Three Poems

admndaretwrtStories About Change

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i have never had a seat at the table heard him saying

i would like to express my deepest regrets for these injuries
of the past the pain of which is now given new life by the discriminations
still too present in our societies. congo. captured in 1885 part of the claim game
unprecedented brutality shamed later into passing his personal property to country

i have never had a seat at the table though
i wintered in st lucia once warmd in a wooden house
by a startled creek thick spread of vanilla and chicken coops
you could catch a bus into castries three times a week

sip fresh guava juice in an upstairs bar eyeing the carpenter
coughing tree limbs into dainty chairs the miracle of creation then
plantain and sweet potato from the market just beyond derek walcott square

deepest regrets for these injuries taken for granted taken in their stride

now i own the man’s chair my very own accoutrement for any table can’t be
elbowed out no more no more! but usually i position on my terrace drop into
daydream picking out mysterious lines of tyre prints in the sand recalling
the tremulous brand new baby turtles tottering blindly to the lull and swish
of caribbean sea their birthplace anchor home at midnight when the beach grew still
the water’s lap a lullaby oh what’s the point in fleeing in fighting the turning tide

there is so much to feast upon pickings on a bone
in conjured brave and buckled company, me in me rocking
chair, watching the tides of time, the northern lights, the something
from nowhere even if that something reeks of death decades and folly

let me mull it over rocking all alone let me repast



from the heights of lofty silences the night’s last secrets are unfolded beneath the thin grin of the moon

i will not swoon for the dawn for this stained day to dress me as i proceed to the


whose grim necks will be wrung before i am taken to sleep again my sisters tend fires stir


nod unknowing of the torture in me of the flame that burnt my heart and left me


tasted by an unnamed man maybe more than one they will think whose


takes me to the brink of motherhood i can hear my grandmother’s


see her sly smile disapproving my unravelling all this while my breasts are vaulted now my


has a gleam already i feel this new one flutter like butterfly inside i feel the tiny


stroking the oven it is in touching me with the gratitude of being on her way to


perhaps your tongue is velvety tongue when anointed with your name you say


fota karera banga nkondo gishora mbuye karera fota

now day is come I thread past banana and eucalyptus nonchalantly

having said goodbye to no-one having understood in the heat of the


it is to myself that I



Content warning: physical violence

Louie Sam 24 Feb 1884 RIP

had been a good morning clouds which had earlier been whales
dissolved into cotton balls flecks of forgetting for some reason he
remembered his first kiss lips like maple syrup and was he going to
forget that taste painted on his skin cushioned in his mouth. mabel, he
was a tree she was a moose,moose. moose. moose,wanted more of that

he whistled some tune his grandma had taught him with her bony hands
and tooth all gone before she fled a candle snuffed out all the heat from
his life pulled like a rag rug. a green day.emerald. he would bide in the
forest fill his head with bird song perhaps the goose would come rustling
the leaves and bursting his day with song. nothing could go wrong after
the maple syrup of mabel’s lips. mmmmmmm. memory dripped, drips.

he did not make it on to a postcard. voice.torches. yelling. dogs.they
grabbed him. kicked. elbowed. tried to say hey what’s going on, i have
done nothing wrong.dark. black. red. eyes. the dragging. forest floor.
kicking. nose blossom of blood.why the forest now in the dark? they
were chanting words. more of ancient call. to hatred. his heart was
kiltering faster and faster. right in the forest where they had maple
kissed, the mob hissed. His hands were tied. limbs grew weak. a million
thoughts pinging his brain like hailstones. dropping. noose. no moose.
mo, noose. no rhyme. no time. no more kiss. bliss. crowd hiss. rope.
tree. pull. pull. pull. wet patch. neck. grandmaaaaaaaaa. whistle.



Artist of Afrikan origin, she sees creativity as a sacred river. Sometimes she will dip and scoop water for herself. Other times, the watering will be a vast collective adventure, refreshing other thirsty souls. Poetry, plays, dance – they all flow into one, like a batik print. A river.

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