miss an exit, run into strange territory, some tiny close-knit town
          whose residents could tell straightaway he didn't belong there. For her part Amarelle
          couldn't understand why someone with a college degree would find it so difficult to
          follow a road map.   
              Once they got to the three-lane highway Amarelle immediately adjusted her seat
          from the straight-up position; she lay back and commented on passing scenery; then
          she closed her eyes behind her sunglasses, coming alert only to remark how lovely
          it must be to live out here once they'd saved up enough money to buy a house, which
          was what upward-thinking people did.
              The long rolling expanse of road, other people leisurely in their cars, the trees
          changing to fall colours – what freedom!
              She was looking forward to the comfort and space upstate, to meeting friendly
          people who had jobs and could afford the things they owned. No hostile stares; no
          Fordham Road; no sidewalks choked with people peddling cheap watches and ency-
          clopedias.What freedom!
              For his part Radix, driving in the centre lane, pretending to focus on his driving,
         was thinking of the sudden collapse of the Soviet Union. Did these people rushing
         by strapped in their seatbelts understand the significance of what was happening in
         the Soviet Union? Did they have a clue?
              He'd come to associate the rise and fall of nations with the fortunes of one man,
         be it an Abraham Lincoln or a Napoleon. Now it was the turn of Mikhail Gorbachev.
         Of course, it was a far more complicated process but it pleased him to think that way.
             When he came off the highway and turned into what looked like suburban, not
         upstate New York, he followed Amarelle's directions (her car seat was upright again);
         he drove slowly through neat orderly streets; past a white kid in a bright blue parka 
         pedalling his bike and trying to outrace a chasing dog; past a stretch of wooded area
         beautiful and desolate, a shopping plaza.
              And he hoped that when they arrived at Amarelle's sister he'd meet someone he
         could talk to about Mikhail Gorbachev, for at that moment nothing else in the world
         mattered.   
                           (from "Ah, Mikhail, O Fidel!" a novel by N.D.Williams)

 

 

       

NY SLIDE I: SAMMY D.

From Reggaemuffin to Reggaenomics.
        His mother left him back on the island when she came up to the States. He'd left
school a wild youth; flirting with Rastafarianism, indulging a passion for soccer; until one day she sent for him. "I came up here a young man, twenty five, twenty six years old; had two outstanding skills going for me," he explained, raising two fingers for emphasis. "Mathematics
and cooking. No college degree. No previous experience. I was a genius at maths, wizard with the numbers, even though me never get far in the school system."
        His maths skills apparently impressed his first employer who was in fact his mother's employer. She cleaned his house on Long Island. They were nice people; the man found an office help job for Sammy D. at his Manhattan brokerage firm.
        There he astounded them with his ability to perform mathematical calculations in his head. "Simple addition and subtraction, them couldn't believe I could do it, just like that, without calculator."
        That plus the suspicion he was truly an out of wedlock child of the American entertainer, plus exotic stories he spun at the water cooler about marijuana as herbal food, and a special dish called ackee and saltfish that could poison you if not carefully prepared – all of this endeared him to the office staff; made him something of a character, but basically a nice guy.
        At the stroke of five in the afternoon he fled the brokerage and dashed for the subway or a bus en route to Kennedy airport where he did a stint, his second job, until midnight. No, not outside the airport as a baggage helper. He changed jackets and worked inside the building wheeling passengers off the planes in wheel chairs; helping foreigners fresh off the Concorde or Mexicana or Lufthansa and feeling lost in the airport's byzantine corridors.
        In between flights he poured diligently over tiny books of conversational Spanish, German, French. It gave him an edge on the other employees. Foreigners coming off the plane were surprised and relieved when he guided them this way, pointed them that way, all the while chatting in their native tongue.
        After three years of quick dashing and changing, relentlessly working and saving, he saved enough to urge his mother into retirement.
        She went back to Jamaica; she bought a house. She never stopped talking about her son in America, and how strange life is; how one time she was over there and he was back here and now she was here and Sammy D. was over there, working hard in all that New York cold.

(from Ah, Mikhail, O Fidel! by N.D.Williams, 2001)

 

 

 

 

POEMS FOR SONS RETURNING (& THEIR SONGS)

               

               What he confessed, studying wet circles on the beer table, was:
              he could have married Margaret of England:
              her mouth a glossed red line, the way her knees pressed
              his on the bus, promising downy empires.

              His indigene ferocity tamped down like the Queens horse
              on clopping parades, he liked her; he liked
              her student frugality of lust, always holding back some
              for the library & 1st Class Hons.

              Usually they went back outside (proper again) to patted cushions,
              her legs like blue-breast feathers tucked in; to conversation, she listened
              with Ludwig seriousness, brushing hair from her eyes; 
              opinions gliding down her Alpine nose; flutters of glee.

              The more he thought about it: she could have played
              the bhowjie for his people: sandals, the mosquito net; 
              the politics of retribution; saris gold-laced with tassels of self
              reassembling; or the old khaki parsimony.
              What might have been he dared not dare so he came home.   

              A girl was waiting; a position was waiting; service
              to the nation, to pretty Vrajisha of Corentyne.
              They bypassed romance like eels sliding to ceremony,
              heritage lamps lit; and silvery-haired moomas
              brooming the yard for the harvest of grandchildren.

              The patacake she'd oil, spread & turn pretty much
              anytime he liked. Comrade, what else was there?
              what more? 

              Years of tribe agitation; seasons of theatre in the mouth;
              late afternoons when the seawall knows the ocean of bent
              back riders (puffed amateurs, ghost overseers) winds up ashore. 
              
              Over and over how we dig up &
              bury comfort shrouds of the past. The old bulbs.

              Two hours past midnight. Two cars race by, windows tinted,
              hounds for some snatched pleasure kill 
              or drug letting in villages back dammed.

              And every time the power fail, frighten tighten she belly,
              "You lock the door?"

              See the ladybird۞ nesting under him? 

              The feeling you get waking up wedged in this niche!
              What's that? There's fear & life rot all over the world?

                                                                                  – W.W.  

               NO RETURN:

              what we might have been is
              the ghost of a chance: now
              we are virgin ghosts
              desire would pervert. Fate
              is no master but
              desire itself, a blank
              to scrawl a burden on
              or one to keep

              erased.
                   (from "Thief With Leaf" by Brian Chan) 

 

              LOVESONG

              Whenever it's raining at midnight
              I'll be taking a walk and towards you.
              It's your coat I'll be wearing when I must go back home. 

              Everywhere young men are paid to slam
              bullets into one another's bodies
              but this can't stop two souls from containing each other.

              People are still dying in hunger
              but somehow I keep enjoying these grapes
              and bergamot tea with you at 2 in the morning.

              From now on 2 a.m. is the time
              I'll be knocking on the door of your dreams
              to make you burn the butter for the next day's omelette.

              Before the clouds dry up, let us go
              walking in a different town of our own.
              Wherever we stop to eat, we'll insist on plum wine.

              Dream this town whenever we must meet
              as mutual angels full of voice and tears.
              Wherever  we walk, the moon will keep her eye on us.

              I kiss the back of your neck before
              it fades with you down your road without me.
              The shifting cloud mirroring your steps is your best friend.
              
                     (from "Fabula Rasa" by Brian Chan)