Summit of the Americas

A China-Cuba fable: different palms and, yet, the same

Elephants in the Room

When did the Great Wall slip
into our dining room? Perhaps an Italian's
journey to the Emperor's court thirsting

the art of papermaking, a British eye
for fine teacups and dinnerware—
cheap-in-Wal-Mart, or not, in Staples

forget the Long March, manufactured hunger
in the Cultural Revolution. It is too late.
Tanks snake on caked red and separated flesh

in Tiananmen Square the cleaners scrubbed
all night: the new proletariat cheering their first
astronaut in space. No elections in 100 years

or was that 1000? From panty to scissors
clipping private hair—made in C-thanks
the boys in Havana brandish hand-me-downs

Stalin era Kalashnikovs and tanks running
on water. An arrow in his throat or thigh
Ponce lay dying in Havana the cigar "rogue"

can't lift a wiry beard. Turning his tail
to the tiger, Jumbo swats a flea with his trunk
and takes off for Trinidad. In his quest

for El Dorado, Raleigh landed near Piarco
according to fables penned in the tower
before the executioner blind men from states

in the Americas line up in Port-of-Spain
to feel the trunk of an elephant—
a golden arch, Sir Walter's untouchable

not like Clinton in Miami—I'm smarter—
an Americas Summit with Cuba in abstentia!
I bring you change from DC—all that's left

From the billions to Wall Street
We are not Islam's enemy, we are Havana's
We are not China's enemy, we are Cuba's

© Sasenarine Persaud

Cell Tower at Pride

This cell phone tower at Pride Elementary School was put up without prior notification to parents. It stands like a chisel in the eye of truth and a totem of deception. If Poets write about everything, then this:


The Cell Tower at Pride

It might have been after she fell
And hit her head. But she returned
In time for the show—and the farmer
Spouse who came with a towering
Knife: why wait for one-a-day?
School Board’s not wood—sawdust
Glued together—Gut schools.
Web the sky. Deceive flags and crosses.
Imitate pines. Radiate palms and pupils
Who dare to look or question the folly
Of slaying the goose for investors’ eggs
Scrambled—like children’s minds—
In RF Radiation, in principals' fibs

In a Board's uncaring--intransigence,

You say, it was after she hit her head...

© Sasenarine Persaud

Author Event Barnes & Noble

Authors Jeff Lipkes, Sasenarine Persaud, and Mark Russo at author event on Jan 10, 2009. Barnes & Noble at Wiregrass.

Book signing Barnes and Noble

In a Boston Night - Book signing on January 10, 2009 at the New Tampa Barnes and Noble bookstore. Photo by Kshanika Persaud.

IN JANUARY

In January

Even in January when the cypress
Has gone bald, there is clutter
From the past: Spanish moss, you say,
Confederate gray like the beards
Of Hindu sages stroked by the fingers
Of wind. A meditation or a yagna,
Chants from a thousand yogis—
You are who you are; who are you
You are who you are; who are you

A man whose mother was white
Is African-American. Even if you play
On words like that other “lawyer”
In the White House (I did not have sex
With that woman) an African father
Makes you African—if you are
Born in good ole USA! Who knew
You were another lefty?

Reporters take a raccoon’s ass break
On race except you mention noose
Or words beginning with “G” or “F”
Or “N” – Namaste Namaste Namaste
Chant the yogis in unison
You are who you are; who are you
You are who you are; who are you

©Sasenarine Persaud

Remembering Balgobin Singh 1913-2008

Balgobin Singh Sept 1913-Dec 2008

He was the person who taught me to have the deepest love and respect for the land. When I visited him in August 2008, after almost a quarter of a century, he recognized me instantly. He needed no aid in his daily life. His grip was as strong as I remembered--that of one who worked on and with the land. He was more than farmer. He saw his 95th birthday. We thought he would live to be 100.

A HAMMOCK IN THE WIND
Balgobin Bidatha Singh, Sept 1913-Dec 2008

Your axe as clean as a new razor
cleaved logs to firewood like knife
on thawed cheese, down-stroke the arc
of a butterfly. You taught us how to walk
lightly on the earth---leave no footprints
behind; how to peel an orange,
the honed twenty-two a penknife in your hand,
producing an unbroken string of rind dangling
in the wind while negotiating a footpath “aback.”

Resizing a fallen tree trunk, chips flew
like starbursts. Rock gently in the bottomhouse
hammock and hum Tulsidas’ poem for the ages:
Shri Guru Charan Saroj Raj,Nij Man Mukur Sudhari
Barran Raghuvar Bimal Jasu,Jo Dayaka Phal Chari…
With the dust of guru’s lotus feet, I first clean
The mirror of my heart, then tell the story
Of Shri Rama, giver of the four fruits of life…

At ninety-four you are sipping tea
and laughing at sugar—I consume two pounds
every two weeks!—needing no cane to walk
or no aid to memory: the grip of a teenager,
how to compare palms and trace strength,
the thorns of a tangerine tree, unshouldering
a bunch of fresh-cut plantains, how to tie
a cotton band around your stomach –a brace
for back—before sinking the fork in the soil…

Who scattered those ashes in the ocean,
and sprinkled a handful “aback” on this mother
earth you taught us to love, humming
the Hanuman Chalisa in the wind of your wake
the vacated hammock swaying like a kite-tail

©Sasenarine Persaud

Toronto Launch: In a Boston Night

Reading from In a Boston Night at the Gladstone Hotel, Toronto. November 25, 2008. Picture by Lisa Myers.