Featured Writer - Vladimir Lucien Works by: Geoffrey Philp, Owen Blakka Ellis, Mbala, Janine Horsford Mel Cooke, Mezan Ayoka, Traci-Ann Wint, Simon Phillip Brown, Newton Chance, Marlon McPherson, Wayne Campbell. Michelle Ramsay, A-Dziko Simba, Rosabelle Illes, Gisselle Ramsaran
Issue 2, August 2014
Susumba’s Book Bag is a quarterly digital magazine dedicated to showcasing writing of the highest grade from new, emerging and established Caribbean writers at home and in the Diaspora. The magazine is an offshoot of the Caribbean arts and entertainment online magazine Susumba.com We will publish poetry, fiction, flash fiction, interviews as well as reviews of Caribbean books. Occasionally, we will also publish one-act plays and monologues. Currently, we do not offer remuneration for the writings we publish, but we believe that writers should be paid for their work, and so we working on a way to do that in the near future.
Submission Guidelines We accept a maximum of 5 poems and 2 short stories at a time and we have no problem with simultaneous submissions but ask that you notify us immediately if the work is accepted elsewhere. We have no bias of genre or style. Our only requirement is that it be good, so send us your best stuff. Short stories should range from 2,500 to 3,500 words while flash fiction is from 10 600 words. We prefer our poetry to err on the side of Mervyn Morris, the shorter the better. We do accept longer work but if your poem is at the 33 to 64 line tipping point (longer than a page), please only submit two poems at a time. We try to keep our response time to a month, but alas we are human and so it may go beyond that. If you have not heard from us in 90 days, please feel free to send us a query. Though we publish quarterly, we currently accept submissions throughout the year, except in December. There is no reading fee, and submissions are only accepted via email. Send submissions to info@susumba.com Subject: Lastname-Firstname-Submission. Send your work as an attachment (.doc, .txt or .rtf), not in the body of the email. Works sent in the body of the email will not be accepted. Send submissions to info@susumba.com Subject: Lastname-Firstname-Submission
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Growing up is hard. You know this. You not sure you can manage it at all. Who in their right mind could? You?
ALL OVER AGAIN
by ADZIKO SIMBA GEGELE 1st prize Burt Award for Caribbean Literature
“An endearing, enduring paean to youthful joys, All Over Again resonates deeply,... ” Trinidad Guardian
An exuberantly hilarious coming of age novel! www.facebook.com/BlueMoonPublishing PO Box 5464 Liguanea PO, Kgn 6, Ja.
“Makes you want to read it all over again!” The Gleaner
@blumoonbooks www.blumoonbooks.com
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Blouse & Skirt Books
SUSUMBA’SBOOKBAG August 2014
Contents Letter From Marcus Garvey From Amy Ashwood
Geoffrey Philp
August 17, 1983 Johnny Was
Owen Blakka Ellis
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Requiem for the Boot of Gideon
A-dZiko Simba Gegele
13
Be Brave
Michelle Ramsay
14
The Flavour of Truth
Simon Phillip Brown
15
The Buzzard
Newton Chance
16
Jude Takes Flight
Gisselle Ramsaran
20
On the Esplanade Misconceptions Definition
Janine Horsford
23
Atmosphere
Wayne Campbell
24
will not be bus.link Ashman’s Secret River
Mbala
6 9
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Hair Poem 2 (For Mishka) Stories
Mel Cooke
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Editor’s Note “A reading man and woman is a ready man and woman but a writing man and woman is exact.” Marcus Garvey This business of writing, often seems like a heroic feat. So it seemed more than a little serendipitous that our second issue also wears the visage of one of Jamaica’s National Heroes. This time around it is Marcus Garvey, courtesy of the awesome skills of Michael Thompson. This issue in part pays tribute to Garvey who was born in August. But it is also in tribute to all writers brave enough to face the blank page or screen. Thank you for sending us your work and to all our readers, thank you for spending the time with us.
Tanya
Tanya Batson-Savage Editor in Chief
Contents 31 34
(In Need Of) Exit Strategy afternoon shower
Mezan Ayoka
Write Staid
Traci-Ann Wint
36
Poem 2 Poem 5
Marlon McPherson
38
Prenatal Conversation
Rosabelle Illes
41
Grasp Firmly With Soft Hands: An Interview with Vladimir Lucien
Simon Phillip Brown
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SUSUMBA’SBOOKBAG August 2014
A publication by Blue Moon Publishing
Cover Image: Marcus Garvey Portrait by Michael Thompson, FREESTYLE, Artist Without Borders Editor: Tanya Batson-Savage tanya@susumba.com Sales Scarlett Beharie info@susumba.com
PO Box 5464, Liguanea PO, Kingston, Jamaica W.I. www.susumba.com 6
It takes a community to raise a magazine... To advertise with us email info@susumba.com or just keep in touch @onsusumba or https://www.facebook.com/Susumba
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Geoffrey Philp 22. Letter From Marcus Garvey Beloved, lift up your heads and let us go home. Ethiopia, land of our forefathers, stretches her hand across the oceans to gather us into the bosom of Africa, into the green savannahs where our children will be free to redeem us from misery and to worship our God in whose image and likeness, we are made one. When we believe in our hearts, our creed: “One God, One Aim, One Destiny,” the Spirit will lead us home. Then, like prodigals that we are, if we repent to our God then he, like a loving father, will take us by the hand. and crown us with unimaginable glory; but we must free our minds before our feet can touch the sacred earth of Africa. As in the days of the prophets, a remnant shall restore Africa to her former splendor and gather the scattered tribes into one. But woe to the betrayers who’ve preferred shackles than to be free, starved in the wilderness than to dwell beside the fires of home, where sacrifices and promises are sealed by the hand of the Almighty, where we will gaze upon the face of God!
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Geoffrey Philp
Woe to the backbiters, who have turned away from God, who have sold their inheritance, the treasures of Africa. Like a fool who points at his origins with his left hand, despising his own spirit, they’ve abandoned love, the one power “stronger than anything outside” will guide us home. Chasing vainly after the wind, we believed we were free, when white men proclaimed that our bodies were free but our minds were still blind to the majesty of God, to which we are heirs to glory. We must set a path for home. “Princes shall come out of Kemet,” the firstborn of Africa, where civilization was born from the choice when one woman turned away from killing, and with her hand tilled the soil and harvested the seed with her hand so her children would not be bound to cycles of blood--free to tell the stories around the hearth where we gathered as one and sang, “I am that I am,” the name of our loving God-the holy song we learned by the rivers of Africa where we lived without shame, for we were home. Beloved, I know you are weary, but by the hand of our God, we will loosen the chains of our mother, Africa, set her free to garland our shoulders and welcome us home as one nation.
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Geoffrey Philp
23. From Amy Ashwood Goodnight, Marcus. I couldn't hide the secret that has grown in my belly since we got married: the baby isn't yours. I hope you will trust me when I tell you, I was thinking about you whenever he slid his hand up my thighs and made my legs weaker than any bottle of whisky could, and my flower opened for him to plant his seed. But you, dear cuckold, will never understand. I am a woman— not an idea to be raised up until I am unreachable. My Calypsonian, knew this. When he wasn’t playing the guitar, he was using his fingers to pick the lock in the prison of your dream. For while you were saving the minds of men, I was liberating their hands.
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Owen Blakka Ellis August 17, 1983 one man alone armed only with artist’s angst faces down a mob the daring drama a brief installment until blood from stone paints stony hill road with poet’s torment raving red on hot pavement we who can imagine the lines he might have channeled that night when they shattered the mirror but couldn’t out the light will write words of remembrance to help us sing and cry for a prophet who had to be born and a poet who never had to die
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Owen Blakka Ellis
Johnny Was .little picky-picky head boy who ran tailwind teasing tear-up bottom pants barefoot beating burning pavement to warn man and man about approaching cops or rival gangs done grow groom now ready to make a hit he’s spliff yet unlit unspoken curse dangling dangerously between languid lips his time now to burn light up head for another ‘born fi dead’ strapped and ready gun finger steady he’s hero in the sound track stepping out in full black the blazing starts and ends tonight
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A-dZiko Simba Requiem for the Boot of Gideon Last night long after the day was done with us we lingered on sat in a vibes reserve tank hovering on empty wanting those last drops to count for something talking in tongues in turns cornering one sole lost at the bottom of a no through zone. Dead End. body-bloated-face-down-dead-in-the-water dead It wasn’t sudden. No reflex knee-jerk NO! No yes struggling to remain, submerged. It was death by sleeping. Slow seeping. Quiet wasting. Drowned by dilution. Insidious silence fools. We continue act as if it lives still but last night
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A-dZiko Simba
through the kali haze The notice came. No obituary read but dead just the same. The revolution. No rattle. No rasp No stink was raised. No questions asked Who turns the page to read the backstory? Who peels back the skin to expose the all these things of it all? Who reads that? And sees the wall scrawled in the quivering finger-bonedwords of the dearly departed dear and dangerous this dropsy we are under. Who reads that? Faiya wi se! We so triggered to automatic rapid return bun dung nothing but our own stomachs stripped and striped red green and gold captured in black bleachedbrownbeached on hip strip sands while Ja brands the graph flat-lines. A whistle shrill scores the techno dirge. The Man’s hand made machines pronounce ‘aat gaan revolushan dun’.
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Michelle Ramsay Be Brave Calm your fears my child and wipe your tears Go to bed now and sleep away your fears Life is a mere ride with a few bumps on the road Sit on my lap while I tell you the half of the story that has Never been told You reap what you sow my child, so do not despair in times of woe You must understand that sometimes a friend becomes a foe A brave man he never was until a time came nigh When he thought he had enough and indeed he was tough He took his sling and he found a pebble The giant fell, his world was free of trouble He took one step, standing tall, the brave must always Answer the call Calm your fears my child and wipe your tears
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Simon Phillip Brown The Flavour of Truth “Truth has rough flavors if we bite through it.” – George Elliot Truth has a sour taste that lives behind the wisdom tooth you refuse to remove it is a knowing you don't want like the priest that smokes instead of watching the boys mow the lawn or the boy that watches his cousin shower while trying to remember the last time they showered together like the taste of that expensive rug after hearing gunshots in your upper class neighborhood the feeling when you finally open that letter and the words spider off the page under your eyelids down the nasal cavity until you feel it clip the tonsils when you vomit and scream in ink.
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Newton Chance The Buzzard In this ghetto world of danger disguised as glamour, long-eye, shine-eye girls and short-sighted boys fall prey to gangsters behind dark glasses. Splashed across wind and TV screens, young pigeons, in full flight, pay school fees with their lives while surviving sparrows keep preening, never learning that many high-flying eagles are really nothing but buzzards circling over corpses, aiming for the eyes.
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Jude Takes Flight by Gisselle Ramsaran
One could never, no matter how earnestly one tried, describe Baptiste Street as quiet. Never— not so long as Jude reigned supreme. Jude, the little terror, as he was known throughout the neighbourhood, held court under the silk cotton tree at the far end of the recreation ground. His loyal subjects were always in attendance: Twiggy, a nimble little toothpick of a child; Maria, whose razor-blade tongue was something of a phenomenon, and Zin, whose ability to charm every female teacher and furious mother with his large, heavily-fringed brown eyes, had earned him the spot as Jude’s second in command. No one in the history of Baptiste Street had ever tormented both young and old with such cunning acts of mischief as Jude. No one could even aspire to such greatness. His exploits were legendary, much to the dismay of Aunty Ingrid. Even Jude’s mother Charmin, Aunty Ingrid’s youngest sister, found it an overwhelming task tending to her little desperado. It was no strange occurrence then that Charmin showed up on Auntie Ingrid’s doorstep with the boy in tow along with everything from her collection of shiny bracelets to her kitchen curtains, mere days before she boarded a BWIA jet to America. Trinidad waters never saw her since. Of all Jude’s feats, the box cart drama was forever etched into the memories of all who bore witness. That Saturday was more than a typically hot island day in May. The only reasonable explanation for the heat that seemed to consume everything was that God had decided to destroy the Earth. Nothing seemed typical about the vapors of steam rising from the galvanized roofs and the asphalt streets—visible confirmation of the suffocating humidity. No one dared brave the volcanic temperature, so the wooden bench outside Miss Aggie’s shop was empty. The neighbourhood seemed to rest, but Jude, that mountain of mischief, had plans. Over the past two weeks, the residents of Baptiste Street had been battling with small mysteries that proved as baffling as the appearance of holy figures on louvered panes during Divali. First, Miss Aggie discovered the disappearance of two garlic crates, which she religiously kept in the back of her shop for Mrs. Dorothy’s nurseries. Then Mr. Chin’s goat was found minus his rope, feasting on a sweet lime hedge down the far end of Dougdeen Street. Caught also in the midst of the unexplained was the disappearance and sudden reappearance of Mr. Basdeo’s red-handled hammer and a small Klim pan he used to collect his nails. Had any one of the afflicted attempted to find the square root of the problem,
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Jude Takes Flight Gisselle Ramsaran
they would have most certainly arrived at the answer, since on Baptiste Street and quite possibly Baptiste Street alone, such conundrums pointed to Jude and Company! That near-fiery Saturday in May proved just too scorching for the resident investigators to be out scouring for clues. Instead, most lay drunk with heat, passed out in hammocks under houses, in backyards and on verandahs. The fortunate few sprawled out on living room sofas with fans blowing at tornado speed. Of course, nothing short of a volcanic eruption or savage hurricane (and some even doubted this) could stall the great gears of mischief grinding inside that little red head of Jude the Misbegotten. Surrounded by his faithful crew, Jude, as if possessed by the spirit of the immortal Captain James T. Kirk, stood on the bridge of the Enterprize, his left foot resting on the front axle anchoring the vessel to its tarmac port. The ship was in hot pursuit of a Klingon vessel, and “Captain Kirk” was poised to issue the order his crew anxiously awaited. Baptiste Street was short and narrow. Like a portion of a large roller coaster track, it rose high on one end as if it bore ambitions of becoming a hill, then swooped only to recover from its nose dive and push the asphalt skyward once more, finally ending in an aerial embrace with Dougdeen Street. “Mr. Sulu, warp speed!” Captain Kirk commanded, then launched himself down one side of Baptiste Street. The vehicle that bore him was emblazoned with Enterprize in bright green chalk on the left side and on the right, in red, Springfield garlic. Captain Kirk guided his craft with a length of rope attached to both ends of what was supposed to be the front axle. The vessel sped along the steaming asphalt, crunching small stones in its path and sounding much like Twiggy’s mother’s corn mill. Captain Kirk steered the great interstellar ship through the Baptiste Street galaxy and landed safely at the standpipe planet. The crew of the Enterprize simultaneously sucked in a breath of hot air as they awaited the Klingon invasion. None came. The young crew was convinced that their enemy had been subdued by the paralyzing heat and would pose no threat. Strange noises from their craft went unnoticed by Captain Kirk and crew, so the bunch wasted no time in refueling their prized vessel, and, once again firing on all engines, launched at warp speed through their Baptiste Street universe. Great leader that he was, Captain Kirk handed over control of the bridge to his crew. First, Mr. Spock, then Mr. Sulu, and even Scotty beamed himself into the captain’s chair for a shot at the helm. Mr. Sulu’s shout of “Wormhole, Captain!” rose above the crescendo generated by their prized craft. Undaunted, the Starfleet commander regained control of his prized vessel just in time to steer clear of a deadly black hole. Once again, Captain Kirk’s ship was strategically positioned at the opposite end of the vast and perilous galaxy. He shouted his familiar command to his crew. “Warp speed!”
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Jude Takes Flight Gisselle Ramsaran
Captain Kirk shot down the opposite side of Baptiste Street like a Royal Palm seed fired from Zin’s slingshot. All of the good captain’s helmsmanship was put to the test as the vessel picked up extraordinary speed. Captain Kirk braced his yellow rubber-slippered feet firmly against the front axle and tightened his clammy little fingers, now a paler shade of pink, on the rope. His blue Starfleet shirt, featuring the smiling Sunshine Snacks man on the left breast, was the same electric-blue as the packets that contained the Sunshine Snacks Cheeze Balls. The little captain was consumed with steering his ship while his shirt, flapping about wildly at his back, seemed to be fighting its own battle between leaping to safety or loyally clinging like sandwich wrap to his heaving chest. With all his Vulcan intuition, Mr. Spock could not have envisioned what was to happen next. As the unfortunate captain and his doomed vessel sped down the steep decline, a mound of asphalt appeared across his path. In all their meticulous planning, neither captain nor crew had taken that speed bump into account. Jude slammed into the bump and sailed into the air. Before he could catch his breath, the Enterprize crashed to Earth. Captain and ship had been hurled off course in an uncontrollable spin. Grating and screeching gave way to loud crunching as wheels ground over loose gravel. Gravel gave way to grass as Jude struggled to regain control of his runaway vessel. No way could the good captain avoid the new disaster that loomed ahead. Jude struck Miss Joy’s laundry with a muffled whack. Her still-damp baby-pink towel, the one with the tiny flowers embroidered onto the border, clung to his face and whipped about his head, finally slowing him down. He wrestled with the towel to regain his vision while trying to keep on course with The Unknown. Aunty Ingrid often claimed that only the good died young, and that he, Jude, would be around to torment her godly soul for a long, long time. Jude was sure he was verifying Aunty Ingrid’s theory that evening. He threw off the towel to find himself staring at the rusting tray of Mr. Nanan’s old Bedford truck. He gulped so loudly he was certain Aunty Ingrid heard him and would hurry out, wagging her fat, stubby finger while threatening to spank him. Jude could find nothing to hold on to—no speed bump to launch him up and over, no way to turn off his engines and bring himself to a dead stop. He stared at the rusted red tray. He flung aside the rope he had been gripping and abandoned ship. He hit the grass with a soft thud and rolled under the truck. No one heard his muffled landing because the loud bangs and crashing noises of the Enterprize colliding with one of the huge truck tires drowned out the sound. Joy followed the path of laundry strewn across the crime scene and was first on the spot. Mr. Nanan and Miss. Aggie ran out simultaneously, but it was Miss Aggie’s siren-like ayieeeee that summoned the rest of the neighbourhood. Everyone gathered ’round as Mr. Reynolds, his son and Mr. Nanan sifted through the rubble. Joy, steupsing out verse and chorus, retrieved her soiled laundry. A muted groan silenced the investigators. They pushed aside the wreckage, so Mr. Reynold’s son Audie could crawl under the truck. They waited. They listened.
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Jude Takes Flight Gisselle Ramsaran
They waited some more. Then Audie emerged followed by Jude—bruised, dazed and with Miss Joy’s white lace bra dangling around his neck. Aunty Ingrid shrieked, and the crowd parted to allow her through. Like a steamboat she steamed through the path her neighbours made. Not wanting to catch his aunt’s eye, Jude focused his attention on the crown of her head as if looking for the stream of steam he expected to see rising. Instead he saw the steups hovering on her thick lips before it fell, shattering the silence. Without a word, Aunty Ingrid scooped Jude up and, nodding in the direction of the gathering, turned on her heel and headed toward her house. Zin, Twiggy and Maria sat huddled under Mr. Nanan’s hibiscus hedge. They had watched the series of events unfold at an alarming speed and, loyal to their captain, they had raced to his rescue but were unable to save either him or their beloved Enterprize. Baptiste Street was small and the news of their escapade would spread fast. Soon the neighbourhood would piece together what had transpired. Aware of their own precarious positions in the plot that had unfolded, the trio sidled out from below the bush. They ran rubber slippers in hand to avoid any attention and sped down the opposite side of the street, hoping in their heaving little hearts not to meet their parents on the other side. Zin knew what fate awaited him. Try as he might to concoct some explanation for his role in the incident, his mother would find out the truth. She always found out the truth. Sometimes he managed to avoid one of her lengthy lectures, and, if he hung his head low enough and whimpered just right, he would be allowed dinner. But this time he doubted it. He had seen the look on Aunty Ingrid’s face as she toted Jude off at a pace that would have made Standard Five boys blush with embarrassment on Sports Day. Not only was it too late to attempt a rescue of his doomed captain, but Zin knew that before the day was out, he, too, would need some rescuing.
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Janine Horsford On the Esplanade Perhaps people as young as we should be free to relish this moment-the Esplanade, September 2003, and Hannah from Cornwall: plain-talking yet a bundle of ironies like any Trinidadian. She has baked us each a Danish pastry and we sit and eat it on the sea-front framed by gawkers, kids on bicycles, sand-dinosaurs, the wind whipping their hair into sails, and tickling our faces and I, a cold-temperature wimp, ashamed of my shivering in spite of three layers and the rumored mild climate of Exmouth. Then the conversation crumbles like sand. There’s something in my pastry: a long strand of hair. Quiet, I pry and worry the tin-foil package. But fingers discover something too resilient for hair. It is only an errant gold bristle of the pastry brush. I laugh at myself and with fine timing my laugh joins the back row. Tom in his caustic way has been telling a joke. I laugh loudest.
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Janine Horsford
Misconceptions Nobody mentioned Ken. Whose rhythm this moment I wish to study: Its genealogy. Why is that peacock strut brother to the masculine jaunt that warms a Port-of-Spain street? With its lift and bump I thought risen from heat, Africa and drums. But this is Devon -- a planet’s distance on any level. And though red-loamed, picturesque, the view from each cliff is a difficult history. Still I not concerned with huge vistas but this small picture: 70 plus Ken, still supple, crossing the Keeles’ front yard with a mean Antillean step evoking calypso. And I weakened, swearing surely that just an elaborate borrow. How else would his British limbs sing with Laventille’s music? And why make short shrift of my Trinbagonian gifts?
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Janine Horsford
The talismans I clasp while neighbours yearn for the cold smoke of their November bonfires. I stunned -- trumped. This I suppose the joy of travel. To stand in the shade of strange trees and watch what you know Unravel.
Definition Your mother never tell you ‘bout making your bad habits public? You stuff your grip with multigrain Crix and history. Now abroad in England, smellin’ like rotten fish. And every assignment, your answer: “slavery”, till you make the professors wince. Till they wonder how to drop some serious links of chain on you, but nicely: rope in your ever-referencingpost-colonialism tail. Come on, they giving you the Rings of Saturn. But you don’t want to know ‘bout the likes of Sebald. No you down there in the hold, rubbing up with Mende, with Wolof – still glued to a page of Roots. Now, tell me: isn’t that the very definition?
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Wayne Campbell Atmosphere One moment sunshine smiling through puffy balls of cotton clouds Floating on angels’ wings Then in the blink of an eye The afternoon sky pulls down her dark grey curtains Tall, dark columns fill the summer sky Shattering lightning The clanking, loud, outburst of thunder roaring across the sky Mother Nature at her worst That strange, familiar, earthy aroma permeates the air Raindrops tickling my nostrils It’s almost here!
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Mbala will not be i will not be the slave will not be the slaver will not be the slave will not be the slave master the table turns the poison cups change place a round table in the night spinning a crusade in the middle of the heathen its shadow like a demon in the heart of the righteous and i will not be the heathen will not be the righteous will not be the slave will not be the slave master flags flutter and flap in front of every pair of eyes flag strings pulling every trigger finger priests chanting prayers over the flag of the enemy
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Mbala
and i will not be the patriot will not be the traitor will not be the villain will not be the hero will not be the slave will not be the slaver will not be your slave will not be your slave master
bus.blink no story just a second split a blink though bus window one atom of a smell no story don’t make one up this need not connect disconnect the moment and move on there’s no story here no movie nothing to follow on twitter just one raindrop in a storm one grain of sand one blink
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Mbala
Ashman’s Secret River ashman knows the taste of ashes he stands in a desert that once was a forest he stands in his room in the jungle concrete the pipes are empty and he has that thirst but underground a secret river deep underground a secret river to wash away the ash wash away the ash wash away the ashes ashman sees clearly he says it’s clear to see desert is the ashes of fishes and trees and me but underground a secret river to wash away the ashes
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Mbala
ashman wanders through sand and sun the taste of ash is the taste of his tongue he’s a child with a dusty thumb he sings ashes to ashes ashes to come but underground a secret river to wash away the ash wash away the ash wash away the ashes
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Mel Cooke Hair Poem 2 (For Mishka) My sister’s laughter Opens the door On this rented pair of bedrooms Our refuge from dispossession Fleetingly wrested from the landlord By our humour Her baldness has caught the ruddy eyes And rum-sharpened tongues of bar men ‘Da one deh shine!” May they spill a sombre drop in Mishka’s honour Striding purposefully towards death Head first Past the doctors her God has provided Barbered clean by chemicals which decay From the follicles down Seeking their moving, metastasised target In vain Stemming, though, all her rapidly dividing cells To allow, at least, time for goodbyes
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Mel Cooke
Stories Somewhere, In your cancer story Another begins And you are not the worst Neither alone In this circle of retelling growth In common places Breast Lung Prostate Ovaries And parts Vestigial to your body language Thyroid Pancreas Bone marrow Frontal lobe Salivary glands Cancer and their stories Occur in such unexpected places We neglect on our quick step towards eulogy And when you find them You accept your first word role That your crick of a tale Will be answered by the crack of chorus It is not an interruption But a continuation An amplification
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Mel Cooke
You line out the tune The congregation repeats Sometimes A different lyric A different key Still the same song Sometimes you are chorale Sometimes chorister Still the same story The same song In this communion of cancer And damned only are they Who refuse the chalice Of retelling Of warning against this danger, growing At the edges of the campfire of living
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Mezan Ayoka (In Need of an) Exit Strategy upturned empty bottles stand at arms on the ledge splintering to the beat of sleep: a lowered head an outline etched in shadow hums; a glimpse of sound and you are here. into muddy wells I stare: thick brown fingers coat a laughing bottle a trail of bottle caps stumble to your ginger bread den sweet trap; sticking to skin abstract figures mop the floor painting operas… a voice insists truth is convenience, truth is intangible… truth is…truth is…truth lies…
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Mezan Ayoka
I lean into the voice and watch the TV tick my noisy reflection, black and grey scrambles to unlock logic lost in this game of wordplay, meaning, innuendo who are you? – a crack shoves me out of sleep my hand floats over your cool side of the bed.
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Mezan Ayoka
afternoon shower waves of mist roll down the shingled roof the sun already slicing through deflated clouds. she looks beyond painted shutters no longer troubled by her body’s indifference to the rising heat wild claps of thunder burst of clouds – a short-lived reprieve, at the same time, every afternoon. when she was younger while listening to the shower she would try to hold on to scents left on sheets. but like the forgetful rain one whiff, every afternoon was not enough to rouse the mind. afternoon stretched to evening evening grew into night and from night sprung morning the neverending rain like Cupid’s arrows struck her alone perhaps tomorrow afternoon she will dance under the ominous sky tear off her clothes shout like mad thunder dare the clouds to wring their puffed up backside and let one drop fall on her head.
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Traci-Ann Wint Write while the sky is still struggling to find its blue, and the sun’s blushing orange is barely peeking through the pillow soft clouds asleep on the hills, before it is time to stress about bills. while lights are still twinkling and most are still sleeping and traffic is only joggers and trucks. before tossing is walking and snoring is speaking and the world starts demanding more than 2 fucks before coffee and facebook and news and toast, and pants and skirts and shoes. before crucial details and snarky emails about monday, tuesday, wednesday blues. before sweat on your brow, and pain in your back, 2 o’ clock slumps and afternoon snacks. before cellphones and ringtones, and the triteness of being grown, and all this learning to just make do. before garbage and grocery,
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Traci-Ann Wint
and dinner and laundry, polite conversation, and pointless flirtation. before good mornings and while you’re still yawning with the creases of sheets impressed on your face. while your eyes are still heavy and your voice is still raspy and your bladder’s still full of last night’s booze. while your eyes are still pink, while your breath still stinks. write.
Staid In the midst of anarchy We choose apathy. The 5des will rise. Fall. Children will die. Mothers will cry. And we shall remain unchanged.
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Marlon McPherson Poem 2 Hold my hand, my love Be not distant For late august winds Can bring a subtle separation The ending of a season Can bring disconsolation And the swan song of summer Is a ballad, bitter blue Paths that push past the horizon Leave new love to wander To reclaim its beginnings Or flirt with finalities The wheels of passions Slow in their spinning As the course of sweet union Gently slopes uphill Hold my hand, my love Be not hesitant For the late august rains Can bring subtle reservations Sun tinged memories Can bring complication And the reveries of yesterday Are a picture without a tune
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SUSUMBA’SBOOKBAG August 2014
Marlon McPherson
Clouds that cover the skyline Lead love in a different way To chase the fading sun Or lay wait the moon's ascent The chariot of desire Trails off on its run As the mist of summer missed Forms an autumn haze
Poem 5 I've swirled the wine of the wicked 'Twas a silky Chardonnay Served with the fodder of fools A sultry creme brûlée I've sipped the gin of the sinner 'Twas a glass of Tanqueray Served with a side of seduction A smouldering soufflé I've tasted the drink of the dreamer 'Twas a shot of Grand Marnier Served with the supper of sufferers A sumptuous entrée
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SUSUMBA’SBOOKBAG August 2014
Prenatal Conversation by Rosabelle Illes
I spoke to my unborn baby the other day. Yes, I am aware that many proud soon to be mothers have turned this phenomenon into a common experience but here’s the difference between me and them: I am not pregnant. Can you imagine me pregnant? Good Lord, the massive weight to carry around, the nausea, the hormones, everyone stroking your belly pretending to caress the head of the creature invading your insides… and you must be grateful throughout the pregnancy too, did you know that? Do not dare complain because your stress is contagious and it will affect that fetus. But don’t be alarmed; the consequences of allowing your misery to rub off on an embryo are merely a distraught and unbalanced offspring. Yes, you and only you are responsible for your child’s mental health. Now I don’t want my actions, may they be good or bad, to pose any effect on another life. I mean come on, the entire “treat others the way you want to be treated” nonsense hasn’t helped anyone. I propose an alternative: Let’s all treat ourselves the way we want to be treated and not bother with the rest, for they are just fine treating themselves the way they want to be treated. The ancient interdependent philosophy is rubbish. It’s only bringing people closer and worse: it’s making us rely on others. Last week alone my neighbor had the nerve to walk up to my porch, knock on my door for three minutes just to ask if he could borrow a box of matches. You would think—had I not been home, he would have walked the ten steps to the minimarket down the street to buy his own box, but you couldn’t be more mistaken. Oh no, Mr. Maduro would rather go door to door disturbing the entire bario1 before even contemplating purchasing whatever it is he needs. He treats others the way he wants to be treated you see, because get this: he actually wants others to reach his doorstep to recollect the favor. I will tell you one thing Mr. Maduro, you can keep my matches—should there be any left, considering the dozens of candles you light every night. I don’t fancy candles. There is nothing romantic about temporary clarity. I can always rely on the switches: lamp, television, radio, computer, these are appliances that listen to you. Candles are stubborn and enlightened; they transcend without permission, selfish, that’s what they are! But then again so am I, at least that’s what my family says. Oh my happy family, each with a family of their own. Their concern is justified, they only wish for me to have what they have. You see my problem with this “treating others the way you want to be treated” doctrine?
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SUSUMBA’SBOOKBAG August 2014
Prenatal Conversation Rosabelle Illes
I can hear my mother now, “You’re an attractive thirty three year old Aruban female my dear, it is only natural to settle down.” Such a sweet lady, my mother. “It doesn’t even have to be with a man, Patricia, I will love you the same,” she would add while grabbing my hand tightly, briefly disrupting my blood flow. What is so great about procreation? Had my mother never given birth to me, I would be in a better place. I know this because my unborn son told me so. We can skip the psychological therapy and religious intervention for I was not hallucinating when it happened. I was so aware that I remember the exact date and time when the telephone rang: April 18th 2012, twenty two past four. It fit neatly within my second rule of life: under all circumstances, only answer the phone between 3 o’clock in the afternoon and 6 o’clock in the evening. My mother, as sweet as she is, has made a terrible habit out of checking up on me by the hour. She starts at noon and typically gives up within three hours. After another three, she picks it back up till heaven only knows. When that dreaded white device of a telephone produced the noise I had become so habituated to, I did not need to look at the time to know that it wasn’t my mother on the line. The mere fact that my internal system did not dismiss the sound as part of the overall ambiance but categorized it as particular, was enough to make me lay my book on my lap and stretch my legs to grab the device with my toes. He does not wish to be born. Can you believe that? But the way he described his life, or should I say his existence, brought about images of the ocean, as if his entire world consisted of an ever-flowing environment. Even as he spoke I felt he was moving. I imagined him being gently pushed to where ever he needed to be. If ever I had such pleasure I would allow the stream to take me over to Mr. Maduro’s to find out once and for all what great karma I have created by lending him my box of matches. “Earth is no place for me”, in a tone echoing speech in a dreamless sleep. He does raise a valid point as I have been experiencing my share of limits ever since I learned to walk. It starts with all the “don’ts”, doesn’t it? Don’t run in the house, don’t climb that tree, don’t eat off the floor, don’t fight with your sister, don’t treat others like you don’t want to be treated. As you grow older, the don’ts turn into do’s, don’t they? Do the dishes, do your laundry, do go to college, do become a lawyer, do socialize, do treat others like you want to be treated. Mad. Even though I would spare my son the ruthless commands and teach him my rules of life, I can’t guarantee he will master my behavior. After all, it was those very do’s and don’ts that have systematically turned me into the fitted human being I so carefully embody today. And Dios libra2 I raise my child in a “do’s” and “don’ts” manner. No, I choose to remain childless above playing the exhausting role of the life-experienced commander. They are just going to have to accept it; all of them, not just my family but my community as well, for I have gotten tired of brushing their eyes off the back of my shirts every time I step foot out of my house. I pretend not to notice but I can feel their eyes following me like dogs on elastic leashes.
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SUSUMBA’SBOOKBAG August 2014
Prenatal Conversation Rosabelle Illes
You should see me taking a stroll down caya grandi2, I look like a mental patient, constantly scratching my shoulders and neck to prevent the eyes from settling on my back. The clever ones make their landing precisely between my backbones where I cannot reach. I have to carry those around until I return home. Who knows how much water I could save if I didn’t have to scrub and soak all my shirts until the clever eyeballs accept their fate down the drain. “Look at them go” I would think while counting the different colors they are made out of. These are worries my son never has to occupy himself with. I doubt his world welcomes chasing eyes. Besides, should there be cases of intruders, I am sure his water shield would take a deadly wave. Now my bathtub looks like it’s managing its own set of waves. A cold bath is just what I need this time of day. I never get tired of watching the water fill the tub. I slowly place my right leg in the bathtub and touch the bottom with my toes. I wait patiently and humbly until the water is once more settled and ready to accommodate my left leg—and eventually my entire body. My son was right, there are ways to reach bliss regardless of your status as the restricted human being. If only it were permanent. Instead, this experience only echoes the candle’s imitation of clarity. I slide my body forward and let the water overtake me. I could never rid my son from his paradise. All I can do is honor his wish of never contacting him, for he swore if I hit redial—he would be born. Just as I began living my new life under water, I was forced out of the bathtub by a conflict that cannot be resolved. I stood soaking wet, gazing at the bathtub below me. The water was no longer pure. It was like a flawless painting staring in the face of a vulnerable brush covered in the passion of red paint. I hate when that time of month comes around.
Notes: 1Papiamento 2
for ‘district’
Papiamento for ‘God forbid’
3 Papiamento
for ‘main street’
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SUSUMBA’SBOOKBAG August 2014
FEATUREDWRITER
Grasp Firmly With Soft Hands!: Vladimir Lucien Interviewed by Tanya Batson-Savage
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SUSUMBA’SBOOKBAG August 2014
Grasp Firmly With Soft Hands An Interview with Vladimir Lucien
Vladimir Lucien reads at Bocas 2014
Vladimir Lucien is a St. Lucian poet whose debut collection of poems is aptly titled Sounding Ground. He speaks to SBB about finding his voice and whether the poet is more craftsman or magician.
SBB:
Recently, in a lecture, Kwame Dawes said that the current generation of writers, those coming after his generation and who have benefitted from the writings of Walcott and Brathwaite etc. have a greater confidence for finding their voice and can comfortably write from the Caribbean canon or borrow from the British Canon or describe themselves as a global citizen. Do you think that this is an accurate description? How do you respond to that?
VL:
I think in a way that we ourselves are not even capable of recognizing, we have been influenced by all of these voices that came before because these voices were in conversation with each other. So in fact, what we’re receiving is not their individual voices alone but what was in between them and the attitudes and all that. We recognize where we coming from, I don’t think our generation is oblivious to the colonial history. We’re aware of it. But we’re less concerned with that particular idea of authenticity, meaning, not being the colonizer. I think we recognize that part of the Caribbean writer’s authenticity is the conversation with the colonizer. In fact, that was a formative thing. When you hear Braithwaite talking about Creolization, it’s not just about moving toward one influence or the other or creating a dichotomy. It’s about that interaction between these things. So the in between is very important. The in between of conversations among our writers that went before, and the in between of our conversations with colonization, colonial rule and rejecting that kind of organization of human society.
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SUSUMBA’SBOOKBAG August 2014
Grasp Firmly With Soft Hands An Interview with Vladimir Lucien
SBB:
You used the phrase, ‘grasping with soft hands’ when describing the multiplicity of identifying with different things and different definitions. How important is that for you as you explore different ideas in your culture?
VL:
Especially now, I guess to a large degree I, I force myself to become afraid of ideology in a way. In the beginning, the social consciousness that I got from my father, I took it to another extent where I live-live this ideology in a kind of militant way and I realized how scary that was, at a certain point how it could actually create a kind of stoicism in you, where you are unable to feel for the people, which I was absolutely afraid of, in terms of that happening to me. So when you reach that extreme point, I haven’t done anything but when I realized in myself where I was and the kind of experience it was robbing me of in fact, I realized that I couldn’t hold on to ideology in that kind of way. I couldn’t let it be something for all times, and something that is so right that you could go to its extremities. I wasn’t sure how to deal with that. But having to deal with spirituality, having to deal with the spirit world ... you realize that all around you there are these ways of not being solid. Even as a person. Even as a being that you could feel yourself and feel your boundaries, you’re not solid as a person. In Caribbean society, if you listen to Trinidadian stuff, or the St. Lucian or even Jamaican, there is always this thing like, somebody is experiencing an immense euphoria, they’re being euphoric or just enjoying themselves, they would say, they must have a jumbie on them. So there is always an impermeable thing about being in the Caribbean, about, spirits and people and so on entering you. ‘My blood don’t take this person’ - It’s almost like they get into your blood and just turn it. So then, when you realize how these things work, it somehow starts to make ideology become something you don’t want to afix yourself to too securely. Of course you have ideas about how to make things better, and you form your own opinion on things but you can never forget how complex things are and for that I think you need to hold on to ideology with a firm grasp but with soft hands.
SBB:
You’ve said when you were young you wanted to be your father, not just emulate him, you wanted to be him. This question of identity formation and being yourself and finding your voice, and confidence in the way you see and describe the world, what’s that process been like for you?
VL:
I think I started off with the voices of my father. And I hear voices, mostly in his own poetry, which I discovered after hearing him read other poetry. But the kind of poetry he read, from very early it started to create an idea of poetry in my head, even before I considered poetry because my father used to, as I said, recite Neruda and particularly ‘United Fruit Company’. He recited Walcott; he recited Martin Carter; he recited Wilfred Owen - the war poems.
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SUSUMBA’SBOOKBAG August 2014
Grasp Firmly With Soft Hands An Interview with Vladimir Lucien
VL:
But more than that, I think I was kind of amazed as a boy about his memorizing them and the rotund way in which he was reciting them - he was very good at reciting poetry. So I made a connection between poetry and memory and I became very interested in creating memory through poetry and I thought that that had something to do with how you say things, how you are able to get words to come together. I now see that as instrumental activity, as opposed to symbolic all the time, that you could put words together, or certain sounds together, in a particular way that will evoke... and I’m very much concerned with evoking that in my audience. I think I was very much at the beginning informed by that and what I found in my father’s poetry, as the first example, was that he did create memory in me and he did evoke things in me, at the time, things which I probably couldn’t have dealt with in reciting these poems. So, in finding my voice, I think I was actually concerned with, even in channelling other voices, to be sure to create memory. Not just that I want to be quoted ... but that people remember those particular lines and how they capture the idea that I’m trying to get across and that they could recite it to themselves.
SBB:
As you’ve grown as a poet, who are some of the other voices that you have found as a part of this creation of memory: those that you like to turn to for that?
VL:
I think Kwame [Dawes] does it in a different way than I would have ever attempted, but it really is something that I found very attractive. The memory that you get from Kwame ... I mean he has these great lines in them, but more than the lines is this feeling that you get when you read them. It’s kind of difficult to put them in an image you know, but you just remember that feeling and because feeling is so elusive, you return to the poem all the time just to get that feeling, almost like a kind of high of a sense. But what they do is connect you with that human truth which is never something that you could grasp fully; never something that can be captured in a line, but they connect you with that impalpable thing that you must remember or that you must have or you must be in touch with. And they’ve influenced me in the way you tend to carry on, the way that you look at the process, the way you decide to take people’s words. Kwame does that. But the people who re-affirm the kinds of things I was grounded in are like Nikky Finney, whose collection Head Off and Split I think I’m obsessed with. There are other poets like Octavio Paz, which is an older voice but still one that I return to. Garcia Lorka is a voice that I return to, though I’m reading him in translation, I’m absolutely blown by Garcia. And Christian Campbell - channels voices well I think, with his collection Running the Dusk and Kei Miller. Kei Miller especially because of the sound of his poetry, not just how he reads it, but the sound of the poetry on the page, the resonance of the poetry. I think there’s a similar thing that I’m after as well, creating that kind of palpable memory that you could hold.
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SUSUMBA’SBOOKBAG August 2014
Grasp Firmly With Soft Hands An Interview with Vladimir Lucien
SBB:
How does a writer contend with the idea that the meanings of words don’t resonate and don’t last, conveyed in ideas like ‘sticks and stones will break my bones but words will never hurt me”. Is that a part of what a writer has to contend with - how other people see words, versus how you view these things that are kind of the essence of what you do?
VL:
That takes a kind of faith. I remember coming across a particular linguist and coming across the theory that a word is an arbitrary signifier of meaning. And as a poet, that’s something hard to accept, that there is this arbitrary relationship between words and their meanings, because I could hear things, I could see things. I’ve had a lot of these images that have stayed with me, where there is always something in the word for me that immediately brought a picture that was immediately connected to that particular meaning. Of course, there is some degree of give and take with the words. You know, are words enough or can they do it. But I think coming across European grimoires in my work - magic books, that I have to look at because the obeah men would use them - I am coming across generated theory that words put together in a particular way generate a formula and you make this disappear or whatever. As much as I’m not interested in magic, I’m interested in this idea of words actually having force behind them and that force is directly related to their meaning. So, I think it does take a kind of faith for you to be a poet. Even the most secular, atheistic poet does have a kind of relationship of faith in words and with words. So, I think having that faith could push you to do it, no matter the indifference that you face or the doubt in words. I think words are real and words have force in the world.
SBB:
So do you see the poet as a kind of magician?
VL:
I don’t think I make these kinds of direct relationships. I think there is a significant difference between what they [poet and magician] are trying to do. There is a very unmagical process of - although it can be magical as well, in the looser sense of the word - of editing. You do come back to what you’ve done and trying to craft it. I think the best thing is to see the poet as craftsman. There are elements that poetry might share with magic, that a poet might share with being a Shaman but I think he’s a craftsman. The magician, has received this as a kind of wisdom, in terms of these words, put them together and they will do that but you [the poet] are more like the kind of figure who has to make these formulas, and you have to make them anew each time. The magician doesn’t do that. He has these age old things passed down to him. Even with all the books that we get, you as the poet has to find this formula anew.
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