“Calabash – the only place were you would find a lesbian poet, a former Prime Minister who owns a football team, and the slackest man in Jamaica.” One of the Calabash founders, referring to Staceyann Chin, Edward Seaga, and Anthony Winkler.

What was it about this year’s Calabash that still causes its many images and tones and textures to linger in my memory, refusing to leave?

Was it the energy of the patrons, those of whom sat under the tents and trees, arrested by some strange awe, as they drank in words poured out liberally from renowned authors? Was it the glistening backdrop of shards of sunlight glinting off the calm, blue waters? The hypnotic drumming of the twins, O’Shane and Roshane, aka Twinnie? The scent of savoury soup that enticed my acquaintances to buy repeatedly throughout the day and well into the night? Meeting author, poet, and fellow blogger, Geoffrey Philp and his wife for the first time?

Perhaps it was the Chatterbox experience with Paul Holdengraber and Pico Iyer, the latter sharing about identity and home being far more than a fixed place, and who scattered pearls like “travelling in the search of ignorance” and “movement is only as good as the silence that underwrites it”, as well as his account of how he lost his past and future when a fire devoured his house and eight years’ worth of manuscripts, but which brought rebirth by allowing him to do what he could not do on his own.

Was it Rasta Kura’s clever poem, “Food War”, or Hannah Hoilette’s piece about what she represents, one that almost brought the tents down in the Open Mic section? Or, Joseph Boyden, in Generation Now, who taught us all how to perform moose calls, one from a “horny” female; the other, from the bull, sounding more like someone with a constipated cough? Perhaps it was his moving short stories, one of which was a true account of a dangerous encounter with a gunman, and his victim who died in Joseph’s lap, while Joseph’s wife tried to get help. Or another of how he delivered his first son on the backseat of a car, driven by his then girlfriend’s mother, to the nearest hospital.

Yet, I think it may have been the passionate outburst from an attractive, female silver-haired patron, who appeared to be in her late 40s, who reminded Marlon James that children were present, when he uttered the occasional “fuck” and “bloodclaat”, while reading short passages from his second novel, “The Book of Night Women.” He elicited many chuckles from the audience when he warned children to flee, before reading his final passage.

Then again, it could have been gaining priceless gems from the reading of V. S. Naipaul’s biography, by learning about how he used great economy of words in his writings, in an excerpt from one of his works: “Bryant, running, faltered.” And, in Naipaul’s setting up a murder scene and leaving the rest to the reader’s imagination: “Bryant made the first cut under her arm. The rest would follow.”

For me, it wasn’t just any single one of these special things, but the whole, which wove it into such a rich tapestry, and left me longing for the next unforgettable experience.

Facilitator, entrepreneur, motivational speaker, and fellow blogger, Marguerite Orane, whom I had met late last year, and whose book, Free and Laughing, has made a tremendous impact on my approach to life, shared a poem yesterday, which I found quite thought-provoking, and also felt compelled to share. In her reflections on the insightful piece, penned by the thirteenth-century Persian poet, Rumi, Marguerite expressed that “it is such wisdom for how to live joyful lives, accepting the adversities that present themselves and seeing them for what they truly are.”

“This being human is a guest house.

Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,

some momentary awareness comes

as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!

Even if they are a crowd of sorrows,

who violently sweep your house empty of its furniture,

still them at the door laughing,

and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes,

because each has treat each guest honourably.

He may be clearing you out for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,

meet been sent as a guide from beyond.”

~ Rumi (translation by Coleman Barks)

Geoffrey Philp

Jamaican poet, novelist, and fellow blogger, Geoffrey Philp, will be reading from his latest collection, Who’s Your Daddy?: And Other Stories, at this year’s annual Calabash International Literary Festival.

“To be invited to read with this the select group of writers at the Calabash International Literary Festival is an honor that I will always cherish,” said Philp, who will also be reading at Books & Books on June 9, 2009, for the Miami launch of his short story collection. (South Florida Caribbean News)

An editorial review describes Mr. Philp’s latest work as…

“a bold, multilayered mixture of styles and genres that address contemporary life and the complexity of immigrant communities, this collection of short stories focuses on the lives of people living in Miami and Jamaica while exploring the realms of sexuality, prejudice, troubled childhoods, adolescence, and the uncanny. From a casual game of dominoes that reveals the deep undercurrent of affection between father and son to the laugh-out-loud inventiveness of a dreadlocked vampire, the engaging personal voice in these works delve deep into the complexity of human relationships.” (Amazon.com)

Geoffrey Philp is the author of Benjamin, my Son, Uncle Obadiah and the Alien, numerous poetry works, and a children’s book, Grandpa Sydney’s Anancy Stories. His next collection of poems, Dub Wise, will be published by Peepal Tree Press in Spring 2010.

Marlon James

Currently a professor of literature and creative writing at Macalester College in St. Paul, Minnesota, Marlon James has been creating waves since the publication of his first novel, John Crow’s Devil (Akashic Books, 2005), which was a finalist for the Los Angeles Times Book Prize, the Commonwealth Writers Prize, and was also a New York Times Editors’ Choice. However, it is his second novel, The Book of Night Women, released this year, which has won him much critical acclaim.

“Beautifully written”, “disturbing”, and “eloquent” are only a few of the expressions used to depict James’ gripping novel. In her review, New York Times writer, Kaiama L. Glover states:

“Writing in the spirit of Toni Morrison and Alice Walker, but in a style all his own, James has conducted an experiment in how to write the unspeakable — even the unthinkable. And the results of that experiment are an undeniable success.”

Staceyann Chin

Jamaican-born. Spoken word poet. Activist. Writer. Performer. New Yorker. Sassy.

Expect to hear the latter quality infusing Ms. Chin’s performance at this year’s Calabash Literary Festival, where she will read from her memoir, The Other Side of Paradise.

In his review, Walter Mosley describes Ms. Chin’s memoir as

“…a heartbreaking feat of unflinching memory and language. Set in a Jamaica far from the tourist brochures, The Other Side of Paradise is Chin’s rich and nuanced story of family and abandonment, love and brutality, and a child’s struggle to survive and find a home that will accept her. A remarkable young woman emerges, whose gift for poetry has been forged by poverty, religiosity, and a circle of adults who found the child in their care. This is A Portrait of the Artist written for our age. I love this book – and I am completely hamstrung by the feelings it evokes.”

My Grandmother’s Tongue

I don’t know the names

of the grandchildren in Europe

the countries are unpronounceable there

the languages spoken with odd pauses

and awkward lilts

I have buried the umbilical cords

that connect me to their future

the past lies trapped beneath my tongue

my children have taken their children

out of my house and I can no longer hear them.

This is what I imagine she would say

if she had the painted words

prodigal that I am

the daughter of a different land

America has opened its hand

and I am no longer drawn to the place

that birthed me

Wood floors have hardened

to concrete structures stretching

high above my mothers, mothers aspirations

My grandmother has become a ritual of memory

and I am hard pressed to translate

Her dialect communicates necessity

Another woman warms my bed

My mother speaks French phrases in Cologne

her German-Canadian child has never heard Jamaicans

sliding their fiery tongues over the blunt patois

she only dreams of America home of the faded-blue jeans

pale skin and long fingers like mine

oxtails and boiled bananas are foreign to her

Grandma can hardly see

the night falls more quickly for her

familiar words in her mouth sweetens her

she mutters the old names over and over and over again

it is impossible to learn the new ones

trust in the Lord and be of Good courage

she knows all the words of her salvation

the foreign names are unnecessary

and how would she say Larah Frederica Hayle Mills-Moller

Diamonique and Sherrel are out of reach

Lisa might have been possible

but Munich is a lifetime away

and her tenure is close to being over.

© Staceyann Chin

Millicent Graham

A Calabash Writer’s Workshop Fellow, Ms. Graham’s first book of poems, The Damp in Things, was published by Peepal Tree Press in 2009. Her works have also been published in City Lighthouse Poetry Anthology 2009; Calabash: A Journal of Caribbean Arts and Letters, Vol. 5 No. 1, 2008 and The Caribbean Writer Vol. 17.

An editorial review of The Damp in Things gives the following insight:

“Graham’s poems offer us a way to see her distinctly contemporary and urban Jamaica through the slant eye of a surrealist, one willing to see the absurdities and contradictions inherent in the society that preoccupies her. These are poems about family, about love, about spirituality, about fear and mostly about desire, where the dampness of things is as much about the humid sensuality of this woman’s island, as it is about her constant belief in fecundity, fertility and the unruliness of the imagination.” (Peepal Tree Press)

THAT LIFE

My grandmother taught me I was Black.

that unmistakable pitch in her voice told

that my sister’s cornmeal skin was sweeter

than mine. I measured beauty by the cup

of her crackling palm, and whether

it stroked a cheek to blush or bruises

She made us understand

that fairness was as simple as a shade

drawn in a public ward

to guard her from the prying dark

faces. We visited each day, hiding

the bags of cream crackers and confetti.

The closer it got to night was the more

she hid her milky teeth, and only

showed the starless line of her lips.

The stars, she kept for my sister;

the girl with pudding ways. If not

for her we would not know what fair was.

© Millicent Graham

The Damp of Things

Tory Dent won several awards for her work about living with AIDS, most famously in her collection, HIV, Mon Amour. She had been HIV-positive for 17 years up to the time of her death on December 30, 2005.

Black Milk
in memory of “HIV, Mon Amour”

I.

Black trees, blue trees, white trees, bare trees -
Whatever was my life has been returned to me
in a made-of-trees coffin
killed in action like a veteran husband, its flag
a pitiful consolation,
its flag a smug presupposition,
for some greater cause more important
apart from what you know to be the most important to you:
his voice, his smile.

To me, the world now held away, irreversibly,
that once was just (now “just”?) suspended,
when I thought then there could be no greater torture.

Life’s truest truth, it’s that truth itself
unravels in ways that reveal less not more sense or comfort.

Consolationless is the tarmac wind, the kickback of jet fuel fume,
the bulkhead of the coffin wherein only regret to be alive
alights in contrast.

It burns like eyes burned out by cinders,
a hot poker waved amidst laughter.

It burns, a torch’s temporary pathway
improvised within black trees, blue trees.

It burns like a novena unerring,
pure prayer within the black trees of longing.

It burns, the ultimate act of atonement,
the cremation of what I tried to save.

It burns in order to drown, ash in saline,
May fly rose petals of burial at sea.

Black Milk (Sheep Meadow Press, 2005)

Her name evokes deeply spiritual images. Entering her space is like coming home. To oneself. The profundity of her words invites you to stop and reflect. Meet Ashe.Selah…

Who said starting over was easy? Certainly not Ashe.Selah! She’s a wife, mama, poet, aspiring author, survivor, Woman beginning again…without rewind. Her blog reflects all of her hats….not always pretty, but always on purpose.

The Other Side of In

inside,
looking outside in
i slither up
to the fragile glass of my past
without it even knowing
encroach upon its broken borders
in the still of the morning
scraping up the courage to strike
the last of the hairline
fractures of Freedom
leading to the other side
of In.

outside,
looking inside out
i know you can see me
hear my gut-wrenching cries
feel my desperation
urging you to realize
we’re much closer than you know
and when we deal fear its final blow
the other side of In
lies just beyond the window of opportunity
called Now.

copyright (c) 2008. Ashe.Selah

Today, I remember another rain-shrouded afternoon,
when fat drops fell like Humpty Dumpty
from the zinc roof,
splattering and splintering
into a myriad, glassy pieces
against the unyielding concrete.
My bare feet would itch to feel its cool wetness,
even as my stomach protested, like the distant thunder,
its wait for the hearty chicken-foot soup,
its comforting scent wafting temptingly from the warm kitchen,
where my mother toiled lovingly over the stove,
to tickle and tease my nostrils.
The soup would chase away the chill
from the dampened edges of my soul.

Now, years later, a strange, cold wetness has seeped inside.
I long for my mother’s soup to save my soul.

© Jamaican Dawta 2008

Posted in Poetry Tagged: family, reminiscences ]]> http://jamaicandawta.wordpress.com/2008/10/04/610/feed/ 4 Jamaican Dawta 58251986pbasedsc_00161 http://jamaicandawta.wordpress.com/2008/09/15/writers-block-gwyneth-barber-wood/ http://jamaicandawta.wordpress.com/2008/09/15/writers-block-gwyneth-barber-wood/#comments Mon, 15 Sep 2008 10:00:57 +0000 Jamaican Dawta http://jamaicandawta.wordpress.com/?p=318 ]]>

I first became enamoured with the late Gwyneth Barber Wood’s poetry, when I stumbled across them in The Jamaica Observer, Arts Section, where they used to appear regularly. An encounter with even one piece is enough to understand why she has been described as “a quiet but distinctive new voice in Jamaican and Caribbean poetry, with a gift for vividly detailed yet compressed narratives that say as much as short stories many times their length, of telling detail and striking metaphor.” (http://www.peepaltreepress.com/author_display.asp?au_id=137)

That voice, though temporarily silenced by death in 2006, still echoes in her works today, such as these:

Crescent Moon

Through dawn’s grey curtain a mint-green coat
disappears; a door is shut; a bus lurches toward
a narrow road, the light dwindling like a cat
closing in the dark. A sea rises in my throat.

I remember a tree’s hollowed-out torso standing
like a totem in the middle of a field. Each day
the birds would sit in the naked branches, some listening
at the heartless cavern, or fly off in search

of food for their young, or twigs and straw;
perhaps, just knowing they could return-
not like their human counterpart, stitched in
some narrow line, afraid of venturing out, of dearth.

Is there a colder wind than the one that rattles
the rusting hinges of autumn’s door, while Orion
dreams of spring? Each season brings its salt,
even as a tree’s dry stump makes a resting-place for birds.

Now, we double back and forth along a path
oblivious to the snap of twigs under hurrying feet,
a road weeping in a mountain’s war-torn earth,
or simply the joy of a flat line, a skipping stone.

As if learning nothing from the past (yet always
trailing its thin, pitying light over our heads,
behind our backs, the crescent moon), we carry on.

Vincent # 2

Unafraid of ghosts, you’ve worn times scales
like slaves their callused soles, while mine
latched in the rhyme of measured tiers
weep soundlessly between the lines.

Looking back, I see you, patient as need
in pride’s bald face, your sorrow resounding
like the flightless picking at pulp-less seed,
a season’s burden seeping on sacred ground.

At night, the shutters closing on some rural lore
where spirits drag their chains, the terra cotta bowl
I found among the webbed silks of a miser’s store,
holds back her ash, all that remains.

And still the sun due east, even as Anancy’s wry
laughter catches like hair in bramble, the lump
in grief’s throat hardens, like the candle’s eyeless
tears, or as a forest’s blackened stumps

drizzles ash on blind tomorrow. You never knew,
Vincent, like you I married the sun and since rise as
he rises. Here at my screen, the solitary knocking at dew,
I rewrite the chordless lines until the chorus rises.

© All Copyright, Gwyneth Barber Wood.

Love after Love

The time will come
when, with elation
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror
and each will smile at the other’s welcome,

and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.

© Derek Walcott

How come I’m never

the girl in the ring, Mummy?

Them call me monkey.

© Jamaican Dawta 2008