Get to Know Our New Artist-in-Residence
Her creative work includes her recently published poetry collection The Mother Island which won 2nd place in the 2021 FCLE competition. The collection deals with matters of identity, motherhood and womanhood in the Caribbean.
Fe A-we
after by Kamau Brathwaite
So what if we queers die?
Ritual
And I am here
in commune with the seas
my curios stem from cashee,
breadfruit and jackfish, a feast
Interview with a Chichiman
I am the sea unending, rhythmic, fearless…
The Arrival of Birds
Amazona guildingii shrieks for you,
and your half-written sinuous chapters,
they are to remain unfinished.
This is one tragedy of the Caribbean queer.
Blackout
When the lights go off, and on, off- again-on-again, and finally out, tea light candles glow in every bedroom, two in every washroom.
Two haikus about the darkened sky and after
darkness at midday
the volcano next door flew
Connected to the Earth
You come to Sell
Your craft everyday
Tourist come to buy
Glass, plastic, shell.
Milk in Bush Tea
By sunup, Soufrière have the country inside out. Bryna cyar recognize he farm; the North Pole like it move to Orange Hill, bringing heat instead ah cold.
Seasons
Marcel opened her eyes slowly. She blinked rapidly, inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly. She was alive. She was honestly surprised to be awake, yet again.
Heavy
It was then that I really saw the exodus. I remember the mattresses- some folded to accommodate another- others splayed on the sides of trucks and vans. I remember the strained faces of a people who were trying to get to a destination some of which were unknown.
Strayed Child of Hairouna
You used to tell people about the volcano in your island with a kind of pride, the life source of the island-- a natural phenomenon that humbles even the most arrogant. Is it still active? People would usually ask. Could blow at any time you respond.
Snow on Banana Leaves
Petra had lived long enough to witness this once before. The monstrous anger of Soufriere in 1979. The pelted stones and the wrathful skies of obsidian.
To the men in my area
I’m tired of writing about this
I’m tired of writing this
I’m tired of being handed material
In The Bowels of Her Memory
Maybe this is the time to come clean. This is the salvation, the sign she had been beseeching the universe for the last four years. Or maybe this is a trap. To admit the abuse, would be to admit her weakness.
Hookin’ Me
Imagine being 13 still just a little sprat
But the men you grow up ‘round
Can’t seem to see that
Your uniform ready for school
Calypso Tingz
Imagine being 13 still just a little sprat
But the men you grow up ‘round
Can’t seem to see that
Your uniform ready for school
THE WHITE ROOM
Everything was completely white. I was the only object of colour but for once that excited me. I shut the door behind me and began to look around. There really wasn’t much to see, two white leather couches, white Persian rug, white statue of some naked man. It was boring, but new all the same.