St. Somewhere Journal, July 2013

  Jamal had been overseas for two years now and it was going well with his studies. He was not the best in his class or the most brilliant but his tutor recognized his commitment and his vivid imagination that tended to leap at you from ever story Jamal wrote. It was the best two years of his life. One day he was called to the administration office to receive a call from home. The rooms that the students occupied were not equipped with phones so most students had personal cell phones if they wished to keep in touch with family or friends. Jamal had no need for one. He spoke to his mother every weekend since his arrival, just to check up on her and every once in a while he asked about his father as well who still remained stubborn in his ways and refused to take up the line to even say a courteous hello to his prodigal son. It was a Wednesday so he was quite shocked to receive a call from mother. She sounded distraught and sobbed bitterly between each word.

  It was his father.

  He had collapsed at work. His mother had warned him to start to cut back on those long hours and to try to get some rest but he would not hear of it. “Who would run the company?” he said. “It can’t run itself, especially since there is no one here to help me” he said. All these things his mother told him in a quivering voice and he listened intently to each word. She told him that the doctors believed it was a combination of his long hours and his ailing heart but it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure that out.

  “I don’t know what to do. I...I am a complete and utter wreck right now. I need you right now Jamal. I think it’s time you came home” she said.

  Jamal was on the next available flight to Barbados, hoping beyond hope he would make it back to see his father. Thinking of all the things he would tell him and share with him as he recovered from this set back.

  It was too late.

  At the funeral he didn’t cry. He didn’t allow himself to. As he stood there dressed in all black, holding his mothers trembling and suddenly feeble hands, he set in his mind that he had to be strong, not only for his mother and sister but also for his father. He would not have wanted to have seen his son wallowing in tears but instead he would have wanted him to be the back bone that his family needed right now. So, that is what he would be even now as the dark sky opened up and blessed them with a downpour of warm rain that blended perfectly with a salty taste that trickled down his cheeks.

  His mother had become a shell of the vibrant, robust woman he had known. He had stayed with her a couple weeks to ensure that she would be fine. It was during this time on a strangely cold spring evening, while sitting in the family room with her, that she shared some more insight into his father’s passing.

  “He loved you, you know” she said, still sipping from the cupped mug of warm vanilla flavoured coffee that she loved to drink every evening. It always seemed to perk her up and her eyes didn’t seem as sad and haunted after she had finished.

  “Did he now?” Jamal responded sarcastically, not looking up from the book he had been reading.

  “He did and he was also very proud of you as well. He just couldn’t...say it” his mother continued, shifting herself on the couch so she could turn and face him.

  Jamal placed the book down on the coffee table and with a sigh, turned and faced his mother. Her dark eyes were intense and did not shift from his and at this time he saw the woman he had being calling mother all these years come alive again.

  “How did you think that I got the money to pay for your tuition? He made me swear not to tell you but honestly, I am sure you knew that despite my resourcefulness, I did not have that kind of money just lying around.”

  Jamal knew. Maybe not before she had actually said it out loud but deep down in some unspoken place he had known what she was telling him was true.

  “I want you to go back and study and not give up” she said.

  “I planned to go back but just wanted to make sure you were fine first.” Jamal replied.

  “You know that wasn’t true. You were planning on staying here with this tired old woman and forget all about your dreams. You wanted to do what you thought your father would have wanted but he wouldn’t want this. ”

  Jamal looked at her in astonishment, shocked that she had read his mind so well. He had actually considered just forgetting about the writing and taking over the company. His family needed him more than ever and even now, he still felt this need to please his father, especially beyond the grave. But the news that his father had approved changed things. Gave him a new perspective, so he took his mother’s advice and headed back to New York to finish what he had started - his sacrifice produced fruit. He moved back home and started to work on his first novel. The first couple years were not easy but he managed to survive and was taken up by one publishing company that dealt with Caribbean literature and saw talent in his work. It was surprisingly successful, well at least to him, and he was able to build his first home and marry his girlfriend Celia, who was pregnant with their first child, Neasha.

  He pulled into the gravel filled dusty lane that led to his father’s final resting place. This being the first time he had been here the since the funeral three years ago. As he walked towards his dad’s memorial with the book tucked securely under his arm, he noticed all the graves that had been overrun by weeds, grass and time; some gravestones even falling to ruin from neglect and poor maintenance. His family had insured that would never happen to his father’s grave. They had placed that extra bit of money needed to ensure that a caretaker would clear any debris from the area, all year round. The grave stone had the legend engraved -

  “A man of few words that moved mountains with his actions”.

  Jamal could not think of a more appropriate phrase to describe his father and how he had lived his life. The idea of mortality hung heavily on Jamal’s head. If the choices he had made were right and if he had found favour in his father’s eyes were important questions to him that played on his mind. He felt the ghost of his father hanging around this place like an unspoken question.

  “I always wanted you be proud of me, Dad, and to look at me not just as some bum but a man; a man that could stand on your level and walk the path that would not have left me alone in your shadow. Your boots were too big for me to walk in, so I decided to follow my own path. It’s not what you wanted, I know, but it was the only thing I could do. I brought my book for you to see. I did it and I would like to believe that you helped me write these words as well. But...my greatest regret is not that you were my father but that…I wasn’t a good enough son. Happy Father’s day, Dad”

  He rested the book carefully on the tombstone and turned away. The light of the afternoon sun shone brightly and warmly on his skin. He felt as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders; that some great burden had been taken away. He felt light, warm and for the first time in a long while - free.

  I Want to Go Back A Poem by Tracey-Ann Wisdom

  (For Ena Mae Attride)

  I want to go back

  to the time when you were here,

  when life made sense and I was embraced by, enveloped in

  the thick blue blanket

  that was your love.

  I want to go back

  to the feeling of not knowing

  and not caring because you

  were my rock, my stay;

  to once again hear

  those three little words -

  "Yu a grow."

  I want to go back in time

  and ask you to stay

  because you never explained

  what that meant

  and now I am grown

  but still don't understand.

  I want to go back

  to your arms

  on those inky, moonless nights

  that you'd illuminate with your lamp

  and anoint me with your words

  and stories of "ol time."

  I want to go back

  with you so I could know you 

  as you were then,

  so young and full
of life;

  to dance with you in your "floor shows"

  and maybe understand 

  the woman you would become.

  I want to go back

  but I can't.

  You left me so suddenly,

  so cruelly and painfully.

  My life went down the drain.

  I want to get it back.

  I wish I could go back...

  to that first week of high school

  Just one moment was all it'd take

  to save myself from this endless heartache.

  Show you my new feathers,

  get your approval to fly.

  Above all, I'd just wanted to see your face,

  let you know

  I love you,

  maybe say

  good-bye.

  Reflection A Poem by Kade Anthony Walker

  Then… as I stood over the water I saw her face. The one I love but could not have, the one I dreamed of but could not touch. My fingers made streaks in the water as the only thing I wanted was to touch her beautiful face, but she faded slowly; I was left alone.

  In an instant I was left to realize how empty I now felt. The many dreams I have had about her seem so real and whenever I found myself around her I was convinced that one day she would be mine. As my tears fell into the water, her reflection revealed itself once more but this time she was not alone.

  I was forced to look at her in the presence of another doing all the things I so long dreamed about. My tears were not enough to vanish these images and neither were these stones that only sank. I refused to accept that which was true, so without pride in my heart I took my own sight; no longer will I see that which has hurt me.

  Licks carnt dun! A Poem by Andrea Olivia Ottley

  Have you ever dance de maskerade wid out de beat a de drum?

  Well leh mi tell yoh dis

  I learn to dance dhat tune

  From licks carnt dun!

  Have you ever jump skipping rope widout de rope?

  Man I learn to jump skipping rope

  From licks carnt dun!

  Have you ever seen stars and it ain't night yet?

  I seen plenty a stars in de galaxy

  From licks carnt dun!

  Mi a tell yoh when Marmie a gi licks

  Pickny gat to run...

  "Fowl waa sleep pon roost no hard to get cetch!"

  Dem words ain't no fun.

  Mi swear all part a me garn

  Mi jump up like mi walk in a stinging ants

  Mi riggle and scratch,

  Mi root like a pig

  Mi scrabble like a fowl

  Mi wail like howlin win

  Mi bawl like rainfall

  Just because...

  Licks carnt Dun!

  Heathrow Internatinal immigration 2007 A Poem by Malika Booker

  When she hear say dem haffi go back,

  Charlene start feel like dark night,

  She drop so much style pon she friend dem

  back a yard, now dem ago laugh afta her.

  yet it never sink in, till she start see people beg

  and sob. It bruk her heart fi see the two pickney dem

  a hug up, ah look like poor ting inna di corna.

  Fi her stomach drop till it meet her big toe,

  mek her fall braps pon concrete floor and bawl.

  One smart dress ooman start hiss inna posh voice,

  Get up, get up, have you no shame.

  If she never feel so bad she woulda box her down.

  One pleat skirt granny, pull her up, tell her

  fe stop cry, tru God know’s best.

  How she did want to spit in God’s eye that day!

  Wha God know bout shame and sacrifice?

  Lord Gad, all di money spend pon Visa gone,

  dem nah even gi her back di flight money.

  Sweet Liquor A Poem by Malika Booker

  Left right, left right in the Government boots, the Government boots

  I see them boots, boots, boots and more boots

  On the feet of young trigger-happy recruits – The Mighty Gabby.

  girl, if you see thing! the way they does pile in here when fete

  door bus open on saturday nights. pour in like animals. looking

  sweet too bad. girl if you see the way they does parade and carry

  on. how i does close meh eyes and lean back on them hard bodies

  and wine. i know some of them real good. the way they move.

  how they handle women bodies. the way they does roll they hip.

  girl you have to know them tings, so when a man come jam

  behind you, you could know if is friend or foe without turning

  round and looking up in he face. Or in case the place too dark to

  make out the face. you know if to walk off or stay there. girl I

  even know they faces real good but never look in they eyes.

  if you see the way they does hold on to rum bottles like is com-

  munion. like is holy. like is they saviour. the way they does crawl

  all up inside hard liquor. girl, if you see them wring out johnny

  walker bottle. squeeze every drop. knock back wray and nephew

  just like real beast riding they soul.

  girl, to see sweet young ting hurt so bad does make pain bus open meh

  belly. when they play that destra song that say, everybody everybody

  bounce somebody, bounce somebody, girl, if you see ting! a host of

  unruly joy. them man does tek over the dancefloor and smash

  they bodies, flesh hitting flesh, jumping and hollering like the

  army evict them. like them bodies have nuff sin to wuk out they

  system. last night ashley tell me he name call and he going over

  there soon. girl and when he tell me dat I mek the mistake of

  looking he in he eyes. if you see them eyes! i frighten men with

  eyes dead so. like all the love wring out of them. i does wonder

  what the hell them see so, make sadness line they eyes like

  cataract. oh lord, girl, what I see in he eyes mek meh own eye

  spring water. He so young eh. baby still in he chin. and he standing

  there body lean to one side, squeezing the bottle neck. choking it

  nah backfoot! girl, what I could say eh! stupid tie up meh tongue,

  so I jus hold onto he all night. sweet he up with meh body,

  and pile he ass with more liquor.

  Death March A Poem by G. Newton Chance

  On concrete slab

  round table,

  outside rumshop,

  served cold

  to country

  on platter

  like John's

  to Herodias,

  a la carte

  Columbian cartel style,

  a head,

  severed,

  separated from shell,

  left lying lifeless, abandoned,

  in abandoned canefield,

  bitter harvest

  of deluded quest for sugar

  of quick material gains.

  Karma comes round

  on the wheel of misfortune

  in a hostile game of hustle

  in a hostel named California.

  I stand at the window,

  on the outside peering in,

  on the inside peering out.

  Belafonte's yellow bird has flown

  its paradisal tropic island nest.

  Gone the sweet and tender bird calls

  of our innocence.

  There is nothing left but silence

  of secret ops

  (and cover ups by crooked cops),

  and the melody

  of a symphony, a sympathy,

  for the Devil and a bedevilled nation.

  The marching band of death is playing loudly

  but death marchers have forgotten

  how to march.

  Contributo
rs Notes

  Graham Bannister is a member of the group “League of Extraordinary Poets “ (LXP) in Barbados, where he also engages as a Spoken Word artist. He has been recognized with a 2012 NIFCA award for his prose.

  Malika Booker is a British writer of Guyanese and Grenadian Parentage. Her poems are widely published in anthologies and journals including: Out of Bounds, Black & Asian Poets (Bloodaxe 2012) Ten New Poets (Bloodaxe, 2010) the India International Journal 2005, and Bittersweet: Contemporary Black Women’s Poetry (The Women’s Press, 1998). She has represented British writing internationally, both independently and with the British Council including Slovenia, Malaysia, New Zealand, and Russia. In Spring 2005 she was sponsored by the Arts Council England for a three-month writer fellowship at the India International Centre in Delhi. She has also written for the stage and radio. Her one-woman show Unplanned, toured nationwide throughout 2007. Her collection Breadfruit was published by flippedeye in 2008, and recommended by the Poetry Book Society. She was the first Poet in Residence at the Royal Shakespeare Company and her collection Pepperseed is forthcoming from Peepal Tree Press in 2013.

  Vashti Bowlah is a writer from Trinidad and Tobago and a participant of The 2008 UWI/Cropper Foundation Creative Writers’ Residential Workshop. Her short stories and articles have appeared in various publications including St. Petersburg Review, The Caribbean Writer, Poui, WomanSpeak Journal, Signifyin’ Guyana (Caribbean Women Writers Series), Tongues of the Ocean and St. Somewhere Journal. She was a short listed nominee for the 2013 Hollick Arvon Caribbean Writers Prize.

  G. Newton V. Chance was born in Tobago. He is a member of the Writers Union of Trinidad and Tobago and the Trinidad Poetry Workshop; attended Eastern Caribbean Institute of Agriculture and Forestry and works closely with nature as a Forester. Hobbies include playing wind instruments, building computers, reading and writing poetry. Believes the power of a song is its ability to evoke emotions by marrying lyric and music but that music without lyric can be just as powerful, lyric without music can be just as powerful, there is music in lyric and lyric can be simple yet profound. In this age of computers, would like to model lines after simple, efficient code and, analogous to object oriented programming, achieve most of the imagery from nouns and verbs, avoiding the bloat and excess of unnecessary adjectives.