Poetry Anyone? #2

 Throwback to the 70's when I thought I might become a poet. (It didn't happen)

Old Colonial

I have no

rhythm.

Reggae I

cannot.

I learned to dance

with 

Wordsworth and

some daffodils.

I have no

drums.

I have no

songs.

Once I

jingled bells 

as I dashed through snow 

Yodeled with cowboys.

Crooned myself

into love

with Bing,

Sinatra ...... 

What a foolishness?

Poetry anyone?

I started writing in the 70s when all sorts of interesting changes were taking place in Jamaica – both good and bad. Writers were encouraged to use our 'nation language' as Kamau Brathwaite insisted on naming our patwa/patois. 

Experimentation was encouraged in politics and cultural activities. Infancy for dub poetry and other experimental aspects of the arts. Culture nights were enthusiastically arranged under the titles - Poetry, Drama, Music in the Service of the Revolution. Heady days indeed.

I had ambitions of becoming a poet. It didn’t happen.  I thought some of my attempts were lost until I found an old file with a few. I still can't find copies of the ones which won awards in the JCDC literary festivals of the day. Still looking for "God is" and "Plastic People."

Here is one of my early attempts: Alas the title should perhaps now be "In Jamaica" as we mourn the increased senseless killings.

IN THE GHETTO

Guns spit dead people

Spit blood.

Fire eats flesh

consumes bone.

The machete

cuts

life.

False words entice

hands

to make guns

spit blood,

to light

the consuming fires,

to wield the machete

to cut

life.

MY THREE MOMS

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MY THREE MOMS

Destiny is devastated when she reads these words in Carmen's letter.

"I know you have often wondered why we don’t look even the tiniest bit alike. That’s because you are not my natural child."

This is a bitter blow from the woman she has always adored and thought of as mother. Now she has to start the quest to find out who is her mother, along with the other traumatic things  going on in her life.

Review COMMENT : "I couldn't stop reading until the end and wanted more."

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Hazel Campbell's Short Stories - Peepal Tree

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Happy Teachers' Day - All

I wonder if teachers today still exert as much influence over the lives of their students as they did in my day?
 In my day, teachers were demi-gods. Very few of us would dare to defy a teacher, as any complaint from a teacher got severe repercussions from home. A teacher could shame a child into compliance by a word or two in the classroom.
  It is still true, of course, that teachers have their students welfare at heart, for a student who turns out well is a credit to him/herself and the school.
  Of course, there were awful teachers. They are people too. Like many of you, I met some bad ones as well as some outstanding ones. For most of my early school life I went to a sort of little private school (couldn't be called a prep). It was very small with only one teacher taking us through. Miss Shirley taught me for most of my early life. She made me believe that I could achieve things I never could have dreamed of. Knowing the limitations of my home, she prepared me to get a scholarship to Merl Grove High, which set the pattern for my later life.
  The first day, at registration at Merl Grove, Miss Miriam Speid, the very scary headmistress, told me, "You are born in July, you will have to work hard for everything you get in life" Subconsciously, this remained the mantra for my life. She also told me that as a scholarship child I would have to participate in everything the school did. All extracurricular activities - choir, drama, speech festivals, dance – I balked only at sports. I couldn't run to save my life and hated netball etc.
  But the emphasis on the arts was good for me. I loved school and all the things I got to do. In high school I met some of the teachers who would influence the way my life has gone. For one thing, the only career I saw for myself was teaching. And the exposure to creative activities pushed my own creativity. In the lower forms, as in many girls' schools, we developed 'crushes' on some of the teachers. Some didn't deserve our adoration as we found out when we grew more critical. Some did.
  The major influence on my desire to become a writer was Alma Mock Yen (nee Hylton).I had always loved reading, but she made reading more than merely pleasure. Her literature classes were inspiring. Somehow she made the words lift off the page and invade my soul.  She made Shakespeare come alive as if we were right there in the plays with his characters. Right there at my desk, I flitted about with Ariel and sang:

Where the bee sucks, there suck I:

In a cowslip’s bell I lie;

There I couch when owls do cry.

On the bat’s back I do fly

After summer merrily.   

Merrily, merrily shall I live now

Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.

 Even in the lower forms she forced us to be critical of what we read. We couldn't get away with merely saying the we 'liked' a piece of writing. We had to say why, out loud, in front of the class. This forced us to really think about what we were reading. These many years later, I still remember some of her classes. I recall how impressed I was when she insisted that we write simply – not using big words just for the sake of using them. The best writers who made themselves understood by all used simple language, impressively. She cited Winston Churchill (and told us to go read his speeches) who inspired a nation with words which everyone could understand and readily repeat.
  I was in pain when I went on to university and had to adopt jargon, pertinent to the subject area, and complicated (pompous) ways of expressing our thoughts in order to 'impress' the lecturers (or so we thought). (I wonder where a certain Bajan lecturer is now?)  It was joy when I could ditch all that and write in a more comfortable style.
 Today, I thank all the teachers I met. Those who had both negative and positive influences on my life. In my old age, I know that things go the way they were meant to. We are free to use our experiences as learning tools for later life. I can read and write and understand life, a little better, because of all my teachers.

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Reminder

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Just reminding y'all, that my ebook My Darling You is still available on amazon
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Here's an extract from my favourite story in the collection

Extract from Emancipation Park one of the stories in ebook  My Darling You

At five o’clock, Melissa hastened out of her office. She had one hour before her class started, enough time to pass by the park and catch a bus to the Evening Institute where she was a student.

She didn’t need to ask the location of the statues. There was already a small knot of people gazing up at the monument. Some were munching on snacks as if at a picnic and making jokes; but some just stood looking up at the huge figures as if they held some vital secret for mankind.

Melissa stood at the edge of the small crowd. The sight of the man’s very prominent genitals made her uncomfortable. She felt her face growing hot. She turned away and bumped into a photographer, camera pointed in her direction. She immediately panicked, blush disappearing and her face turning very pale. What would Mama say if they published a picture of her looking at the statues?

He seemed to understand her problem. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I didn’t take a picture of you.”

She nodded at him, not sure if she should thank him, and started to walk away.

“It’s all fiction, you know,” he said.

She paused to stare at him, not understanding what he was talking about.

     “The man. Nobody is that big. I mean, I know he is larger than life, but those genitals! Somebody’s wish list, perhaps.”