Two poems

By Anthony Joseph

.

Blues for Cousin Alvin

Many yards had frizzle neck fowl
an sheep white as country cotton.
Baby geese in wire pens
on one side of the road. Bungalows.

My Humber cycle was parked one side,
and on the other side/a forest grew,
of giant hog plum trees an papaya fields
all between the bungalows.

Hillside of Malick village,
……..and I am leaning
on a pillar post spitting
……..……..banana seeds
when cousin Alvin came dancing up from the bottom of the bush
to say some thief took from bike to spoke,
……..……..toute bagai! from chain and wheel.

….So a run down in de neighbour yard
….an a grab dey three canal cutlass.
….Was go a was goin down de gulley
……..……..in dey mudda ass!

….Till Alvin say
……..…………“Better jus
……..…………lower dat blade oui
Cause dem boys don’t play
……..down in the bungalows.”

….O he lived in the holy mud
….where my real folk blues was.
….O he lived in a plywood house
….with paraffin angles and sea cockroach
runnin bout

….And as we stand there on the jungle wall
…………….We see a ship pull the horizon
…………….——— shut ———

Bosch’s Vision

. . . and I look in the rearview and see a man
exactly like me, and the man was weeping
for the houses, the streets, that whole fucking island.

— Derek Walcott, “The Schooner Flight

It started as I was leaving
……..with a dim groan in the afternoon.
I saw my grandmother
……..embrace me
……..……..in her hand stitched dress
……..and wrench my soulcage open.

I saw vistas of apocalyptic Europe;
……..heard obscure tongues.
……..……..Till sudden now the sky become
……..peppered with woe.
Slack eyed soldiers were howling
……..……..in the wind.
Botched leper experiments
and gene mutations
with veins hung
……..……..like vervain from the neck.

The sun long gone and weeping.

……..……..The oil.

……..The Devil.

……..……..No doubt it was.
……..The Devil.

……..……..Who chased colour from the earth.
……..……..……..Who left sulphur where he spoke
……..……..……..like a jitney carburettor.
……..……..……..No doubt it was.
……..……..……..The Devil.
……..……..Twisted muscle of night.
……..……..……..Who crackt
……..……..……..the sky glass lid.

……..Maman.
Tell me again why I should leave this island.
Tell me again that those cities exist.
……..……..……..All I know of the ocean
……..……..……..is that a river
……..……..……..starts here.

The day I left Mt Lambert
……..……..the wardrobe doors would gleam.
……..It was a day like any other.
……..……..Woodslaves ran and woodslaves waited.
……..……..Lovers lay against the samaan trees.
……..……..Cattle grazed and bachacs burned
……..……..in matchbox discotheques.
……..And the sandbox tree released its fruit.

……..……..But we were going to the airport
……..and my brother in the backseat
……..……..is him I ask: is me
……..……..this happening to?

•••

The Caribbean Review of Books, August 2008

Anthony Joseph, born in Trinidad and now living in the United Kingdom, is a poet and musician. His books include The African Origins of UFOs (2006) and the forthcoming Bird Head Son.