By Jennifer Rahim
Turn from Dark
Who will be guardian
of the season’s turn from dark
when we sell so cheaply the lining
behind every cloud?
Who will make noise,
point the accusing finger,
risk losing a head
for those fallen among us?
Who will dare
stir Carter? Write, now,
the poetry of bread,
put aside decency’s level
to stand in rank
with poems that bawl-out,
shout what even the trees
will un-bare like the ravaged
belly of Matura?
Those poems will come
spit-fire like that father
crowned with his dread-
authority
let his word
drop
on the conscience of a nation,
demanding justice for more
than his no-saint son:
“Not so! Not PO-lice,
NO-BODY
must take
a life so”
his right grief rattling
every undefended bone
while we watch the screen
DUMB
II
Six-dollar High
red band maxi
en route to the city,
keeping time
to the road’s zesty line.
the driver, a born again
wanna-be Usher
watching we
watch him lock down
and shades up,
loving his cool air-
condition ride
from Arima,
lavender fresh
piping through the vents,
we sailing easy
in three o’clock
beat
down
heat
TIME BANDIT
eating the Priority.
inside is grey-
tint-comfort, clean
semi-recline seats,
alleluia non-stop on CD
and before eye
could blink twice we fly –
by Curepe’s madman
pantomime, past
the brewery where Carib
brand is sky,
then the woman,
stranded by the Quazay
begging for change –
addict dry.
but the twenty-four seater
close its eyes, praying
for the green, praying –
race on BANDIT,
don’t stand here, Brother
juice the accelerator,
don’t stop this smooth
six-dollar high
III
Pelicans at Evening
(for Pat Bishop)
Pelicans,
as many as seven,
steadfast as pointers
press heaven,
push east along Toco’s
unquiet run of coast.
News comes here
unhurried
as the beat
of ample wings
holds the eye true
to evening’s fall.
Now, –
when an ocean’s peace
is gathered into beaks
that could deliver
the miracle of a child,
I hear you are gone.
And what is this word
bequeathed us
as you pass into earth ? –
Our souls full yet
with every
bold
and fragile
note
you shepherded to birth –
not one
orphaned
or unformed sound
left unhoused.
So Miss B.,
what is this nothing
as you go your way
to Mucurapo?
What parting gift –
your baton’s final command?
Our tongues stilled,
grief left broke,
for your wanting
no more
than servant’s pay,
wanting too
a sunflower’s witness
at the close
of your giving days.
In this crude season
of curfew
from ourselves,
your cowbell’s
chosen metre
is perfect song, you
knowing well
Silence earned strikes
the purest note,
speaks clearest,
being free
of all regard ,
being free blesses
with its own question.
So, Sister Pat,
is it that you saved
your best wine
for last? –
Saved us
from our noise.
Your passing’s ripe Art –
this holy hush
as that arcane flock journeys
routinely home.