Thanks to BIM for publishing two of my poems in Volume 9 No. 2. Check out the published versions here. The latest versions of the poems are below.
Salt-Free Diet
The charge the officer decided on was exhibition of speed.
I was told, after the fingerprinting, to stand naked.
– Claudia Rankine (Citizen)
Me in the Caribbean, he in a US state,
my son calls home and tries hard to make light
of disturbing current affairs—
tells me things ain’t as bad as they seem.
He says, It’s just anOther Carnival Mum,
this time folks masquerading fear as hate and
theatrical smokh-and-crazy-funhouse-mirror
news, projecting, distorting not reflecting.
TV and Twitter white-noise distraction
keeping everyone angry and so damn
scared of shadows—
…and us hoping
hashtags will change shit, he laughs.
But I hear the weariness behind his voice and
sense these days his eyes, bloodshot,
are mostly darting back—not so focused
on that bright future he spoke of once.
I say—I love you—take care, and before he hangs
up I quickly add, remember, don’t put much salt
in your food—now more than ever you need to be
able to fly high high high into the Celestial Nite
Cut(ting) Act(ion)
For 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!
No Comments