Signifyin' Guyana

From my wretched stance

I've learned a few things over the years....

--Love, outside of some blood relationships, is ALWAYS conditional.

--People CAN change.

--Age doesn't make you wiser; it makes you harder--harder to please mostly.

--It's okay to not live out some dreams (they were crazy anyway).

--When a man calls a woman "bitch" (outside of a hot, sexual situation), he's actually acknowledging that she is superior to him.

And with some rue, I accept...

--that I can no longer see the fine print without the aid of glasses.

--"M'am" and say goodbye to "Miss."

--the miracles of good make-up and skincare products.

--the closer relationship I must have with my doctor.

--that my legs can wrap fuh bout suh long, otherwise my hips and lower back will hurt for the ENTIRE next day.

Enjoy your weekend!

I'm old and wretched. I should write.

Old men should write, not the young in their prime:

their past’s too shallow to enfranchise them.

Just so they write of lasting things, not whine

about love’s fleeting, red-rose-bordered hem.

Poets have sung of love since Homer’s time

and women have been pleased to find their name

immortalised in some fond poet’s rhyme.

But old men should write poetry that strikes like truth,

splitting the heart in two, searing the page,

leaving an ache worse than a raging tooth.

Let them write verse that thunders, lines that rage

at having served the sentences of innocent youth

only to be set free by crooked age,

learning, too late, life’s great Untruth.

 

In the first two lines (now overly replicated on this blog), the speaker presents a seemingly decisive statement about age (though not a precise number or range) and its particular relevance to writing.  The “young in their prime” may suggest a young person with a certain attitude—confident, assertive—or it may suggest an age range which extends to “middle-age” (considered prime by many).  The speaker, a person past that “prime” young stage, assumes a knowing stance and scoffs at both the attitude and age of the young writer telling him his past (experience) isn’t substantial enough to empower him to write.

 

In lines three and four, the speaker continues to lay out exactly what qualifies the old to write: it is that they can write of lasting things, not fleeting ones.  But the “Just so” at the beginning of line three may well be a warning even to the old writer that he should write of his (lasting) experiences, and not succumb to the temptation to write of fleeting things, such as the “red-rose-bordered hem.”  The suggestion and the sentiment there in that image is that though the young may see the quick end of passion as something to whine about, there is more to tell.  And the old writer must remember that only he can tell it and he should.

 

In lines five, six, and seven the speaker, in a dismissive tone, traces a history of love poetry back to the Greco-Roman era when women were pleased to find their names immortalized in rhyme.  This rather shallow, traditional end of love poetry (the speaker seems to suggest) is just the thing a young writer (or a careless old writer) may seek to emulate.  So in lines 8 through 14 the speaker pronounces the type of writing that should preempt that tradition.  The type of poetry old men should write must strike (like truth), split, sear, and rage, but not at love.  The preemptive poet must strike, split, sear, and rage at having been freed from the punishment of innocence (youth), and for having attained knowledge (at the crookedness of age) of life’s greatest lesson.

 

It appears the enfranchisement for the old writer lies in his ability (capability) to write about experiences which have brought him to passionate anger, and to the realization (too late) of a great untruth.

 

The poem’s moral statement then may be that old men should write because they can possibly rid (preempt) the tradition of love poetry of its whininess, and its fond tributes to women, and provide instead a truth about life that is forceful, honest, and one they paid a dear price to earn.  This wretched condition, the speaker seems to suggest, must be worth the privilege of authorship.  That may be all he is left with to console himself.

 

Like the message, the speaker’s language is mostly unambiguous.  The images and references are knowable, clear.  The “poetic” construction is in the end rhymes—prime-whine-time, them-hem, truth-tooth-youth, page-rage-age—which provide some movement from the poem’s otherwise pragmatic prose.  And, the only possible obscurity is in the poem’s last phrase “life’s great Untruth,” which this reader is proud to say she finds obscure because she is not yet at that wretched stage of ultimate knowledge.  Amen.

 

 

Get your own copy...

For its provocative and clear moral statement, I choose "Old Men Should Write" as the best in Gilkes’s collection, titled Joanstown and Other Poems.

 

If you’d like to read more of Gilkes's poetry, be the first to add your thoughtful comment on the poem, and I’ll send you a copy of the collection.

 

 

Read more about Michael Gilkes here.

I-poem (I for Internet)

I-write.  I-blog.  I-facebook.  I-tweet. 

I-read.  I-comment.  I-follow.  I-friend.

I-laugh (lol...hahahahaha).  I-cry (Oh my god!).  I-sympathize (aaaww).

I-link.  I-attend.  I-share.  I-sell.  I-support.  I-join.

I-brawn.  I-brawl.  I-cuss.  I-voice.  I-compete.

I-love.  I-hate.  I-sex.  I-high.  I-low.

I-unlink.  I-unfollow.  I-enemy.  I-delete.

I-write.  I-blog.  I-facebook.  I-tweet.

And that's why we'll never meet.

Granta (online): Marlon James, "Growing up with the King of Pop"

Nineteen eighty-three. Thirteen years old. I was at an all-boys high school, one year into my reputation as one of the class ‘faggots’. More here.

Lines of love, loss, and a beloved country (from Michael Gilkes's Joanstown and Other Poems)

I'm paying close attention to one of the poems in Gilkes's collection for a third (and final) post on his work, but before I lay into him while I work on that I thought I'd give you a sampling of the best of his work in the collection. 

The bracketed words in italics are some silly comments of mine. 

Never mind me. 

Enjoy the poetry!

 

From the "Prologue"
Noon on the barbeque of this beach. Sun striking
the dimpled gong of the sea. My daughter, diving.
Adjusting the aperture of my fish-eye lens I watch her
surfacing, dolphin-head pouring with hair, wearing
a clownish dolphin-smile, fins propelling her in
a dolphin-swim, backwards, yelling "Watch me, Dad!
I'll do a back-flip."
[flashback: Dolphin Government School. Zoom to close-up
The school bell. Focus on one small boy
reading.  Background of boys, bookbags, bicycles.
Narrator: "Books were rivers he could slip into
and breathe...

[Sweet, despite the heavy, contrived feel of the Dolphin imagery]

From "Rainforest Guide"
Walk softly.
Keep your voice down.
Listen to the forest's voice.
Try not to think of ways
you could develop this place.

From "Son of Guyana" (for Henry Muttoo)
Doan' tell me 'bout Guyana.
I barn deh in t'irty-t'ree.
Meh great-granfadduh was a black man,
granmuddah was a Puttagee.
One a meh granfadduh was a coolie-man,
ah draw Buck, white an' Chinee.
Dey call it 'the land of six peoples'
but is seven, unless you doan count me.

[Let's see now, black, puttagee, coolie, buck, white, chinee...now mix them all together and what you get? A Brazilian, of course!]

From "Carpe Diem"
When I was young (as old men say) and bold,
I laughed aloud when older heads cried "carpe
diem: seize the day!" The days were mine to hold.
Now, scarred by the beak of Time, that harpy,
I find each day's a load that I must bear
alone...

From "Love's Reign"
....
You see that old couple in the kitchen?
They're still in love, watching the kettle boil
together, their passion steady as that hissing
steam...

[So it might seem, but what if one of them was planning a cold-blooded attack on the other with the steaming hot water????]

Young men with old souls

Old men should write, not the young in their prime:

their past's too shallow to enfranchise them.

_______________

In response to the above lines from Michael Gilkes's "Old Men Should Write" (posted here), Andre (Intellectual Elite) asks, "what about young men with old souls?"

I don't know how Gilkes would answer that one...anybody wanna give it a try?

My best shot at answering Andre's question would be that although I happen to know a young man or two who'd definitely qualify (in my book) as sharp "old souls" with great stories, wit, and lots of insight to share, I find his (their) frequent disdain for history (not their lack of a deep and lengthy past) somewhat disheartening. 

But, I'm also maddened by the sentiment I see in the lines.  The bottom line suggestion that old age entitles enfranchisement (especially that it should entitle privileges in the literary arena) is one I completely abhor. 

[More on Gilkes later]

To the beach and back

So there I was soaking and cleaning up on the beach, when the news hit me late that Michael Jackson died.  I rushed back to the room and tried unsuccessfully to get my Disney-junkie son to let me see some of the news about the death and whatever else I could find.  I had to settle for bits and pieces of information here and there during his bathroom breaks.  Very frustrating, but I wasn't really up for a TV war with the spawn of my flesh on MY precious beach rum-drinking time.

As it turned out, when the little junkie wasn't hogging the TV and making me drink, he was competing hard in all the games they had for kids on the resort.  So out he came to play in the scavenger hunt that night as I nursed my pain at Michael Jackson's passing over a few drinks. 

Game was exciting.  Lots of competitors. But soon all the little hopefuls had been dismissed and gone crying to their mommies, and it was down to my determined six-year-old junkie and another slightly older kid.  The task was to find a picture of Michael Jackson.  My boy took off from the starting spot in a blaze to make even Usain Bolt sit up straight.  He whizzed right up to our table and paused for a moment to whisper "Who's Michael Jackson?"  

I swear it was the best loss I ever had the pleasure of witnessing...EVER!

I say all that to say, I'm back.

Off to participate in the post-Calabash cleanup

Too bad I wasn't there to partake in some of this one-loving-peace that was Calabash in Jamaica recently.  But better late than never.  I going fuh de clean-up.

And while I cleaning up good and proper, those of you who wish you could be there with me can invest in these two books by Marlon James, and Geoffrey Philp (Philp's book is "temporarily out of stock" at Amazon Prime, but you can place a special order--does that come with an autograph?--here at Books & Books).  I plan on reading James's book on the flights to and back (cause I won't have any time for reading down there.  Ah hear the tourism clean-up crew is the hardest working crew of all in Jamaica...so ah hear it, so ah tell it).  See yuh when I get back.

__________________

And....

I'm currently working on a post on Michael Gilkes's Joanstown and Other Poems.  I promise that too when I get back.  Meanwhile, here are two lines from "Old Men Should Write" that I find hmmm-worthy:

 

 

Old men should write, not the young in their prime:

their past's too shallow to enfranchise them.

Oh those darn US reports again!

What's a little country like Guyana to do, eh?

Once again the US Department of State has placed Guyana on a Tier 2 watch list for trafficking in persons (TIP).  According to the report, the trafficking victims are 1. Amerindian teenagers, targeted by traffickers because of poor education and job prospects in their home regions 2. Indo-Guyanese and (Afro!)-Guyanese girls, trafficked for commercial sex and labor 3. Guyanese men (Indo, Afro, or what?), trafficked transnationally for forced labor in construction and other sectors in Trinidad and Tobago and Barbados.

It appears as if the main reason why Guyana was again placed on this watch list is in this summary of Guyana's lack of progress in handling the trafficking situation:

The Government of Guyana does not fully comply with the minimum standards for the elimination of trafficking; however, it is making significant efforts to do so.  Despite these overall efforts, the government did not show evidence of progress in prosecuting and punishing acts of trafficking . . . the government has not yet convicted and punished any trafficking offenders under its 2005 anti-trafficking law.

And then there's the recommendation that Guyana...

vigorously investigate and prosecute trafficking offenses, and seek convictions; proactively identify trafficking victims among vulnerable populations such as women and children in prostitution; protect trafficking victims throughout the process of criminal investigations and prosecutions; assign more judges and court personnel to handle trafficking cases in the country's interior regions; and expand anti-trafficking training for police and magistrates.

Human Services Minister Priya Manickchand correctly responded: "WHAT DE ASS!!!?"  (Same as her response last year, I might add).

Announcing the results of Signifyinguyana's first annual writing competition

Judges' statement:

After reading all the entries and considering them carefully, the judges have decided not to award first-, second-, and third-place prizes. Instead, four promising writers will each receive a prize of [US$150] in recognition of their effort and raw talent. The judges encourage them--and all the other entrants--to continue developing their writing skills and refining their talent, and hope these writers will soon benefit from attending writing workshops in Guyana.

The four stories chosen are the following:

1.  "Marva," by Kwesi Isles, for its concise yet revealing look at a couple in bed.

Excerpt:

“Unh, mmmm…is marnin yet?’ The form rolls over and executes a full-length stretch and a wide yawn.
“No, I can’t sleep.”
“So wuh yuh waan’ me do ‘bout dat?”
The slim form shifts and the shadows oblige. He has narrow features and a prominent nose, Birdlike. His chest is flat, arms frail-looking. The sheet covers from midriff, leaving the rest to be imagined in the candle glow.
He says not a word. Nothing needs to be said. This is their ritual; she, feigning reluctance, and he, too proud to beg. The seconds drag on.

2.  "I Hear Them Coming," by Silver Dragon, for showing skill at creating suspense and for credibly exploring an area of psychological darkness.

Excerpt:

They are coming.  Their presence can be felt all around the area.  They approach with what they believe is stealth, but I can hear them clearly.  This day was bound to come.  My cover is finally blown.  I know that it is just a matter of time before my head is also blown. My bullet ridden body, blood and brains will be photographed and the gruesome pictures of my remains will most likely be plastered on the front page of that tactless newspaper.

3.  "Car to Berbice," by Keisha McCammon, for its wry, engaging account of using public transportation in Guyana.

Excerpt:

It was minutes after five and she stepped off the pave into the chaos of touts and bus drivers pressing people to go into their buses. She heard a woman scream “ow yall left me alone.”  Three of the drivers were grabbing at her bags and pulling at her hands. “Thank God” that’s not me she said to herself.  One driver was telling the woman “I just want one more mums” while another shouted “he lying he bus empty, is sheer touts in his bus, ‘Explosion’ leaving now.” The poor woman looked like she was about to collapse; she was being crushed in the middle of all of them.

4.  "Carmichael Street," by Peter Sam, for its captivating narrator who tells a hair-raising tale about attempting to rescue two women in danger.

Excerpt:

She looked like a skeleton in dancing tights. She had breasts too, though they looked more like boils left over from some strange fever. Her eyes were bloodshot and she had a mellow voice. She looked no more than twenty five years of age. I heard a baby crying and then I saw her kids; the little boy about three, round and well fed and the girl about two just as healthy looking. She went inside picked her baby up and came out side, three months old the most and from the colour of the clothing I assumed the child to be a girl.
   The baby had on pink clothing.  She held the child in her arms and rocked and sang something, then she called out "junior go bring baby bottle” the little boy ran inside and brought out a feeding bottle with milk, yes milk, which she placed at the baby's mouth and started to feed it. They say it’s not good to judge people or a person but I was surprised to see milk, I mean she was living in an abandoned house with no electricity. Some might say "so what” but this is Guyana.

_________________
  

Summarizing the experience...

The entire process of organizing and completing this competition has been an exhilarating one for me.  I received 18 entries in all, and unfortunately had to disqualify five of them whose authors live outside of Guyana (maybe some other time folks).  I kept the focus on people living and desiring to write in Guyana and I'm glad I did.  The 13 stories I passed on to be judged were rich tales about life in Guyana, and I enjoyed reading them all just for that.

I am forever indebted to Nicholas Laughlin, Geoffrey Philp (judges and supporters of this competition in many other ways), Ruel Johnson, Georgia Popplewell, John Rickford, Baiganchoka, all those who helped to spread the word about the competition, and my wonderful supportive family. 

The four writers chosen will benefit from a workshop set up specifically to help them polish their work for submission to journals and/or elsewhere.  And I join the judges in hoping that all the entrants are encouraged by this first step in their writing careers, and that they continue to hone their craft.  This writing competition is an annual one, and I look forward to opening it up again next year to Guyanese writers. 

[Please note: The excerpts used in this post are the property of the writers named and should not be reused in any form by anyone else without the consent of the writers.]