Skip to content

Keywords

Articles tagged "Caribbean Literature"

The World is Moving Around Me

My Nephew I stepped out into the yard with my nephew. The little shacks on the other side of the ravine stood up to the earthquake. The old wall collapsed. We sit on the hood of the car. “I’m going to write something,” I say. “OK . . .” “I’m going to write about this.” I still can’t give it a name. “I understand,” he says in a serious voice. It’s like he’s matured overnight. “What are you...

There is No Theorem (A Regguetón)

There is no theorem just the combination 10,000 years of going with digressions: I write regguetones, forget the variation. There is no theorem from the mist itself the primates descend in search of phonemes can create regguetones and invite the system. There is no theorem with the mist itself the songs the poems sing themselves everything I hear seems to be a slogan to be or not to be, I think therefore I am god loves you, and if the fish don’t bite? Just paddle...

The Other Day After the Rain

I. Once again, the erection. The body’s first signal, heaving me back into reality every time I awake. The Hebrew Kabbalists say that during the night God takes souls on a mystical journey; the privileged never return to their bodies. Just like Enoch, they remain in eternity. But the Kabbalah reveals nothing about the relation between this mystical voyage and my morning erections. I sometimes wonder where God must have brought me in my sleep for me to wake with a cock so stiff...

from “La Belle Amour Humaine”

There are seven hours of road between the noise and the silence. Between here in the capital and Anse-à-Fôleur. I suppose it's the same where you come from, one town after another and all different. There are towns that yammer and others that whisper. There are towns that smile and others that sulk. Ones that daub themselves with every color of the rainbow the way a girl condemned to walk the streets disguises herself every evening to go into battle. And other towns that...

Self-Portrait

At one and a half I rolled up the stairs to the second floor. At six I almost drowned in a pool. At seven a current swept me down a river. They hit me with a stick, with a rifle-butt, with a two-by-four. They rammed an elbow into my face, my stomach too; they kneed me, whipped me, slashed me with machetes. The neighbor’s dog bit my arm. They cut my ear when they pierced it. I’ve been knocked cold. Slapped. Slandered. Booed. Stoned. Chased by sergeants on motorbikes....

Brine, Blood, and Mother’s Milk

For the woman with bound hands, a vacant stare, and an impudent bottom, whom I glimpsed at Corail one morning during the season of storms I’ve turned my skin inside out, but I can still feel the treachery of their gestures and mutterings. Braced against the heaving of the boat, my body rides over the crashing waves. I am capsizing in a sinister darkness where silence no longer exists, and I must patiently reconstruct my solitude. Why does that woman on my right insist on poking...

The Crane

Aguardiente comes cheap, meat comes dear (somewhat drunk he tap dances over the wet cobblestones, scoring importance from the conjectured case of fractured bone). “Young man, you have to stay thin, in top physical shape, in case the great opportunity presents itself, well, good fortune knocks just once at the door of a house.” “Young man, you have to stay thin, in top physical shape, in case the great opportunity presents itself.” “Young man, you...

Deus ex Machina

Throw the dice, Lord, your turn has come and it is winter. The trident is cornered, the mountains covered with a skin of ash. Lord, behold light’s song here, your due, in the stillness of the sea and the pure discretion of the endless night. Behold your son, Fire, burning the whole surface with his touch and seducing the water with his gilded tongue. Look here, Lord, his stepsister Dawn, liquid hierophant, maker of shape. In their terrible language they tell of celebrations,...

From the Grave of My Grave

from the grave of my grave a hollow-now open advancing my love, her stairs her name, her signs advancing the same. with my brother the vine and its roots lift here and there. stalker-yesterday pretends to not be dead. shoe and cloud are bubble and hand bright catapult direct detour never adorned with sharp presences. the grave of my grave stays and so coincidence stalker-yesterday says slowly my death has not begun (a mistake) the insects wove their net and...

Alive or Dead

A metal gate bars his path, and thwarts any hope for the pursued. But then he leaps for it, and easily gains the top. It is his instinct of self-preservation that allows him to accomplish this intricately acrobatic maneuver smoothly. From the other side of the railings he observes with satisfaction the pack of hounds gnawing at the iron bars as if attempting to assuage their sense of impotence. The man continues on in his flight, now at a regular trot. He smiles and manages to exhale...

Women’s Fantasies

                  For Susanne Rinne It pleases me to straddle a horse and ride like women do in the frescoes of Pompeii in the Roman way, the Andromache way. Then you would bear my mark sweeter than brands made from the red iron of lovely servitude, now banned. Great joy for a woman as well! You’ll have no cause for complaint. You’ll be sated doing all these things you say to the...

November 2011


Bird’s Nest

Luminous missionaries our sexual bodies perfect as a bird's nest carnivorous, incomparable.   The bodies of virgins hold all the dreams the honeyed bodies of whores hold all the men The bodies of ladies hold one man and charm thousands The bodies of dust of the dead where worms sigh The bodies of pregnant women brimming with knowledge of creation The world created through a circle.   “Nido de pájaros” © Aurora Arias. By...

Like what you read? Help WWB bring you the best new writing from around the world.