There was once
a young boy
who often stood
as far out to sea
as the island’s jetty
would permit

some fifty yards away
from his home shore
where the sea bottom
could still be seen
through clear water
on a day when no tourist boat
or man-o-war had muddied the calm tide
bringing slanted smiles and crooked eyes
pleasure seekers and promises
no better than a pretty fish hook

There was once
a young boy
who often looked
far out to sea knowing
that the island’s geography
was a fraud

since its discovery
departing boats
except by force of a squall
would not go over
the horizon wall
but take a passage out of sight
behind the island facing
away from the government
school books seeking a route
to a more desirable disembarkation

There was once
a young boy
who learnt to see
around corners and sing
the moments muzzled
by the road-march ramajay

As with all comings
many would have claimed
to have seen the signs time
was already ticking
blood
was already boiling



messages had passed between
labourers and factory workers
potent songs were sung
by barefoot travellers and proud women serving at high tables

The circus clock
was standing still
and going nowhere when Marcus Garvey
stood on Basseterre Bay Road
not far from the old slave
market in Pall Mall Square



His voice took the sea
breeze inland
where volcanic rock resides

He stood to speak
of citizens
He stood to speak
of hope

He stood to speak
of self-confidence
He stood to speak
of free will

He stood to speak
of duty and responsibility
He stood to speak
of self-expression and liberty he spoke
of the ungodliness
that is inequality


here I stand
he said
because of my purpose he spoke
of the devil
that is illiteracy



determined to leave
a mark more permanent
than the smell of fried fish he spoke
of the hell
that is misery



the Mutual Improvement Society
Hall was packed
with the capacity for greatness he spoke
of the prison
that is poverty


Nineteen thirty-seven
was a good year for cane fires
and better was supposed to come

Sharp machetes
had already
cleared a path from Jamaica to Ethiopia
to the Cape and Cairo
across Harlem to raise
a flicker on Kilimanjaro



Among the gathered
where injustice had been
a constant visitor
and torn-up caps no shield
from torture
the black-star flag fluttered

But when Marcus Garvey stood
on Basseterre Bay Road he knew
there was much more
work to do



Threadbare after years of treachery
his words still rattled the circus clock
echoing across the slave market tombs
holding the blood-stained auction block

Like the sea breeze
that is always sure to become a hurricane
the weary rocked
on the wing of Marcus Garvey’s refrain

fix-up you’self
fix-up you’self
fix-up you’self

for Stuart Hall


It is too late to wave
time has taken its pound
of flesh and the cushion
for soft landing

Cardboard box
belongings held high
above the ticking miles
the mean seams
and the hip
hop strut have left
a noisiness
dripping over
grey indifference

It is too late to wave
smoke signals hold
no memory of streets
paved with gold

He takes a bow
and leaves a hurricane
he leaves a smiling
fist shaking
scattered baggage
into shape
it is a new day now
for night dreams
of stepping razor cool

Post cards come
from post codes
where flash mobs squat
naked in broken banks
where everything is for sale
in photo-shop this wave
deferred is a parting salute
to what cannot be
but must exist

for Courtney Pine


Head held high above
this pirate’s throne
this barren river
of glass beads
and broken mirrors here lies the clay pot handed
down after a storm

Old litanies expire
to inspire the incendiary
melodies of an Atlantic
sea turtle

No regrets
home is heaven
carried with ease
and grace to anchor always
near the confluence of rivers
and trade winds

Feet firmly flat across
this no-man’s land
the acrobat
with lockjaw and club foot
is surfing in the twilight without passport or apology
in spiral flight

The skylark rides
the waves as always
resisting the force
feeding

The empire
in-breeding and the vulgar
‘Lawd what a Saturday
night’ feeling to reside above
the borders the boundaries
and the ball and chain

Breath bold folding over
the carpet goat-skin
the rocking chair of sorrel
petals shaped for comfort
in the dry season here songs are sealed to furnish
every room

The other stories
must be told

Always once upon
a time a journey

To where the urge
within must feed

And memory is made
from a web of razor grass

When speaking in whispers
or whistling the mystery of salt

And in corridors where
snow-filled tears have sat
entombed in paraffin fumes

There is always in the ebb
and flow

There is always a slant
a style a swing

Time tall eternal outstretched
the impossible is conquered
calling healing
calling healing
in the eye of the creator here the welcome
mat in place
takes a chorus
to the bridge

for Martin Carter


His suit is cut
with immaculate style
elegance is stitched in
to the seams.
The khaki is like his face
durable and not what it seems

so the greetings come
with songs of hope
with choruses sealed
in firm handshakes
that slap and caress
like the inherited
land of rivers and rock.

And so to sleep
is to dream of builders
more skilful
than a hurricane tail wind.

And so to sleep
is to dream of Kaieteur’s
grandeur as a measure
for the soul’s aspirant flight.