First, an appreciation for the person who so aptly described Fawzia Kane's collection of poems in Tantie Diablesse as "Precise and sensual." I couldn't agree more. There is, for instance, definite precision in the way she can capture and draw out a brief moment, or collapse a longer period of time with seeming effortlessness. And perhaps the best illustrations of that precision in manipulating time are in the following two poems, both of which work with precise sensory images to pull the reader into heartbreaking places that may be all too familiar. An additional reason for pairing the two poems here is the intriguing use and images of flowers in both. In "How to Breathe" one can feel the building intensity of an extended breathless moment, which ends on a point of revelation: "and you notice that / your flowers have no scent." And in "Exotica" the speaker notes the changing dimensions of a flower, which correlate with the passing of time and a certain sentiment.
"How to Breathe"
Let's pretend that you saw him,
once, say sitting in a café
some bright day in autumn.
There is no wind. It is just before
three in the afternoon,
your arms are filled with flowers
for tonight, and there ahead
through just-cleaned glass,
he sits, he does not look up,
does not see you. And then
pretend there's a woman
sitting across the table
from him. She leans forward,
her hair is long and straight,
like yours, it catches the sunlight,
and lingers on his neck, his shoulder.
They do not smile. Their hands
are on the table with fingers
touching at the tips,
and you notice that
your flowers have no scent.
"Exotica"
once happen a time
there was a man who find a flower
right there near his feet
it look dark, delicate
but when he touch the petals
they give out a perfume so sweet
so strong, it wrap him
and he tell himself: now I
is a real man
so he take the flower,
and pin it on his chest
for all to see, and people say
how beautiful, how strange
and he heart start to grow
strong strong around it
but the years pass, the petals dip
the scent fade, and he start to wear
a mask painted with a kinda
tired-ness, with edges worn
down with touches of shame
he feel people keep watch
on him and his wilting flower
so he try to smother it
push it away
until one day, it drift down
all by itself
and whether it live
or die, or somebody else find it
and end up with a punctured heart
well, that another story
The collection's title poems (14 in all) give us the voice of the mythical tantie diablesse. In the myth, she is a woman who is secretive (she hides her face under a hat) and deadly (a man-killer), but here she shares her secrets with us, and invites us in to see her as a "real" woman, vulnerable, resourceful, rebellious, and wise. "Come closer," she says, "see how despair sews bells to my hat. / My kind knows death's long punch line / and it is hilarious." Her invitation is seductive, but one should always beware of her "raised finger."
"Tantie Diablesse was in love, once"
He would make me call him massa,
sometimes in private, always in public.
At the end of his day's journey, I would
soothe his feet with copper water.
Once, in the dark, he confessed to me
that he too came from dirt and hunger.
I remained silent, remembering the warmth
of my mother's skin, milk-washed
and smooth. When he slept, I raised a finger,
slowly traced a line across his throat.
"Tantie Diablesse counsels"
So the quicksand of lost hope has sucked you
in. Your faith has hung its deadpan mask far
out of reach.
Why turn to me/ You called me
Old Fool once, and so I am. Come closer,
see how despair sews bells to my hat.
My kind knows death's long punch line
and it is hilarious.
Step nearer still. Let me wheel
dance your life to shreds, for this is the answer:
play the game, child.
Take these stones and throw them.
"Tantie Diablesse Plays Trinité Mas"
We born grabbin' life and savourin' it
and we born beaten, ready to die
and we give you j'ouvert mud, mixed with
bat wings, and fancy sailors
who spill your wine, when they dance
in front of well-oiled jab-jabs
we come from hell!
we know you well!
so pay de Devil!
pay him
on silent Wednesday, when we switch
from pan worship, and you others
make us kneel, here, on this stone, to wait
for ash to fall on our foreheads
sans humanité
_____________
Tantie Diablesse is Fawzia Kane's first book of poems, and it was recently honored by being longlisted for the 2012 Bocas Lit Prize. If you would like to read more of the collection, be the first to say so in the comments below, or by email: signifyinguyana[at]gmail.com, and I'll send you a free copy.
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