My poems and a short story published in Musings in a Tea Shop: An Anthology by Poetry and Prose Open Mic.
Poetry and Prose Open Mic is a writing community-based in Trinidad and Tobago that meets bi-monthly. Gershia Mahabir founded the online group Poetry and Prose Open Mic in Trinidad after their Poetry and Prose in-person writing lives were interrupted by the COVID-19 pandemic.
I was invited to be a featured
writer by Gershia Mahabir in June 2023 and have attended its Zoom meetings as
often as I can since then. Gershia Mahabir, who is a marketing
professional and a poet, is currently working on a collection of poems.
Prose and
Poetry Open Mic is my first online Caribbean home away from home. I belong to
another Facebook writers' group called VI
Write Now from whose poetry prompts I have gratefully benefitted.
The introduction to
the anthology states that “when Caribbean
people get together it is never boring. Pull up a chair and sit at the kitchen
table with 21 unique voices. This collection reflects the individual voice of
each author within.
Revisit classic Caribbean ole-time
days with original stories. Hear A Father’s Advice. Listen to some Robber Talk.
Explore stories based in a futuristic AI setting. Read touching pieces on
social issues, words soaked in culture like fruit in cherry brandy.
Poems filled with vibrant imagery
touching on topics ranging from love and heartbreak to culture, art, and death.
A Trinidadian’s insight into having Venezuelan migrants as neighbours. A poet’s
take on aging. Social injustices brought to light. A glimpse of a Hindu
funeral capturing touching traditions steeped in the universality of grief.
Musings in a Tea Shop is an eclectic collection of poetry and short stories reflecting
the diverse members of Poetry and Prose Open Mic.
Click the link below to order today:
I hope you enjoy my poems
and short story, "Nightcap," below that are featured
in the anthology.
ON BECOMING A WORD-WEAVER
We learned to be seamstresses –
a profession heard and seen,
ingrained into us by our grandmother.
We watched her foot press, pump and peddle up and down,
as she spun cut-patterned cloth under the jabbing sound
of a hopping, stabbing needle, while attaching a sleeve to a shirt,
a pocket onto pants, a waistband onto a skirt.
Her daughters followed suit.
Their homes were alive with the sound of whirring.
My mother unleashed her own creative genie –
branched out into handiwork,
made needles dance as she birthed intricate embroidery.
Her knitting and crocheting made
new motions and clicking sounds.
We watched the waltzing of long needles,
the muted movement of a hand at work.
Mother’s work found its way to the center tables
and sofa backs of family and friends.
Her crocheted dress became a priceless heirloom.
And we, the next generation, became weavers of words –
poetry, stories and songs, voiced in our writing, reading and singing.
Long on the
road, not on the road,
the bush high in
rainy season,
the escapees
have learned to speak in hushed tones,
muffle babies’
hungry cries.
The highway is
far away
but heard in the
ra-ta-ta-tat of gunfire
seen in distant,
hovering, brown, dust clouds
whipped up by
army jeeps
seeking out the
deemed enemy.
Death here,
death over there!
abandoned villages
and farms are futile refuge,
fruit and
vegetables have long been plucked and devoured
by those on
march before them,
pilfered by
enemies pitted against each other.
Grass is
welcoming…green, straw brown or ground under.
Civilians
fleeing to safe spaces are now on a cow’s diet
and do not
discriminate about its wetness, dryness or taste.
And the secrets
of healing bush,
the secrets of
survival shared,
passed on by
mothers, fathers and forebears,
have kept them
alive.
Mother Nature
hides and nurtures
her frightened
children tramping quietly out of sight.
She promises
only now.
Brown earth, parched, caked,
welcomes thunder, lightning,
bears the beating, dousing,
soaks up the flooding.
The dry spell broken,
brown earth releases
her musky smell of joy.
Brown earth, not feeling subdued,
softens in the deluge,
sighs during the seeding.
Soon, the thrusting feel
of wakening roots,
soon the bearing of fruit.
Althea Romeo Mark
Althea Romeo Mark
As Mathilda placed a big
bowl of soup before Edwin, he grunted. It was a hearty Caribbean soup for the
healthy – not a broth. She could see his mouth watering.
Earlier, she had seen him watching her, as
usual, as she shelled pigeon peas, peeled dasheens, white potatoes, yams and
green bananas. She had sliced already peeled carrots, chopped celery and balled cornmeal flour dumplings in her palms. After that, she gradually dropped
them into a huge pot in which beef had been boiling with onions and beef cube
seasoning. Edwin was standing next to her when the soup was done.
She knew her soup was the only thing left
that Edwin liked about her. She made a superb one. It would last a few days. It
was 7:00 p.m. Supper was on time and it smelled delicious.
Edwin and Mathilda had married late. She in
her fifties, he in his seventies. Edwin was a tall man with a broad face and
high cheekbones. His face reminded Mathilda of a man wearing a permanent mask.
She was of average height with a broad face, too. Some said they had an uncanny
resemblance. Mathilda liked that he was thrifty, had a good nest egg. He bought
a two-bedroom mobile home and the small strip of land it sat on. It was located
across from a big supermarket next to a busy road. Near the supermarket was a
housing project notorious for its gangs, but for Edwin, the deal was a steal.
Over time, Edwin became a stingy man who
gave grudgingly, and often did the shopping himself. Mathilda suspected that he
hid money from her. She earned money cleaning homes, and found relief in church
on Sundays where she hallelujahhed her unhappiness in a loud voice. A weekday
prayer group bolstered her reserve.
These days they barely spoke. Their home
had become a place for verbal sparring and tussling. The yellow and blue spots on her arms were
her souvenirs of rough handling and frequent tug of wars over her shopping. She
had bruises on her hips where she had fallen.
Just yesterday, they had clashed over her
shopping.
“You find second job?” he had asked as she
struggled in the door with three XXL size packs of soap powder.
“Dey on sale, fifty percent off. Ah won’t
have to buy any for long time,” Mathilda said.
“We go dead before dey finish,” he shot
back. “Wey you go put dem? ’Pon top de udders in de bedroom?”
“Well, you can’t tek money to de grave,” she
shot back.
As Edwin rushed over, she ducked expecting a
blow. But instead, he wrestled the goods from her. “Ah tekking them back. Wey
de receipt?”
Mathilda, still fearing he might strike her,
quickly handed over the receipt. Edwin barged out the door lugging the giant
boxes.
Ah go start putting potion in he soup when
he not watchin’, howerin’ like a chicken hawk. She tapped her skirt pocket to ascertain the powder was still there.
They did not speak for the rest of the day.
He had stripped her of one of her pleasures.
As usual, after supper, they watched boxing
because he loved it. He mimicked the boxers in the ring, rising from the worn
sofa, balling his fists, swinging his shoulders right and left, and hitting
blows in the air. He yelled loudly.
She
had no say about him watching his favorite sport, the dessert after supper. But
she was a fan of the nightcaps: two criminal procedures that followed. Both cheered on the police during deadly gun
battles and could be heard shouting, “Kill im! Kill em!” if you passed close
enough to their home.
Sometimes it was difficult to tell whether
the gun battles were taking place on screen or outside in the streets.
They were often so exhausted by the chase, that they fell asleep on the sofa, in their separate corners, the TV watching and
listening to their snoring.
Tonight was no different. The rapid exchange
of gunfire was louder than usual and the wailing sirens seemed real.
When Mathilda roused herself an hour later
from the after-film nap, Edwin sat sunken in the sofa. Mathilda, certain he was
exhausted from the night’s excitement, did not nudge him. She went about her
nightly chores, washing dishes, and tidying the kitchen. Thirty minutes later, when
she went over to tap Edwin’s shoulder and ushered him to bed, he did not stir.
He felt cold to the touch. Then she saw he was bleeding from his chest. His
shirt was soaked a burgundy red.
Her wailing attracted neighbors. Someone
called the police who were already canvassing the streets for gangs who had
earlier engaged in a shooting spree.
The police and medical examiner later
declared Edwin had been shot by a stray bullet. They had identified the spot
where the bullet had sliced through the vinyl wall of the mobile home before
penetrating his chest.
Neighbors fanned and prayed over Mathilda
who sat frozen-faced. Tears welled, and glistened in her eyes, but remained unshed.
They blamed an unexplained glint in her eyes on shock – grief held
hostage to incomprehensible loss.
Althea Romeo Mark
Born in Antigua, Althea Romeo
Mark is an educator and writer who grew up in St Thomas, USVI. Her published
books include On the Borders of Belonging, The Nakedness of New, If
Only the Dust Would Settle, Beyond Dreams: The Ritual Dancer, Two
Faces, Two Phases, Palaver and Shu-Shu Moko Jumbi: The Silent Dancing
Spirit. She resides in Switzerland.
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