Transcription
Caribbean Poems
Table of Contents1.Death of a comrade (1950s) . 12.I clench my fist (1953) . 23.Do not stare at me . 34.The child ran into the sea. 45.Limbo . 56.Montage . 77.Granny . 78.Examination centre . 89.Time . 910.Island memory . 1011.Talk . 1112.Coffee break . 1213.Cane Gang. 1314.Pearl . 1415.Pineapple. 1516.The knot garden . 1717.The yard man: An election poem . 1918.What we carried that carried us . 2019.Fool-fool Rose is leaving labor-in-vain Savannah . 2120.Praise to the mother of Jamaican art . 2221.This zinc roof . 2322.For the girl who died by dancing . 2423.Book of Genesis . 2524.The warner-woman . 2625.The carpenter’s complaint (C.X.C recommended poem) . 2726.Let this be your praise . 2827.Just like that . 2928.Recompense . 3129.Her majesty's seal . 3230.Church Matters . 3331.Mama’s handbag. 3432.Sonny’s lettah (1980) . 35i
33.If I waz a tap natch poet. 3834.To the labour party . 4135.Dutty Tough . 4236.Noh Lickle Twang . 4337.New Scholar . 4538.Harlem shadows (1922) . 4639.The Castaways. 4640.Adolescence. 4741.Last lines. 4842.Yarn Spinner . 4943.Cat-rap . 5044.For forest . 5145.I like to stay up . 5246.The edge of night . 5347.The Bone-trip . 5348.Iguana . 5449.Oregon Elegy . 5550.Last night. 5751.Black Power April, 1970. 5853.Anger bakes . 5954.The felling of a tree . 6055.Love After Love . 6156.The fist. 6157.Cut language! . 6258.Confessions of a son . 6359.To Gran. And no farewell . 6460.Punctuation marks . 6561.Fishing . 6662.The Earth is Our Friend . 6763.Poetry Caan Nyam . 6964.Wine Pon Paper . 7165.Toussaint L’Ouverture acknowledges Wordsworth’s sonnet . 73“To Toussaint L’Ouverture”(2006) . 7366.Foremother II: Mary Seacole . 74ii
67.Dis poem . 7568.Sistas Poem. 7769.Wailin. 7970.For a defeated boxer . 8171.On knowing someone: The epistemology of destructiveness . 8272.A Woman in Istanbul tells my fortune . 8373.Pierre . 8474.Fire . 86References . 87iii
1.Death of a comrade (1950s)Death must not find us thinking that we dieToo soon, too soonOur banner draped for you.I would preferthe banner in the wind.Not bound so tightlyin a scarlet foldnot sodden soddenwith your people's tearsbut flashing on the polewe bear aloftdown and beyond this dark, dark lane of rags.Dear Comrade,if it must beyou speak no more with menor smile no more with menor march no more with methen let me takea patience and a calmfor even now the greener leaf explodessun brighten stoneand all the river burns.Now, from the mourning vanguard moving ondear Comrade I salute you and I sayDeath will not find us thinking that we die.by Martin Carter1
2.I clench my fist (1953)You come in warships terrible with deathI know your hands are red with Korean bloodI know your finger trembles on a triggerAnd yet I curse you – Stranger khaki clad.British soldier, man in khakicareful how you walkMy dead ancestor Accabrehis groaning in his graveAt night he wakes and watcheswith fire in his eyesBecause you march upon his breastand stamp upon his heart.Although you come in thousands from the seaAlthough you walk like locusts in the streetAlthough you point your gun straight at my heartI clench my fist above my head; I sing my song of Freedom!by Martin Carter2
3.Do not stare at meDo not stare at me from your window, ladydo not stare and wonder where I came fromBorn in this city was I, lady,hearing the beetles at six o'clockand the noisy cocks in the morningwhen your hands rumple the bed sheetand night is locked up the wardrobe.My hands are full of lineslike your breast with veins, lady So do not stare and wonder where I came from.My hands are full of lineslike your breast with veins, lady.and one must rear, while one must suckle life.Do not stare at me from your window, lady.Stare at the wagon of prisoners!Stare at the hearse passing by your gate!Stare at the slums in the south of the city!Stare hard and reason, lady, where I came fromand where I go.My hand is full of lineslike your breast with veins, lady,and one must rear, while one must suckle life.by Martin Carter3
4.The child ran into the seaThe child ran into the seabut ran back from the waves, becausethe child did not know the seaon the horizon, is not the same searavishing the shore.What every child wants is alwaysin the distance; like the seaon the horizon. While, on the shorenearby, at the feet of every childshallow water, eating the edgesof islands and continen
lament the encasing of her man, the jutting-bellied cracker, and smile . . . Not too old to count their grave falling like notches of God’s blessing, to say; “Shit, I outlived you, I outlived you.” Not too old to still my tongue, to hum a blue gospel, while my soul wails that old cry of motherlessness. Not too old
