February Revolution

On the Blue Verandah

2010-03-18T08:36:00.001Z

On the verandah, after darkness,
on this raw, wanting island,
she wipes her sweating brow
with the back of her hand.

Too beautiful to look at,
in the sleeping moonlight,
she settles into a crevice of shadows
and looks out over the enormous sea.

Shadows and mystery cloak
her green eyes, the scent of magnolias
mingled with fried fish
disturbs the air.

She closes her eyes and opens
her mouth and croons
soft as sugar-candy
a smooth deep indigo voice.

Like saltwater kisses, the sound
bleeds from her veins,
slipping under cracks
of others doors on the island.

She pushes on through
with the melody of blue.
Blood runs in rivers over paths.
People die and souls fly up to heaven.

A veil of melancholy drapes
her black frame. Notes flutter like birds
from her mouth. She is beautiful.
She is blue.

The Daughter

2010-02-24T11:10:00.000Z

With the sun high in the sky, I watch her from the shade.
She works in the field, with the other hands, back grooved, muscles taut.

Difficult to make her out from the sea of coarse colourless materials
and the rags covering their sooty woolly heads.

She stands for breath. Her darting almond eyes scan the horizon
almost like a filly planning flight.

Collecting beads of sweat from her forehead with the back of a calloused hand,
her fingers graze high cheekbones and a strong neck.

Regal. Her molasses complexion is the gift of my loins.
The mark of her mama can be traced in the curve of her breasts,

and the outline of her childbearing again and again hips.
She’s a beauty. I will have her once more.

I'm Back

2010-01-31T11:08:00.003Z

Yes. I went out yesterday morning, early, in the deep snow, I may add. I went down the to local cafe on the beach, got a decaf coffee and wrote. I wrote two new poems for the collection. Of course they need redrafting etc. but it was good, it was real, it got me back into the saddle. I need to keep up the momentum. But it was good to get over the first hurdle.
Maybe it was the reading I've set up at the new Newcastle Central Library that gave me the incentive to put pen to paper. In honour of International Women's Day, there will be a reading at the library on Wednesday 10 March, 6.30 start. And a whole bunch of women will be reading: Maggie Tate, Shirley-Anne Emmerson, Sue Spencer, Degna Stone and Catherine Graham. It should be a good night. Hopefully I'll have more recent additions to read on the night.

Finding it Difficult

2010-01-24T11:48:00.002Z

I'm finding it difficult to get back into the writing of this collection. I think the fact that I've lost the publisher has something to do with it. I have no motivation now to complete. I've got a few readings lined p over the next few months when I'll be reading from this collection. But as the majority of the poems are new and been heard before I don't have to create any new poems for the readings. I've got nothing to move me forward except my own sense of achievement. And that can wane especially if I;m low on energy.
Next month will mark the 40th anniversary of the start of the revolution. The publishing of this collection in 2010 would have been ideal to mark this anniversary. As it stands I'll be lucky if I complete this collection to mark the end of the revolution in April, never mind seeing it published in 2010. I should try to get together batches of six poems to send out to magazines and webzines, but again I haven't got the motivation.
I need help. Help.

Fish Market, Orange Valley

2010-01-10T18:30:00.001Z

Changing from one moment to the next
-the skins of red fish had too many colours to choose.
Early morning, arrived, they’d be
thrashing in pod nests, their eyes
fixed marbles where the sea once rode.

The men, in net vests and shorts,
stroked the fish with cool practiced passion.
And before each gleaming body,
they’d be on their knees claiming
their riches from the seas.

In wanting-light, small boats moored,
fish, men and sea would retreat
into the arms of women.

Bad News

2010-01-03T17:15:00.002Z

I recently found out that the publisher who I had lined up for 'Feb Rev' is no longer able to fulfil their publishing agreement. Here I was thinking that I haven't really been affected by the recession but I think I spoke too soon. So at the moment, I'm still attemtping to complete this collection. On completion, I will have two collections awaiting a publisher. It's not a healthy position to be in. But I've got to think that these things happen for a reason. Something better is going to come along. I have to think this way otherwise I would just give up now.

Taking some fighting spirit from the 'Feb Rev' collection, here is a recent poem.

Bringing in the Cocoa Crop

It clings to my hips and belly
like cream on the top of milk.
It stops just before my knees, forming
a tantalising fluted halo around my legs.
In the sun, it appears to be orange
as the minute threads of silk
are illuminated. But to me it is always ruby;
ruby like the skin of a pomerac.

Other women look at me like I’m crazy.
Some laugh behind their hands.
Others, mouths open wide,
full belly laugh, echoing. I may be tired
to my bones like an old woman.
I may have carried my sea-sick soul
to this estate every day for the past
twenty years.

But nothing can take away my pleasure
of freedom as I bring in the crop
wearing my best ruby dress.

Been Away

2009-11-03T10:03:00.002Z

I went to Barcelona for a few days last week. It was good to get away and clear the head. I'm moving forward slowly on this collection but I am moving forward and that's the main thing. I should stop thinking of all the outside pressures with regards to this collection and just concentrate on the writing as that's the most important part, right?
So no more agonising about the funding, the deadlines, not even thinking about quality. Let's focus a bit on quantity.

Pantoum - Independence 1962

2009-10-17T08:57:00.000+01:00

Fulfilling the dreams of our ancestors,
part of a crowd 40, 000 strong,
the Union Jack is lowered tonight
to the sound of 'The Last Post'.

Part of a crowd 40,000 strong,
the nation is on the march,
to the sound of the last hope
the red, white and black flag is hoisted.

The nation is on the march.
There is no turning back.
The red, white and black flag is hoisted.
We carry the future in our schoolbags

There is no turning back,
the Union Jack is lowered tonight.
We carry the future in our schoolbags
fulfilling the dreams of our ancestors.

Still Writing

2009-09-08T21:01:00.003+01:00

Back from time away working on the PhD but I made sure that I had my writing out time this weekend as it's important to at least carve out a little time in my week where I can get on with the writing of this collection. I know a selection of these poems will get an airing this month at the Arc in Stockton on Tees. Apples and Snakes are hosting a night of spoken word and I'm one of the performers, along with Lemn Sissey and Andy Willoughby and Bob Beagrie. It should be a good night. And an excellent opportunity to try out some new work and see how it sounds. This collection is as much about the words on the page as the sounds on the ear.

Duennes

2009-08-25T18:53:00.002+01:00

They say you are mischievous;
just being a child,
who died before being baptised.

They say you have no face
just a black moon head
and a small round mouth.

They say your feet are turned
backwards, forever looking
back to what could have been.

At dusk’s slow dimmer switch,
they say never shout a child’s name
in the street or yard or square

as you steal the name. You
sing a haunting lullaby
for the child to follow.

They say with the child you play
leading them astray into the forest,
a silent witness, as he is lost.

They say you are doomed to roam,
an empty shadow, whimpering.
Looking for the love of your mother.

Structure

2009-08-25T18:50:00.001+01:00

I've been working on Feb Rev every Saturday morning, trying to continue my 'writing out' habit. I've managed to create some new poems and at the same time had some space to think about the structure of the whole book. One of the main reasons why I'm writing this collection is because it is a hidden history. There is an entire generation or two, born before or since 1970, who know little or nothing about the events that took place under the banner of the Black Power Revolution 1970. This is referring to Trinidadians. This history has not registered in British history or common knowledge. So I am writing this to share my creative understanding of what and why those things happened. So it is not forgotten.

Bearing this aim in mind therefore, I've been thinking about a structure based around the dates of the revolution. The official dates are 26 Feb to 21 April 1970, when the government implemented a state of emergency. 55 days of action; speeches, marches, violence and killings.

But this revolution did not appear out of thin air but had been brewing in the preceding years, decades maybe even centuries. And the flames continued to burn after the 21st April deadline when there was the army mutiny etc. But using the factual dates of the events could be a good way of framing the poems and keeping the collection moving along, using the few historical documents available for this time.

A poem for a day, a day for a poem. We'll see.

Figurehead

2009-07-07T22:44:00.002+01:00

You were a handsome piece of timber, solid,

with an upright posture,

come from stubborn roots.

when an unknown hand swept

the riches into its moist palm

and disappeared from view,

you, close grained, smooth as butter,

kept your nose forward,

to smell hope in the distance.

Under an idle gaze, fingered by strangers,

you reminded men of their mothers,

sisters and wives.

You were like a splinter

lodging deep into the vein.

Space

2009-07-07T22:41:00.002+01:00

I'm in a good space at the moment. I can see a way ahead for creating new pieces and I'm going to take it. I've got that bubbling feeling in the pit of my stomach and it's excitement. The summer is coming along with space and time and freedom. And I'm looking forward to it. I took myself off again on Saturday. I didn't manage to take stock but I did create a new piece. I'll redraft it here.

Taking Stock

2009-07-02T23:18:00.004+01:00

I'm at that point now when I need to pull everything I've written together and take stock. See what I've got , how it holds together, if at all, and where I need to go.
I've had a meet with the publisher and things are still going to happen. So I'm aiming to get the writing completed by January 2010. Six months to go so I don't feel the need to rush things really.
But I like that feeling, that viewing, when you see the poems you've created laid out and you can see things taking shape. It's a very satisfying feeling.

I've entered a 'good feeling' writing period after booking myself onto a series of writing workshops on the coast. The activities of using the sea as a background and actually having to go out and write has worked wonders. I've produced five new good solid poems that I've been working up to just send out. So I feel that I've got a good solid base to work from in terms of taking stock.

The poem below has already been published and should be coming out in Poui - The Literary Magazine from The University of West Indies this summer.

Laventille Love Song
After Langston Hughes

If I could take the Laventille night
and wrap it around you,
take the electric cables,
take the chanting, screams, gun shots
and tone their harshness all the way down.

Then I would take Laventille’s heartbeat,
make a steelpan whine,
put it on a record and let it spin
and while we listen to it play,
dance with you till the break of day.

Static Rain

2009-06-20T23:03:00.000+01:00

Rain waits inside us for a door to open.
Rain is heavy as full-moon lips carrying midnight.
Rain is an utterance made of broken pebbles.
Rain is that village girl who was
molested by an uncle on her way home
from school, crossing the lone cocoa hills
of Maraval for a shortcut.
A variety of life and lies, looking for she,
a mahogany tipped breast catching honey
smeared raindrops. Static.
It was April, a time of blossom and damp stars.
She dripped in and out of memory for fifty years.
Rain steals everything but our secrets.

Trees and All: Poem III

2009-05-25T17:01:00.002+01:00

Twisting up Saddle Road,
past tiny shacks in the valley,
flame tree crowns silhouette
against the huge hanging moon.

Fern flat leaves feather
rattling seed pods like
women’s tongues gossiping
on the winds of change.

Lava blossoms erupts, cascading
down onto Port of Spain;
rubies sparkling on a black
cloth in a hurricane.

Trees and All: Poem II

2009-05-25T17:00:00.000+01:00

In the grounds of the University,
the great old samaan tree
shelters rumours of resistance
under the hush of its umbrella canopy.

Skimming the clouds from the heavens,
stretching just as wide, its nectar,
sickly sweet, attracts
the hummingbird and parasites.

Pod, pulp, flower, root; a liquid
moon over the dripline of branches
throwing growing shadows as
leaflets close together in prayer

Trees and All: Poem I

2009-05-08T21:11:00.001+01:00

In front of Queen’s Royal College,
under the jaundice sun of dry
season, the poui trees
shade along the Savannah.

Standing tall their silvery-
green, palm-like leaves, wave
farewell on a familiar wind,
to make room for sharp

trumpet clusters of yellow
flowers. Short-lived, everything
draws back as the promise we
never return to, stains the earth.

Process/Progress

2009-05-01T16:08:00.002+01:00

I'm letting myself be. I'm taking it easy. I'm not forcing through the poems. I don't even have a deadline from the publishers. So why put the pressure on myself?

I'm slowly coming out of a blocked period. And I'm not forcing the issue. I think
the first step is admitting that I've been blocked. After that you just need to give yourself time and of course space to write/ read/copy. I'm immersing myself in the moment. Enjoying the orangy purple sky or the decorative cup. What will be, will be. Patience. It will come.

Matura Beach

2009-04-26T17:42:00.001+01:00

Most of them remain buried.
Many of them will never hatch.
Some divide, concealed,
in a private cocoon for days,
months - and after all her efforts; front
flippers flapping, scraping away,
sand, spray, creating a hole, laying
her eggs, then pushing back, push
back, the grains of sand to leave
a little lumpy hill – the leatherback
turtle lumbers away to whoosh
into the obsidian sea.
And many of them struggle out,
little legs making little progress
across the sand to the sea. But when
they go - they go, leaving nothing
behind but silver threads of love.

THE PROBLEM WITH GOVERNMENT

2009-04-03T23:15:00.005+01:00

Summer and the third day
he put down his bucket
in the land if his birth and
rechristened the park
The University of Woodford Square.
Morning, and he had parked
at the concrete tables to give
another lecture to a growing
audience. He had reached
the history of the Caribbean.
He fed them visions of the
promised land within
our own lifetimes, watching
revolution ran through
their veins.
He created their own party,
People's National Movement
taking T&T to independence.
He controlled of the state so
they had the whole world on their hands.
I am for Black Power, he said.
No, they were Black Power,
he was simply I and I
Power.

OUTSIDER

2009-04-03T22:46:00.002+01:00

The boy is tired.
After the walk along the mountains
through the swamp and motorway.
He is the youngest and
his hands are clasped by
his parents, knocking off their
skinny legs, shuffling forward
with pride buried deep within
their spines.

Staring at white stripes
on the black tarmac receding,
into pot holes. Walking under
silk cotton trees,
on white needles
and spongy ground,ears open
to the shouts for what's right
and the smell of fear outside.

His legs give way half-way there,
on the walk from the Shanty Town
to the port. Before them are
the three stripes of sky, sea and ebony.

ORIGINS

2009-04-03T22:34:00.002+01:00

- The land of my birth is not part of my life.
Her husband is silent for a moment and then continues.
- This country is not my country. It's worthless.
And she says:
- If it's worthless, why do you get so worked up about it?

And her husband sucks air through his teeth
lies down on their straw bed.
She feels the up and down of his chest.
The faster than normal beating of his heart.

WRITING

2009-04-03T22:29:00.002+01:00

I've been wanting to write something here, anything. But I'll admit it- I'm blocked.
In the USA it's National Poetry Month. I'm picking up the challenge of a poem a day. I know I'm coming late to the party but I could use that as an excuse and not do anything. No not me. I'm up for the challenge.

LET THE NIGGERS BURN!

2009-03-23T19:57:00.000Z

After the book by Dennis Forsythe,
concerning the Sir George William University Affair

Only those with a white
card can access the centre,
utilizing tomorrow's technology today.

Let a black hand try
the same, we're told, a platoon
of police will aim and fire,

aim and fire. We stage a sit in.
The University is deaf to our cries,
let them note us now.

Think of it: centuries of thinkers
erecting a monstrous fence between
a race of people and their birthright.

We make a stand; it's labelled a riot.
We're arrested for arson.
From the cherry ashes, we rise.

WHY TRINIDAD? WHY THIS HISTORY?

2009-03-20T15:43:00.005Z

During my activities today, especially running along the beach this morning, I asked these questions of myself: Why Trinidad? Why this history?

I know I've got a connection to Trinidad through my dad. So my head was always going to turn there at one time or another. I've also had the experience of the place and it stays with you.

I see this project as a means for me to try to get to know the place and people more, through their history. I've always been interested in that hidden history; history that is not easily found or is actively forgotten.

I have an infinity with the sea. I traveled across the Atlantic Ocean to get to Tobago and then the Caribbean Sea to get to Trinidad. The waterways were beneath me and I was returning 'home'.

These islands are surrounded by water and the population look out to the sea as they look for their escape. These people came to these islands mostly through slavery, so does this looking outwards come from that heritage?

More questions. I'm not sure if I'm looking for answers if not just exploring what is or what was?

'On the back of a pretty mas truck,
look we have come so far.

On the back of a pretty mas truck,
you can be who you are.'

BLACK POWER

2009-03-15T15:13:00.001Z

The Black Power Revolution also known as the 1970 Revolution, Black Power Uprising and also by some as the February Revolution was an attempt by a number of social elements, peoples and interest groups, with a lot of varied interests to make plain the issues which the leaders and planners of the day failed to address and redress.

Between 1968 and 1970 the movement gained strength in Trinidad and Tobago. The National Joint Action Committee was formed out of the Guild of Undergraduates at the St. Augustine Campus of the University of West Indies. Under the leadership of Geddes Granger (now Makandal Daaga), NJAC and the Black Power movement appeared as a serious challenge to Prime Minster Eric Williams' authority.

This was coupled with a growing militancy by the Trade Union movement, led by George Weekes of the Oilfields Workers' Trade Union, Clive Nunez of the Transport and Industrial Workers Union and Basdeo Panday, then a young trade union lawyer and activist. The Black Power Revolution began with a 1970 Carnival band named Pinetoppers whose presentation entitled The Truth about Africa included portrayals of "revolutionary heroes" including Fidel Castro, Stokely Carmichael and Malcolm X.

This was followed by a series of marches and protests. Williams countered with a broadcast entitled I am for Black Power. He introduced a 5% levy to fund unemployment reduction and later established the first locally-owned commercial bank. However, this intervention had little impact on the protests.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Black_Power_Revolution

FEB REV

2009-03-14T10:29:00.000Z

Welcome to my new blog.

Last year I created Every Day Creativity, which can be seen at www.everydaycreativity.blogspot.com, where I undertook the task to post a piece of art every day for a year. It was an amazing achievement.
Since the New Year, I have missed the time and space which that blog gave me. I've hardly been creative this year.

This blog aims to change that.

Sometime in 2008, I started writing about The Black Power February Revolution in Trinidad, 1970. I found out about this event by chance while researching my PhD. Since then, it's something that's stayed with me. I've even had the opportunity to do some primary research in Port of Spain, Trinidad, when I was on residency there in 2008.

Once I had a number of poems created, I sent a few out to publishers. Red Squirrel Press, www.redsquirrelpress.com, have agreed to publish the full collection in 2009.
Of course I have to finish it first.

For one reason or another, I haven't touched the collection in months. This blog is my notebook as I attempt to get back into the writing, the living and breathing of this collection.