Issue 13: Andre Bagoo
Jubilee
The earth did not know where to put the bridge
and so it made storms for us.
Water, pulled like diamonds from soil;
columns of wind; cables of jet stream—
as the earth turned they linked to Africa.
We would share the spiralling Atlantic.
We were glad. For the lawn grew each year.
The scorched mountains became green.
Rivers came to life. The ponds filled.
Until we could not leave the house.
For water had shut the doors.
Water, as immaculate as mud,
rushing round corners, under beds.
Water that disappears if you stand still.
We could not leave the house.
The Carnival band passed.
At dawn they held flambeaux
and bathed in the earth.
Sacred Heart
I. Dry Season
I dreamt I was late for Parliament.
When I ran along the Promenade
I turned into a wave.
My favorite time of day is morning
just after dreaming.
You can be deadly still
then make strange noises:
sighs and purrs. Softly,
they are swallowed
by kiskadees.
Sleeping, I see you
dreaming
your crossed position.
II. Wet Season
At last I’ve figured it out
What it means
to enter the Dragon’s Mouth.
What it means is fired on us
upon stone, means to a higher end.
Stepping up your hibiscus throat, the higher end,
red ladder to my driven dreams.
What it could mean, could
happen to us now.
At last dou dou
I’ve figured you.
III. With Boundless Faith
Trains don’t run here anymore
But when they did the men wept
The women leapt into the carriages
And bodies were strewn on the land
Exquisite torture ruled us
Slaves after death, coup de poudre
The nation now a marriage
Of machine and art
Our bodies came alive
At their destinations
Andre Bagoo is a journalist and poet from Trinidad. His second book of poems, BURN, is due from Shearsman Books in 2015.
