dedicated to Shivanee N. Ramlochan
Spirited bard, wiry, pale, was invited home.
Father bowed, honoured by this presence.
We scraped a meagre but honest welcome
together. We put on a show, our offerings.
Young sister lyriced Africa. My coarse hair
raised in time with her fist. But our guest
was not impressed; told us to stop poet-ing;
put the dot of us squarely in our place. Firm
bottoms pinched, we open mouthed, silence,
not knowing what else to do; sat too long
respectful on edge of hard seats. Eyes turned
up to our father, confused, we waited for him
to save us; sat wordless and took poet’s point-
ed word splinters; drew them down to bosom.
I did not stand that day; no hand, head, voice
of mine raised to remove the barb; silent—still.
Home was never the same after that. Hung
with shame, stung; we had missed some red
bullseye; judged, black-mark slapped by sharp
haloed guest. Why, I could not understand.
This is what happens when I politely leave
pricks alone; they infect, peck away at flesh
lips; keep me quiet for years. Parents, do sons
and daughters need saving by, or from, poets…
or priests? Which you think still; keep them dead
holy or wholly alive, hopeful? Neither? What use
are musings on muses if not words de-ciphered
by me, us? I’m careful who I’m told to worship
now, just due to some words; I cut the spell words
from the actors who bound them down, then I act.
Look me, trying to stand, speak up now in poems.
Too late you say to hear from poet—father, priest?
Go on, tell me off. Tell me I should hush, flush
my mouth again. Why should I be scared of one
more sacred dead hungry haunted ghost? Chupes!
Shivanee wrote Everyone Knows I Am a Haunting;
no fear, we are all aghast, haunting; bared, barbed—
pointing, appointed. Are you not hating hurting?
Leave me let me seek/speak this ghost; wind it
in, blow it out; serve it up in verse. Welcome,
welcome—
well come!