The Signifyin' Woman (Charmaine Valere)

Repetition and warning: Balwant Bhagwandin's I Hear Guyana Cry

             

...the angels turn away

shamed by sight

of a people who would

make martyr of murderer

and common criminals

liberators

and declare the drug dealer absolved

by the 4Runners and foot-runners he owns

and the money he has to burn

celebrate the success of crime

the triumph of lies and liars

the downfall of honest endeavors

and men as moronic

for being sincere

and determine how full of fun

their day of demonstration is

by how many

muggings and maulings are executed

and women are molested downtown

and the number of workplaces shut down

and stores pillaged

and burnt down by fires lit

by a madman with a vision one-tracked

to the throne

who mock the messages

of Mahatma and Mandela

murder the messengers

of reconciliation

and giggle and jump-up

happy as a herd of swine

wallowing in its own excrement

as the tempo

of the drums of war grow

towards frenzy

and whisper

as if prayer:

Harken ye the words

of your children:

Walter, the most brilliant and humble,

betrayed and blown to bits

for his caution:

together cling

all you wretched and abused

with hands and hearts entwined and grounded

that they not be made to bear guns

to make this a no-man’s land!

Recall the laments

of your son Martin

and his disillusion and pain:

‘So jail me quickly, clang the illiterate door

if freedom writes no happier alphabet.’

and his admonition

like that of Donne

timeless and good for all men:

‘…all are involved!

all are consumed!’

and give heed

though late

so late

lest this your ‘nation’

self-styled and so-called

though sundered

and already splintered like wood for fire

indeed becomes the fuel

for a terminal conflagration

of its children’s creation!

Since I have already blogged on three pieces in Balwant Bhagwandin’s i hear guyana cry, to avoid infringing on copyright laws (any further) I’ll focus on one other poem (above) of the remaining 18.  The poem is titled “The angels warn,” and is a good representation of the messages and style of the pieces in the collection.

Bhagwandin dedicates the collection to the following people, some of whom you may know:

Dedicated to Yohance Douglas and others…

Haroon Rasheid, invalid senior citizen, robbed and set afire by the barbarians (and subsequently died) even as he kept wake for his wife slaughtered by another kind of animal…Yohance Douglas, teenaged University student and the scores of defenseless others brutalized and butchered by savages from both sides of the law…Keisha, baby of five months arm broken and beaten into insensibility for her baby’s jewelry in the heart of the capital city in the middle of the day…and all the victims of the carnage that is visited upon Guyana… 

The list of tragedies gets more horrifying as the dedication piece heads downward, and sets the tone for what is to come.

Drama and repetition

The poem begins dramatically with a two-line stanza: …the angels turn away / shamed by sight.  Drama is created by the use of ellipses at the beginning which suggest that some prior action took place that possibly warranted spiritual intervention, and was so horrible, the angels turned away.  The dramatic effect is further heightened by the isolation of the two lines.  The reader has to pause and wait to find out what caused the angels to turn away in shame.

What follows is a series of alliterative, rhyme-lulling accusations: of a people who would / make martyr of murderer / and common criminals / liberators / and declare the drug dealer absolved / by the 4Runners and foot-runners he owns / and the money he has to burn / celebrate the success of crime / the triumph of lies and liars / the downfall of honest endeavors / and men as moronic / for being sincere / and determine how full of fun / their day of demonstration is / by how many / muggings and maulings are executed / and women are molested downtown / and the number of workplaces shut down / who mock the messages / of Mahatma and Mandela / murder the messengers / of reconciliation ....

If read aloud, the alliterations could lull a reader into a certain complacency by the rhythmic sound of their repetition.  For another reader though, the repeated sounds may jar and in that case work well to intensify the seriousness of the speaker’s accusations.

Awakening moment 

The speaker probably anticipates the reader who may be lulled by the repetition, and gives a jolting pause at the beginning of the third stanza with the line “who mock the messages.”  The line jolts if one has to stop and ask “who mocks the messages?” (as I did).  I had to revisit the top of the poem to be reminded of the “people” being addressed by the speaker. 

And something curious happened when I revisited.  I suddenly felt as though (because I wasn’t paying attention) I were as guilty as the people being accused of irresponsible, destructive behavior in the poem.  Whether or not Bhagwandin meant it to be, that was the awakening moment in the poem for me.

Warning revealed

In stanzas five and six the angels’ warning is revealed: Harken ye the words / of your children: / Walter [Rodney], the most brilliant and humble, / betrayed and blown to bits / for his caution: / …. Recall the laments of your son Martin [Carter] / and his disillusion and pain: / ‘So jail me quickly, clang the illiterate door / if freedom writes no happier alphabet.’/ and his admonition / like that of Donne / timeless and good for all men: / ‘…all are involved! / all are consumed!’/ ....

The alliterative rhythm is less noticeable in stanza five and is absent from stanza six (the final stanza) until the similar ending, multi-syllabic “conflagration” and “creation” in the last two lines.  The use of the words “conflagration” and “creation” may lull in a way that is different from the lulling created by the poem’s previous alliterative rhyming.  The words cloak more blatant synonyms like fire and doing and could potentially soften the message.  Imagine the impact of lines like this instead:  indeed become the fuel / for a terminal fire (or hell) / of its children’s doing!  (Not necessarily poetic, but you get the point).

He’s talking to you

The call to remember Walter Rodney and the laments of Martin Carter may suggest a specific addressee for the poem.  It may be a sentimental call for those who were present and were stirred to either political or artistic revolutionary action at a certain time in Guyana.  Many of those people now live outside of Guyana, and have probably long given up on the promises of those days.

Signifyin’ conclusions:

The poem’s speaker brings a message from heavenly sources for people who once cared.  His message seeks to awaken those lulled either into complacency or compliance with the ongoing violence and destruction in Guyana.  He warns of a generation that will inherit the destruction and be doomed to the ultimate destruction of it all.  He calls attention to history.  Though on one hand, the poem’s constant repetition—style and theme—may work against its possible intent to be a wake-up call, on the other hand the repetition and the journalistic approach also work to give truth to the accusations and the condition he chronicles.   

The speaker—as in all the pieces in the collection—is a person who was there...someone who bore witness...someone whose account of the situation we can trust.  He’s a believable chronicler of events, not just another bringer of woe.

These days, a warning from the angels may be received with skepticism.  And the fact that the angels speak in subdued tones at times, use cloaked language (as I pointed out), and bring messages from the graves of poets and great thinkers, may be cause for sentimental reflection, rather than revolutionary action.  Is this a message to be heeded?  Will the audience / addressees respond?  To be fair, in other pieces in the collection (some of the pieces I've blogged on), the language is uncloaked and the call to action is clear.

“The angels warn” and the other pieces in i hear guyana cry warn of the ultimate, irreparable devastation of a place (the poems are dated 1998 to 2003) that once was paradise.  That warning is still appropriate today.  The recent history-making violence in Lusignan makes the warning prophetic and urgent. 

I recommend that you read the collection so you too can bear witness, and more importantly be stirred to some action. 

The collection speaks to us—to you and me.

[ i hear guyana cry (2003) is Bhagwandin’s second collection of poetry; his first was Wild Flowers (2001).  Read a review of that collection by Marilyn Stephanie Browne here.  Both books are available for purchase here.]

                                                 

                                                                                        

Who to cuss?

 

E-mail I received from my college's bookstore manager in response to my order for a certain book written by a Guyanese--a book I planned on using this semester.

The bookstore manager wrote:

I received an order acknowledgment from the vendor. They rejected my order for the copies. I called them to find out why and was told that the title was a printing of Macmillan Publishing's, but was not a part of the American publishing listing. It is only available from the Macmillan Publishers in the Caribbean Islands, and they are not a usable vendor for us.

Please advise.

It's not too late for me to substitute the book with another, but it's a pain in ass considering I'd already planned my course's theme with said book in mind.  So my questions: Who de ass is responsible for this?  Who do I call, write, cuss so that this doesn't happen again?  Why de eff would Macmillan Publishers not make the book available to America bulk buyers?  And why--given the technology available today--would an American college deem a Caribbean publisher an unusable vendor?

I am just truly freaking pissed off right now!

My advice to Guyanese writers who would like to make their work available to American readers:  Please be careful about publishing decisions.  Yeah I know, getting published is tough enough, but there is always the option of self-publishing.  And even if you choose to self-publish, make sure your work is available online or some place where we can frikking get it.  

[On a less angry note, my review of Balwant Bhagwandin's i hear guyana cry is next.]

South Carolina for Obama?

[Back by popular demand: Election'08]

Taken from MSNBC's First Read:

Things to keep an eye on: As much as we'd like for race to not be a part of the picture, it is. In 2004, the makeup of the Democratic primary electorate in South Carolina was 51% white and 47% black. In that contest, Edwards won over 50% of the white vote and narrowly won the black vote over Kerry, 37%-34% with Sharpton getting 17%. Overall, Edwards beat Kerry, 45%-30%, followed by Sharpton at 10%. Turnout was just under 300,000 in 2004. Also of note, 24% of the 2004 Dem electorate was independent. What does that mean for today? Well, the most recent MSNBC/McClatchy/Mason-Dixon poll anticipates an electorate that's 55% African-American and 42% white. Obviously, the Obama campaign hopes the electorate today is closer to Mason-Dixon's survey than the 2004 exit poll. And that's basically THE number to watch for -- the black-white split. More importantly, what will the white number be for Obama? In the last poll we conducted, Obama received just 10% of the white vote; that was a 10-point drop from a week earlier. Also, watch how black women break. In the poll and on the ground, young, black women tend to support him, but not older ones necessarily.

Read more here.

Then, drop your comments, predictions below.

What kind of poetry works for you?

I have to confess.  I’m not really into poetry.  A man who reads me pretty, flowery, figurative language is more likely to get a blank stare of incomprehension, rather than a ready and willing bed mate—raw, direct talk does the trick every time.

For me, it’s the realism in the poems I’ve featured so far that makes them worthy of reading and re-reading.  I find them sexy too.  Agard’s humorous, rhythmic messages for children (and adults), Khan’s irresistible beckon to return to an (almost tearfully) idyllic place, Bhagwandin’s plaintive, angry verses, and Carter’s meditations on time and on aging represent the various stages / emotions of my reality (and yours too, I’m sure).  The poets’ words are real to me as a mother, a confined immigrant, and a woman of a certain age and disposition.

Visit here for two collections of Martin Carter’s poetry and prose, John Agard’s Laughter is an Egg, and Balwant Bhagwandin’s i hear guyana cry.

[My review of Balwant Bhagwandin’s i hear guyana cry is next.]

On the occasion of two birthdays

…I unapologetic, remember why every

day was once a new day.  As new

and as old as my childhood roaming

among grass.

(Taken from Martin Carter’s “As New and as Old, Part 1”)

BEING ALWAYS

Being, always to arrange

myself in the world, and the world

in myself, I try to do both.  How

both are done is difficult.  Why,

I have to ask, do I have to

arrange anything when every

thing is already arranged

by love’s and death’s inscrutable

laws, mortal judiciary, time’s

doll house of replaceable heads,

arms and legs?  In another

house, not time’s, time itself arranges

mine and the world’s replacement.

(Martin Carter, 1979)

Balwant Bhagwandin on the condition of Guyana (June, 2002)

[To commemorate (in my own way) the day we remember one of America's most celebrated civil rights leaders (Martin Luther King, Jr.) here's an abridged version of Guyanese poet, Balwant Bhagwandin's raw and stirring poem "i hear guyana cry!"]

i hear guyana cry!

i hear

not as the last time

when children cried

from the depths of bare bloated bellies

and their parents were put in jail

even killed

for seeking formula for the baby

and bread or roti for the family

because the megalomaniac

for our leader had decreed

from the presidential villa at Belfield

that babies could sprout

into nation-building scholars and stalwarts

on bush boiled in ground water

banded bellies

and sweet talk

of a cassava-and-milk Caanan

...

i hear

agony for the violation

of a pubertal daughter

after her earlobe or finger

was cheerfully chewed off

by a savage

for a trinket

and the bumptious silence of the woman

whose womb had issued

that repugnance

to live as blood-hungry predator

die as dog diseased and mad

...

i hear

pullulating anguish for lives

snipped at the short end

as by a seamstress’ scissors superfluous string

by barbarians with butchers for brethren

for a pocketful of coins

of rate enough

in the village cake-shop for a few pounds

of rice

and payment for service

of prostitutes, politicians and purveyors

of perfidy and filth;

whose killing fields spread

from boardrooms to banks and bordellos

from playgrounds schoolrooms

and the humble but hallowed homes

of common folks

into the sanctum sanctorum

of the House of God

...

i hear not

the greetings and kind words

of friend to friend

concern of neighbor for neighbor

brother for brother

i hear not

the music and merriment of celebrations

the drums of kaandel queh-queh and kangan

as if the cadence of death had preempted

the cycles of commencement and continuance

i hear not

sympathy and somberness at a funeral

solemnity in a cortege

comfort at a wake

i hear not

the squeals and yells

laughter of children at play and lighthearted

i hear not

of plans and visions

exhilaration for the dawn;

...

and those for whom is duty to hear

have chosen

not to listen

or deem what they hear delusion

and those that listen

ought not to hear

more of the despair

being birthed by this barbarism

for kolcha

whose fecundity would better

the best ameba

that feeds only to replicate itself

and overrun the ameba population

were not its obscene bittle of blood

subject to limitations

of quantity…

(June 2, 2002 11.22AM)

I've made it easier for you to do it while you're reading me

Despite my fiction-packed and poetry-laden list of books to be read and reviewed, fiction and poetry aren't my only interests.  The above book, Spoken Soul: The Story of Black English explores several aspects of colloquial language.  Colloquial language (spoken or written) is a subject very close to my heart.  I experiment with several "Englishes" here on this blog--academic English, informal English, American English, Guyanese English, colloquial English--and so I am particularly interested in what the authors have to say.

The authors of Spoken Soul are Guyanese John Russell Rickford, and his son Russell John Rickford (cute transposition, his dad must be into linguistics). 

The senior Rickford is a well-decorated Linguistics expert (ah yes!) at the renowned Stanford University.  Visit his website here for more on his life and works.  His son, Russell is distinguished in his own right: he is the author of the only full-length biography of Malcolm X's widow, Betty Shabazz.

I'll read and share excerpts from their book with you.

In addition to being a Guyanese scholar, Professor Rickford has been my invaluable source of additional information on some of his Guyanese contemporaries, many of whom are writers on my list.  Folks like John Agard, Brian Chan, Mark McWatt, and Mona Williams (new addition) are some of his former class and school mates.

Go ahead.  Do it right now.

Spoken Soul, Betty Shabazz, and most of the the books on my list (past and present) including seven new ones--University of Hunger: Collected Poems & Selected Prose by Martin Carter, Mona Williams' Bishops': My Turbulent Colonial Youth, Janice Lowe Swinburne's The last English Plantation, N.D. Williams' Julie Mango, David Dabydeen's The Intended, Counting House, and Slave Song--are now in an Amazon book store I built just for the interests covered on this blog. 

Click on the link below "My Amazon books" (sidebar, bottom left) and see all I have in store for you!

The books still listed left are two I'm currently reading (Suspended Sentences, and I hear Guyana Cry) and four others not available through Amazon.  Ariadne and Other Stories is only available in Guyana (thanks to rebellious, and wonderfully patriotic Ruel); Thief With Leaf, The Timehrian, and Cosmic Dance can be purchased through Peepal Tree Press.

Go ahead.  Visit the Amazon book store I built just for you.  Browse and shop to your heart's content!       

Do You Remember: Part III

Do you remember
Breakfast of fry fish an bake
Swimmin in de Hot an Cold lake
Gambling card an dominoes at every village wake
When yuh never buy Christmas tree but yuh used to make

Do you remember
When every church had a big wooden cross
Not a blade of grass
Drinkin daisy tea an sea moss
An when yuh mother pick black sage and buss yuh ass

Do you remember
Playin Phagwah
An lightin up diya
Catchin cockle and grasshoppa
Getting away an goin to cinema

Do you remember
When yuh kite always had razor blade on de tail
At GCE few people used to fail
Seein a lil labaria in de bush trail
When only in envelopes yuh used to get yuh mail

Do you remember
Cutting grass fuh de cow
An for 5 cents you an yuh brothers and sisters used to row
Crossin de river on Malali on de bow
Was piggy bank an not Nasdaq and Dow

Do you remember
Talkin nancy story
Wedding house beef curry an dhal puri
Bruce Lee in Fist of Fury
4 O'clock whistle of the sugar factory

Do you remember
When you used to throw box hand
Playin football on de beach sand
When locust did tek ova de whole land
You better realize that them days can't come back they done and gone.

Imran Khan (2000)

[Go here to find out more about Guyanese poets and their works.  Read lines from Martin Carter, Wordsworth McAndrew, and John Agard (among many), and get a sense of the rich tradition of Guyanese poetry.]

Note: After the next post, I'll return to poetry with a focus on Balwant Bhagwandin's I Hear Guyana Cry.

Do You Remember: Part II

Do you remember
Ridin go cart an wood scooter
Eatin other people's juta
Winin down to Roll Up De Tassa Bissesar
An goin up to Bartica fuh Regatta

Do you remember
Nyamin plantain chip wid hot hot sour
Green mango an salt an pepper
Walter Rodney an people's power
Lloyd an Kanhai beatin ball at Bourda

Do you remember
Cheddie in de opposition
Buyin Robin Hood flour when was contra-ban
Fat boy Comrade President LFS Burnham
Cassava bread, tamarind ball an guava jam

Do you remember
Emptin posey in latrine pit
School teacher givin you first round licks
Labourin over de pistle wid yuh martar stick
Plunging overboard in black water, doin back flick

Do you remember
The harbour bridge floatin down the Demerara
'Produce or perish' as part of our culture
Ploughin rice bed wid Massey Ferguson 290 tractor
Catchin lukanani, hoori an patwa

Do you remember
Burnham exercise book
Callin stupid people 'packoo' and 'mook'
You and yuh friends mekin bush cook
Spendin holidays in Bachelor's Adventure, Supenaam an Clonbrook

Do you remember
When Club Illusions used to carry the swing
Eatin Chiney fry rice by Wong Tang Ling
Big fat fat gold ring
Christmas day radio programme 'No Big Ting'

I know you remember all these things

Read a poem that struck home recently?

[While I'm on the subject of poetry, here's Part 1 of a nostalgia-inducing beauty by Guyanese poet Imran Khan.  The poem is titled, "Do You Remember?"  Enjoy!]

Do you remember
A thousand stingin mosquito bite
While coil smoke chokin yuh whole night
Not sleepin under jug lamp light
Early mornin fowl cock fight

Do you remember
Sweepin bottom house with pointer broom
Wedding day shoe hiding of the bridegroom
Nastyin yuh school clothes an thinking yuh life doom
Playin ketcha when is full moon

Do you remember
After school water fetchin
Saturday mornin donkey ridin
Backdam fish ketchin
Plant waterin of the kitchen garden

Do you remember
Yuh lip pasting after eatin pepperpot
Playin cricket on the beach with coconut branch bat
And the village elder feather in he felt hat
Do you remember all ah dat?

Do you remember
Big big neighba cuss out
And the short cut rout
Drinkin home made stout
Ol people telling yuh big people yuh must'n doubt

Do you remember
Drinkin mauby an cane juice
Goin school with yattin boots
Pullin cassava root by root
Three piece fish tail suit

Do you remember
Evening time road corner joke
Black black fire side smoke
Cook-up rice, roti an curry and garlic pork
Runnin home de rain mek 'yuh whole skin soak'

Do you remember
Waitin fuh owara fall
Phoulrie, black puddin, souse an egg ball
Do you remember it all?
Want tek a lime pun de seawall?

[Parts 2 and 3 to follow]