Amanda T. McIntyre

petite careme

In the Beginning

Then with their bodies still fixed against the universe of bed sheets, they considered the unknown worlds between them, with love like the moon rising in approximate alignment; gradually illuminating then eclipsing one to the other, in a revelation darker and more beautiful than the night sky.

ATM

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First Sunday

Then on the first Sunday, after the world was created, they rested in a loose embrace against crumpled sheets. In the gentle breezes, that lifted the white lace at the window, the coolness of the approaching rain came to their bodies; a whisper from the universe, confirming that lent was over.

 

Time Away

There was also the sound of the sea.  There was also the honesty of your gaze. There was also Time’s movement in light passing through an aperture to capture the transient moment in a static record; stronger than memory.

ATM

 

Prologue

The hills rose to a literary occasion and published the manuscript of the early months of the year when sporadic bush fires glowed in various spaces of the night before being put out of print with this edition of the Dry Season. A work that recorded, in fine lines on the delicate blossoms of Pouis trees, the prologue of my knowing you.

ATM

FOR RUIN

 

We were more than just friends. Our relationship was like a formidable army of only two people. Together we were a social movement. You and I were like two creatures awkwardly navigating the world having, without explanations or instructions, escaped a mythical space. Between us was a new language and an original culture. What existed in our ways of being together was religious. I understood with blind faith that when your heart beat, it was in my chest and your soul was my conscience.

You were more than my friend, you were my self. Therefore, by our separation, I feel my self removed from me. I am ruined.

I love you and I miss you.

A.T.M.

IMAGING THE CARIBBEAN

WORDS AS CHARMS

Anson Gonzalez 20/08/12

Dear(est) Gorgeous , imaginative and artistic one ….
I’m dedicating my poem, “Tabiz”, to you this week. Written quite some time ago, it is an attempt at reification; an attempt to make the abstract concrete. It is a talisman to bless, protect those I love and will love. With the thousands and me sending sending spontaneous vibes (like cupid’s or worse) toward you, unmindful of the power of the mind, I thought of you and the poem. So like a shield of silver light I send it to you – let the good pass through and the negative be reflected back to sender. Cheers.

Amanda T. Mc Intyre 20/08/12

a poem to use as a charm is a wonderful blessing… thank you so much…
I really need such protection. I pray for it all the time. You are one of my guides in this journey and at your salutation I can already feel my confidence rising.
Much love to you Sir

TABIZ

by Anson Gonzalez

Long time ago they used to say

How jumbie used to walk the road

this poem is to cut maljo

is to save you from the blight

of overloving eyes that conceal hate

from over-generous eyes that subsume

the bitter bile of envy

from judas-friendly eyes that shut

bestowing the betraying kiss

like a blue bottle on a stick

it will ward off whatsoever evil

may try to wither the bounty

of your blooming life’s garden

keep it there and no beetle

no bug no worm no fly no snake

will invade and your life

will be a blossoming eden

then you’ll sing your happy songs

in the peaceful harmony you wish

or wear it like a mystic amulet

or a ringlet of blue-black beads

or yet like a blessed ankh

and feel your confidence rise

as you scale the unsurmountable

wear it and you’ll climb your everests

as easily as your el tucuches

or make of it a magic circle

to protect and comfort you

step into it as my friend’s mother once

IN HOC VINCIT and with signs

defied her enemies

and the evil ones

we’ll chant the aves the halleluias

the hosannas the alaikums and oms

we’ll bring the greater glory

to your assistance and you will

rise and soar

or make it a stole of blue

draping all your ancestral contacts

give you strength

encircled by indigoed words

you will bravely step through

legs of phantoms

put salt on soucouyants’ skins

make douens disappear

and you’ll dance in life’s moonlight

safe from all harm

IMAGING THE CARIBBEAN

THE READER

part 1

I first associated reading and learning with familial love. My grandparents kept a charming little library, most of which was in another language. Before I could read, before I had ever been to school at all, I had the image of my grandfather sitting in his room with a stack of books. He would put on his glasses on these occasions and seemed also, at these times, to be a more determined smoker; his ash tray would fill up as the pages turned.

Then there was the droning sound of his baritone whisper. He seemed unconscious of it but I was very aware. It made me understand at that early age that there was something in books that was rhythmic; something performative.

Sometimes when he was out, I would go into his room and go through his books. I would turn the pages and make the same droning sound because, I thought that it was the sound that would make me understand the print on the pages.

There were also news papers in stacks that grew as days passed. Then on certain days the stacks would mysteriously disappear and fresh ones would start. News papers were less appealing to me. He would read them and make comments that left me confused. Comments about: oil, power and (the most dreadful of all) ‘the states’.

Then he would get to the crossword puzzle. He would fill them all in but before the pen went down in response to each clue, he would first look at me questioningly. I wished, at those time, that I had answers.

When I was finally old enough to go to school, he took me on the first day. He held me with one hand and in the other hand he held my bag of books.

I was not scared. Other children were crying but I did not cry.

I was happy because I knew he was proud of me and I knew our connection would become stronger.