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Dawad Philip |
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A Mural by the Sea |
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A Mural by the Sea |
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The cocks are crowing from end to end. The last train of the old calypso rots in the round by the convent. Band passing: the woman with fogged glasses is fanning the woman with the crooked wig is fanning the woman in grey kicked off her shoes the woman in white kicked off her shoes the woman in brown kicked off her shoes. Leo the jab jab is standing predominate among the shoes. The woman in grey has found her mirror in an Indian’s eyes (they meet and collide), we collect the scattered cigarettes and coins that rolled away. We meet at the steel margin of the soul between hill and sea, at the edge of memory, on an old map of the world. Not a day passes when the moon is not crushed into a million, when each shard does not sharply recall the dutiful ocean, mud road or whistling eye of a star, novellas brought on the wings of the tradewinds, the huge and sorrowful parting of the Bocas. We wake with the indifferent light of morning against the treacherous shadows of a day. A horsewhip slithers through the grasslands of Vistabella through Marabella, making its way past the silver domes of Pointe-a-Pierre, lush acres of canefields stretching across Central, yellow Caribs smoking leaves under the Arima dial, a herdsboy and his mud-caked bulls at Aranguez, the blackened corridors of Old South Quay Station. Savannahs and swamps teem with history set in coastal sunsets, grinning monkeys by the luminous river where all along we lived in the signpainter’s eyes: his sweeping skies and emphysemic horizons going down at dusk. A flaming cane-arrow pierces an ox-pecker cloud, curls to ash like swamp-grass to a sadu’s prayer. And here we are, Sarah, resurrected in the forest of mas and myth, the enamel world of the flame, braving silence for a singular language, occasional light, occasional stone. |
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