Current Issue
(extract from novel “Atrium Fib”)
Pizarro yawned with a poison tongue
lifting the sails of boats around him.
Beaten into us, the rhythm of chains,
arched backs through el modo de producción esclavista.
America’s black children, fugitives of the night
Embassies of Spain still press
lands of the New World
to utter the name of their god.
The Admiral stands tall in the capital city.
Colonial myth looking on
poverty’s timelessness.
As I write,
babies battle with congested lungs
youth marched through the streets
until the hills were full of light
until lungs were full of breath
the riot was magnificent and rage consumed
when they poked their guns and knives
to the rib of the city:
Opgedragen aan de gemeenschap van San Nicolas.
Verontwaardigde blikken, in beroering zonder een dag van reflectie echter
niet stil gezeten straten werden wakker geschud.
Ze hebben je verlaten, Orpheus verhuisd, gelovend in betere tijden
Dedicated to the community of San Nicolas
Such anger, turmoil,
not a day of reflection;
streets that were quiet once
are shaken now.
They left you, Orpheus,
moved,
believing
in better times;
I hear you husband say in him testimony at church two Sundays ago that doctor just diagnose you with cancer of the pancreas. Stage 4. That is well serious. The Bible say you must cast your cares on Jesus for He cares for you.
Pass each bead of lead
through your fingertips
release, one by one
until flesh falls like wax.
On your thirtieth birthday
before you breathe
remember to say their names.
Each exhale exiles you from your skin
Silence stirs around
sister soldiers sailing
too soon to the spirit world.
In this city, gods have no power.
In this battle, another mother will lose
her son or her daughter to the shadows.
Tonight a Black woman will leave her flesh
the time to kill us is coming
the bitch of bloodlust is in the heat of its kind
to proof mark the territory line, to soak it fresh
[if it must be]:
red with out tearing blood
white with our ramming bones
blue black with our searing skin
Let me begin by addressing the elephant in the room. I have used the term
West Indian instead of the more inclusive and historically correct term Caribbean.
I will explain why.
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.
French Creole
Mwen pa konnen pouki
kap pitit vwazen an
koke sou on pye zanmann
pouki ti kadav la blayi
sou beton an
je louvri
Mwen pa konprann
pouki lapli pa janm sispann
English translation from French Creole
I don’t know why
my neighbor’s son’s kite
got stuck on an almond tree
why his little corpse is lying
flat on the concrete
eyes open
I don’t understand
why the rain never stops
he called her blessed, to himself, when they first met
even though he knew she had a more modern name: shenequia
but he claimed he did not have an ear for modern names
and his mouth, obeying his ear, refused to form the word
as her face eased into a modest smile
skin has this… edge.
only a smidge more precise
than the shores hemming these
Just past the smog of some ZR
horking up and spitting
one drop riddim to Silver Sands,
our grimacing lunatic leans in and
rechristens me “B” as in
“B, fuh real. Check this thing. fuh real…”
Opting to wait
c’est toujours comme ça à chaque fois
le jour et la nuit viennent se confiner ensemble
dans ma mémoire en ébullition
lorsque ma claustration se transforme
en une saison engloutissante
un autre grand voyage
it’s always like this every time
day and night are confined together
in my boiling memory
when my confinement turns
into an engulfing season
another great voyage
in an ordinary voyage
where the words that fight
collide violently
donne-moi une raison
pour que mon corps ne soit plus souverain
plus ce lieu inviolable
pourquoi des changements de fréquence de mon souffle
contrôle du rythme
battements de cœur
de paupières
on a souillé mon corps