Spirits in the Guianas: a journey and alignment: Part II

Continued...(please refer to previous post to follow the Shout)

“This is Guyana”: racism and culture

What does “respite” mean in the context of Guyana? If it is a search for relief, rest and relaxation, it is indeed possible to have these. The weather is wonderful, the sun gloriously energising, and even when it rains, you feel rejuvenated, renewed and soothed by the heavenly showers lashing against windows and zinc roof tops. Every night you can party and drink quality alcohol that’s cheap, even for the locals (Banks Beer, El Dorado, XM Rum etc); you can eat succulent fruits like mangoes, pre- peeled and bagged sweet pineapples, papayas that fall lustfully into your mouth like the impassioned kiss of a lover; and what of the food you’ve not laboured over stove to prepare (cook-up rice, pouri, roti and pastries, curried something, chow mein, any sort of vegetable/Ital stew or soup) – you feel your waist expanding, but when you return to London, you’ll be right back on the treadmill. So don’t simply eat – say yes to every offer of something and gorge.

You can stroll through the pretty promenade garden, and if there’s time, the botanical gardens near the zoo (we never made it to the latter).

You can delight in the carefully constructed fruit orchard that an elder cousin has lovingly cultivated in his retirement, where the coconuts, bananas, passion fruits and soursaps are at your reach. This must be paradise; you can believe this much for now.

Street vendors competing with the resonance of soca, reggae, “oldies” and the pre-eminence of 90s pop tunes that never seem to get old in the Caribbean (croonings like “How do I…” by LeAnne Rimes – and anything by Celine Dion) lend a vibrancy that we didn’t hear in the streets of Barbados. And chants like “rat pieson, rat pieson (poison), “tas’e and buy, guinnip, guinnip, tas’e and buy,” “check yoh baddy weight,” “chips, chips, plantain chips” clamour, almost comically round the city as hustlers try any means to improve their lives. Ladies nearing retirement trying to sell us chocolate biscuits or chewing gums were particularly persistent in what seemed to us a sad, desperate endeavour. We pitied the desperation straining their eyes and wondered at this gruelling hustle so late in their lives.

You can join the Sunday lime by the Sea Wall, eat more fried Bangamary and plantain chips (never being tired of the treat), enjoy the museums like Castellani House where the best of Guyana’s art (especially that of Phillip Moore) is displayed and you don’t have to jostle with other tourists to appreciate it (actually you wonder how come there are no other tourists at the museum). Across from Castellani House stands the proud monument of Cuffy, leader of the 1763 revolt against British enslavers. Some work has been done to give the impression that he really is considered a national hero, but curiously the information centre, opened in February this year was closed despite Emancipation being only weeks away. Though we longed to “see the sights”, our tour of the museums and monuments was a passing of time until we could make it to Suriname and Venezuela. This was not coming fast enough for us. It’s not so strange that we were eager to leave Guyana so soon after arriving because we knew we would return and continue touring.

But in truth our eagerness to make it to Suriname (Venezuela now seeming more remote and impossible to get to) stemmed from a sense of disappointment. Unlike the relaxation in Barbados, “respite” as we experienced it in Guyana felt somewhat tainted. In Barbados, as a tourist you embrace the quietness, the ease of the island – the tag of relaxation works. Of course, it’s difficult to call oneself a “tourist” in the country of your birth no matter how long you’ve been away. We would naturally see Guyana in different light, and be more critical of what we saw. It’s rather like comparing your house to someone else’s; especially if that someone is ruthlessly organised and tidy – and you’re not! You rush home and wish you had the ability to put yours in the same order. For you cannot understand why yours is always messy. So it took some time before we admitted it, but no time at all to observe that Guyana is “tainted” by racism, corruption and lack of vision by the government (and opposition) that would enable the country to have its own saleable tag. That lack of vision is insidious, affecting the entire society. Whilst there are different peoples in Guyana (six the tourist brochures and history books proudly promote) there is the sense that there are really only two. The bridge between African and Indian Guyanese is ever expanding. And it was disgusting to feel it in the air, competing with the blocked gutters and reflecting their foulness. The stench in Georgetown is symbolic of the corruption and racism that is pervasive in a country that could otherwise feed and inspire the Caribbean with its abundant resources, including that of its cultural diversity.

Instead there is a palpable struggle of Africans and Amerindians for cultural and political autonomy. The Amerindians are mostly invisible. Last time I was there, this seemed to be changing but this time I didn’t see so many in the town or certainly in places of business (shops, market stalls), museums and banks. I know traditionally Amerindians reside in the interior but that in itself troubles me – rather like the way (Indian) Americans are kept on “reserves” as relics for tourists or artefacts to be preserved, receiving government (and international) grants that keep them in their corner, and therefore not incorporated politically and culturally into the State. So comparing the ease of Barbados, and conscious of the earlier warning about Guyana, my niece and I found ourselves refraining that “this is not Barbados.” At first it amused us. Then it sort of haunted us and made us miserable. Thus would be the mixed-feelings of our time in Guyana. Inside I think my spirit was contorted as I was in the midst of an “unplanned purpose.” Barbados does not have to deal significantly with racial diversity, since the racial majority is African. And we might have readily accepted this cultural difference between the Bajan and Guyanese experience but our trip to Suriname further confirmed how entrenched racism is in Guyana. Our brief time in Suriname led us to observe that (at least from the superficial haze of a tourist) racial and cultural diversity is appreciated and respected there.

If culture is the essence or “spirit” of a place and the fullest expression of its people, their shared values, traditions/customs, respect for – actually pride in their country and themselves then it’s not clear how this is collectively embraced in Guyana. This is despite the various festivals like, Emancipation (1st August), Linden Town/Amerindian weeks, Mashramani and Phagwah. Rather racism seems to be an artificial cultural construct that replaces a sense of collective spirit and pride. This ultimately limits the capacity to be creative. When a country is being perpetually moulded in anti-human practices such as racism, (as well as violence and corruption), collective vision is naturally impaired. Spiritually, there is confusion – misalignment – as opposed to the precision (order) that comes when everyone shares the same cultural objective, the same aspiration for their country. In The Healing Wisdom of Africa, Malidoma Somé is more forthright: “it is an illness of the collective psyche when different cultures don’t understand one another. The history of humankind is plagued by this psychic disease that has caused much pain and disappointments in the world” (1998, 30). I’ve emphasised the words “illness” and “psychic disease” to highlight the deep psychosis of a racist society, how it fragments, stagnates and blights development, individually and collectively. This deep psychosis is a sign of the unconscious trance from which I sought to escape in the UK. After all, my first experience of racism was when I migrated to London in 1980. I was not blind to it in Guyana, just too young to recognise it. Racism is alienating, adding to a feeling of being in constant exile and spiritually unstable.

In Guyana, as elsewhere, cultural production, like art and literature is dependent on budgetary considerations by the Ministry. Literature, fine art and sculpting have traditionally been dominated by African-Guyanese. We were told that there is a lack of support for local artists. But despite this apparent lack of support, art is wonderfully alive! It’s on the streets, mostly, as the artists along with other hustlers try to improve their living. This is the situation with the Main Street Group of artists, and even, Daniel, the Calabash artist who has been trading outside Guyana stores for years; not without being pushed around by the management who seem to regard him as scum. There were some signs that Guyana would not be properly represented at CARIFESTA, hosted this year by Suriname. But 50 members were sponsored by the government to attend and proudly embrace the theme: “Culture for Development: Celebrating our diversity and promoting the central role of culture in economic, social and human development.” One of the Mainstream artists, whose sculpture would be exhibited at CARIFESTA, told us that because he had to pay for it himself he could not afford to go. Whilst there I read an Editorial in Kaieteur News in which the government was being criticised for sponsoring (on paper) the delegates but not paying for them to go. The article stressed that “what history has shown is that to the extent that people can identify with each other, they will cooperate and produce much more energetically. A common culture is what makes people identify with each other. In our region and in South America as a whole, for too long we have been divided by our heritages of being appendages of competing European empires. But through initiatives such as CARIFESTA we can begin to appreciate that we have more commonalities than differences.” (July 7th) Rousing, yes, but those differences were glaring in the Guyanese sunshine, without any indication that there was desire to seam the cleavages.

A local writer complained about nepotistic practices within the government. We can decide for ourselves from this account: the Caribbean Press, headed by Professor David Dabydeen selected a book for publication, written by young Ashley Anthony, daughter of Dr Frank Anthony, Minister for Culture, Youth and Sport. The Press receives its funding from this same Ministry. The writer also explained that some of the Press’ publications were previously published by Professor Dabydeen under a different publication, thereby earning him further royalties. Proving nepotism is always shoddy but speculations are leading. What is perhaps mis-leading are the names of the Minister and his daughter (the are East Indian). In Guyana, Africans tend to have English names, but the majority of East Indians have traditional names. A broad sweep of the members of the cabinet reveals that they are mostly of East Indian heritage, but the odd Anglicised name gives the impression of inclusivity. I’m suggesting that every sphere of Guyanese society bears the signs, sometimes subtle but mostly blatant of racism instead of being one that promotes progress, creativity and respect for its cultural diversity.

A kind of Apartheid: some examples

• At Lenora Market (on the West Bank not far from Den Amstel) about 90% of the stalls are run by East Indians. The village itself is dominated by East Indians, just as Buxton has been historically dominated by Africans; its neighbour, Annandale by East Indians. A friend and Buxtonian told us that he grew up in this kind of Apartheid system in Guyana (in the 50s/60s) which most people took for granted. During colonialism there were places (like in Mackenzie) restricted only to Europeans (British).
• In the local Banks, the majority of employees are East Indians. Head/ supervisory roles are held by East Indians. Where an African is put in charge or operating a till (or dealing with money) an East Indian is put beside them (overseeing the process) signalling that they (Africans) cannot be trusted with money.
• At the African Heritage Museum we were unable to support the pitiful “tourist shop” or make a donation to keep the museum going, because there was no cashier. We were told that if we wanted to make a donation that we should write a cheque which would be taken to the Ministry of Culture under which the museum falls to be processed. This is obviously absurd. Africans working at the Heritage Museum were careful with their words - at once condemning then hauling back their complaints - suspicious that we might be spies secretly working for the government. The depressed, sickening sadness in their eyes spoke of the kind of society they’re living in, and the fear they had of losing their jobs for speaking out.
• Security work and police force are dominated by Africans. African women are especially used as the front face for security, because we were told this was the most accessible opportunity for work.

• Most businesses in the City are East Indian owned. Africans may be employed but as cleaners, or security. At Buddy’s Chinese Restaurant, for example, which is curiously owned by East Indians, an African youth was employed as a lift operator. This reminded me of footmen or boot cleaners back in the minstrelsy days. An African woman was employed to clean – not set - the tables. An image of subservience in an already servile environment bubbled in my mind and disgusted me.
• At Slashmins Resort – East Indians are “inside” in numbers – Africans in the main spill into their own “lime” on the “outside.” This is understood to be because those outside, including one and two East Indians and Amerindians do not want to pay to go in. But for us it spoke of a racial and class divide. The outside lime was pumping with music and had a different liveliness that attracted many more people. I believe there are now charges to take part in the lime, mainly to use the car park.

And so it went on, all around us. Whether we were consciously seeking it or not, we were soaked in this foul air of racism. We longed for it to reveal its deeper expression but sadly culture in this context was mostly hidden and seemingly superficial. I found myself deliberately supporting the few African stalls, or shops; getting into taxis when I could see the driver was African. In this context of racism, self-preservation became necessary and “race-first”, the Pan-Africanist mantra a practical reality. That more worthy principle of humanism lurked in the shadows of my tormented spirit. Reader, I hope you’re still with me because the signs I mentioned at the beginning of this Shout are still relevant. At this time in the journey they are bearing heavily on my spirit.

To be continued - next Shout

Spirits in the Guianas: a journey and alignment: part I

Preamble

The reality of this existence – a life or survival in London dampens my spirit or misaligns me. It takes will-fulness – divine strength – to keep stepping (on the treadmill) and seeking (“journeying” the Path of building one’s spiritual pyramid). I can activate this “will” for so long before it becomes imperative that I return to the “source.” That source, where my navel string is buried, is Guyana. In truth the “source” is much more dynamic than the mere geographical location of one’s birth. It is spiritual, physical, creative, as well as “ancestral” (as attributed in my last Shout following a visit to Ghana in May).

I have been “returning” to Guyana since 1995. I had been spiritually directed to do this through a dream I had of my deceased grandfather. The dream was simple– he accompanied me on a plane back to Guyana. At the time, I was in my first serious experience of feeling “misaligned” – let me call it “spiritual destabilisation.” A moment to explain: I was studying in Scotland; removed from London and a larger community of Africans I felt isolated; I experienced the kind of psychical “splitting” Fanon articulates in White Skins, Black Masks, as I was ogled by Scots as though I was some human curiosity and considered bemusing because I had a Scottish surname (“Gordon” at the time), since I was not apparently Scottish. Feeling culturally displaced and spiritually disconnected, I struggled with identity. I entered a state of “unconscious trance” about which I shall return, as it’s something I think many Africans living in UK (actually Europe) experience without due reflection. In any case, I read and accepted the obvious signs of the dream and decided to return for an extended journey to Guyana. I felt spiritually and culturally liberated (dare I say renewed and grounded). This empowered me to live with the beast - I have not yet mastered a sustainable method of defeating it. However, knowing that Heru defeated Set, as Buddha defeated Mara comforts me. All experiences I take as the wisdom of Tehuti guiding me along the Path.

The beast is not simply depression or the perpetual struggle with identity (both spiritual and physical), it is also the forced (unconscioius) and therefore false trance that is the consequence of my exile in the UK. If there is a false trance state, conversely there exists a real, cultural and spiritual trance state by which I can align my spirit. “Spiritual destabilisation” occurs from the difficulty to consciously go into trance – (that is allowing my spirit(s) the freedom to manifest) in this burdensome reality. Of course, it’s not impossible, but it is rare to see anyone consciously go into trance in London/UK. Perhaps this is because of the overwhelming pressure of surviving as an African, of having a particular kind of hustle, of struggling to feel (spiritually) grounded here. The effort of trying to define myself or being perpetually defined in a place that always feels abstract and alien puts me in an unconscious trance. I am living within a context of an alienation that sometimes seems designed. This is the predominant state I exist in no matter how well I believe I am immersed or assimilated into this reality. Indeed, the unconscious trance is a consequence of my immersion and assimilation into a way of life in which the forces are always set against me. So in order to live with this beast, I fortify myself with a visit back home, lest I am driven completely off the Path.

This Shout is a tribute to my recent visit to Guyana and Suriname in July and August this year. The demarcation lines of the Guianas are a colonial artifice so they’re no longer considered one geographical space. My visit didn’t extend to the third Guiana which remains an “overseas department” of France. Guyana and Suriname are respectively former colonies of Britain and Holland. The territories are the same, the people equally diverse. But their expressions of culture and spirituality differ considerably. The crushing bump of my return has left a kind of hollowness and a veritable struggle to defeat depression. In what follows, I consider how possible is might be to keep aligning with the spirit after a meaningful journey to the source. Bear with me as it will take some time to get this out – at least to the delight of the guides. Along the way - all are signs.

En route to Guyana – drum beats in Barbados
You can’t travel directly to Guyana from the UK. It’s necessary to transit either through Barbados or Antigua, say, and then ultimately through Trinidad. I was travelling with my niece – it would be her first time to Guyana (and Barbados). We had planned (at least on paper) to get to Venezuela from Guyana, as well as Suriname since they are neighbouring countries at the tip of South America. In truth, Suriname was more my dream because I had wanted to go there for a long time, knowing since childhood that it’s a place of powerful spirituality, and one where Africans fought the Dutch and created their own Maroon territory in the interior. That maroon interior, with the culture and spirit of Africa is still intact. My niece wanted to get to Venezuela - after all socialism is in motion there and we hoped for the chance to observe it.

We decided to spend a few days in Barbados, en route to Guyana. I’d been to Barbados before and it’s true as a tourist you can’t fault that gorgeous island – at least once you accept that it is a “tourist driven” economy and therefore its prices match London’s in some places. Their tag is “relax, you’re in Barbados.” You can indeed relax. No one bothers you. Transport around the island is easy; it is safe, the beaches accessible and (where we were) not at all overpopulated with other tourists (though refreshingly it was used by a few locals). The people greeted us with subtle, friendly gestures, but there was often something hidden in their eyes (when they were raised long enough to be surveyed). Rarely did we encounter the male hisses that we would abundantly experience in Guyana. Pride is taken in keeping the island clean and there’s respect for pedestrians. Although there were little pavements for us to walk, as was also the case in Guyana, pedestrians do not have to fear being hit by cars if they attempt to cross the roads. In fact, cars automatically stop for you to pass – this is reversed in Guyana and Suriname where even stepping onto a zebra crossing seemed perilous.

It seemed predestined that we would make it to Venezuela because our few days in Barbados centred on attending events that were part of a cultural exchange between the Bajan and Venezuelan governments. In anticipation of Crop Over an African Venezuelan group called Foundación Aye were invited to show the similarities of song and dance that are cultural retentions from Africa. In their music we felt the drums of Africa but also heard the “sounds” of Latin America. It reminded me of old time Guyana, when as a child I was exposed to Latin American beats strumming from my aunty’s gramophone in one of many lazy afternoons, or early evenings. The Latin beat was complimented by Bajan Soca artist, Red who performed duets with the group to provide further example of the similarities between the cultures. And Africa was loud in the exchange with the Israel Lovell Foundation of Barbados; the two collaborating to show that African ancestral spirits are in the rhythm of the drums and the memories of the people. When Africans beat the drums it’s an artistic ritual that “revives” spiritual energies. It is an opening, signalling to the spirits that we’re ready for their manifestation.

Whenever we mentioned that we were going to Guyana the few Bajans we spoke to looked curiously at us, some saying forebodingly – “Guyana is not like Barbados.” When we pushed for explanation we were told that crime was high in Guyana, and that again we could “relax” in Barbados, that it was “unique” compared with the rest of the Caribbean. They were seriously asking us imploring us to spend a short time and return to Barbados (arguing that we would miss Crop Over if we didn’t). Even when we said that I was born in Guyana, this was met with a look of bewilderment or sympathy. Obviously, I felt wounded (and mindful of the impression this would have on my niece). But I understand that each of the countries in the Caribbean have their own sense and degree of pride. Barbados is proud of its reputation as a tourist destination and also its colonial links with England that still render it a jewel of the crown. Guyana too is unique within the context of a history of slavery and colonialism. We sealed our relationship with England when we replaced the Queen as Head of State with our President. Guyana was going to be rough, this was their warning but we comforted ourselves that it’s my home country so how terrible could it be. We knew it would be different. We knew there were no beaches comparable to Barbados but the experience would be something deeper.

“Guyana is not Barbados”
Every journey we make is spiritually symbolic, even when it seems “random” – as if it was just a “quick getaway.” This might be obvious for a spiritualist but whether we’re conscious of it or not, some shift or change occurs each time we travel. We recharge our physical and spiritual energies. But if we are too wound up before the journey, so much so that we do not prefigure the purpose and commune with our spirit for direction, the aligning will skew somewhat and we’ll struggle for precision – that is a direct and easy line along the Way. Said differently, we will be unconsciously in the midst of the unfolding purpose (of our journey) and thereby feeling spiritually lost and physically frazzled as we try to navigate the Path and our understanding of what is happening to us.

Sloppiness on my part and perhaps the sense that I was really “accompanying” my niece as it was her first visit to Guyana meant that we encountered some unforeseen obstacles. I recognise now that before each journey I would commune with my spirit so that everything would work in my favour – I mean things as simple as praying my luggage would “not be overweight” so I wouldn’t have to embarrassingly open my suitcase and send something back; or as complex as praying that no one dies when I go (I had noticed the coincidental occurrences of this years ago and began to pray that it wouldn’t happen each time I got on a plane – the last time I planned to go to Guyana, I ended up at my uncle’s funeral and unable to return to London for the funeral of my best friend’s brother).

Despite efforts to pre arrange accommodation, the first day we arrived was spent trying to find one that would suit our purpose. That is, we wanted a base in the City from where we could travel around the country and also fulfil the aspiration of going to Venezuela and Suriname for a few days. The place we were supposed to stay proved inconvenient. Admittedly, we had been spoilt by the splendour of the Barbados experience. There, we had the free use of a luxurious bungalow. My mother’s friend allowed us the use of her home whilst she was in London for the summer.

Guyanese homes can be woefully congested. Fake flowers, two sets of sofa suites in a small living space, dining tables, doyleys, crocheted chair backs, cabinets that house rarely used crockery are signs of some kind of cultural psychosis I’ve never understood but am convinced is remnant of colonialism – the aspiration of the landlord/slave master’s level of materialism. Desperate material conditions usually mean the congestion also includes lots of people (extended family) in the small space. Ever curious cousins doting on your strangeness can be overwhelming, even for those of us who secretly appreciate the subservience that comes simply because we’re from “outside.” So after my first few visits back I decided to do what any sane returnee would - stay in a guest house or hotel whenever I visited the City; since we’re usually seeking respite or some kind of sanctuary. Previously, my mother’s house in the country (Berbice) was available but she is back in London and the place has been rented. After a few desperate days, our accommodation needs were met by a cousin who lives in Town and the generosity of a friend based in the UK who has built a spacious, comfortable returnee’s home in Den Amstel, about twenty minutes over the river. We would travel into Georgetown each day from Den Amstel either on the boat or by bus across the floating bridge.

Let me back up to that need for “respite.” I had not properly alerted the spirits about the journey, I accept this now. After all, spiritual lashes are hot, so any aspirant should do what’s in their power to avoid these beatings. I took it for granted that the spirits were with me always and vaguely comforted myself in that. I didn’t contemplate my purpose, though was aware that “it was time” – for a “recharge.” I also took for granted that Ghana, where I had visited only a month previously, was a blessed trip and I was confident of same blessing in Guyana. No so. For Guyana is not Barbados, nor Ghana. My niece and I found ourselves very much in the midst of unfolding purpose, struggling to comprehend where exactly we were. In Barbados we had swam in clear blue water, around us now were the coffee black waters of Guyana, with the muddy Atlantic seemingly too thick for spiritual clarity.

TO BE CONTINUED...Part 11 will be posted soon

Musings from Yari Yari 2013: On Poetry

“Poetry is not only dream and vision; it is the skeleton architecture of our lives. It lays the foundations for a future of change, a bridge across our fears of what has never been before” Audre Lorde



I don’t know why I began this futile journey, but I’m certain I’ll be trapped in the solitude of the effort. Perhaps it is to challenge my own creativity and ego. How to do this sincerely is problematic - since creativity sometimes dictates flamboyance; for art to be ceremoniously named. In that naming meaning is contrived and the ego is foolishly comforted by its accomplishments. Most writers find it trifling to “talk” about their work precisely because of this contrivance of meaning. They would rather the work – their craft – “speak” as it were – for itself; or initiate individuated meanings depending on who sees or reads it. Art when it really is good touches too many souls to be readily confined to absolute interpretation and meaning, especially by the artist (the medium or muse). As Toni Morrison puts it “definitions belong to the definers, not the defined.” That’s why I tentatively take these steps forced on me after the Yari Yari conference for women writers of Africa and the diaspora (May 16th-19th) in Accra. It’s in no way intended to “define” poetry – for we know the folly of this. Rather it’s to free myself from the musings that kept coming back after each day of the conference.

The Yari Yari symposium of African women writers was inspiring for many reasons. Ama Ata Aidoo, one of the first African women writers I read at University refused to be labelled “mother” of anything, no less as Ghana’s foremost female writer. I was pleased to be in her company, to “hear/feel” her power. The documentary on Audre Lorde (the Berlin Years 1984-1994) reminded me of spirits in our midst – those ordinary people who are unafraid of their extraordinariness; their efforts are overwhelming, sometimes halting ours because we find it impossible to strive toward attaining such seeming heights. Sculptor Mel Edwards’ gentle tribute to his wife Jayne Cortez, who passed last December, was touching as was the tearful libation poured by Ama Ata for the moth circling the conference room. Again the act of extraordinariness meant that although Jayne, one of the founders of the conference, was moving into transition she insisted Yari Yari go ahead as planned. I had read that Angela Davis would be attending, but sceptically I doubted she would really come. She said she didn’t know why it had taken so long for her to visit Ghana of all African countries since Ghana was the beacon for Independence from colonialism and the struggles of Africans for liberation. “Akwaaba” came the response, because what mattered was that she was there now and welcomed, especially by Ama Ata, the two exchanging mutual respect. The fleeting visit on the last day by Samia Nkrumah (Kwame Nkrumah’s daughter) who generously granted me some photos further reminded me how the ordinary can be elevated to extraordinary – by deeds or association.

As I listened to the various panel of writers, all of them published, (though we were told that it’s the “writing” that mattered ultimately), I constantly found myself struggling to articulate (even to myself) what poetry is. Not that this was the first time. Despite teaching this subject I’ve never felt confident I knew how to differentiate what poetry is from what it so vastly attempts to be. I know it has its own discipline, distinguishable from sociology or history, say, or the ready spouting of facts and mundane information; even though it is capable of mashing these up into artistic expression.

One of the publishers at the conference said, rather discouragingly, that only about 1% of the manuscripts she receives are worthy of publishing. She said that not everything written should be published – sometimes it’s for personal release and nothing more. This might seem harsh but it needs to be taken within the context, as she also demonstrated, of crafting – dedicating time to a creative effort that an artist might not have “consciously” initiated. I am not a pianist simply because I can tap tap the white and black keys; I am no saxophonist because I know how to blow. I can’t sing, though my ego would like to believe I can! Writing is one of the first things we learn but as a craft it takes effort to make the leap from function to art. I know many in the audience wilted at this notion but there will be many more who are convinced that they are poets/writers and that their literary boom is being overlooked by publishers. Egos don’t have manners they desperately crave exposure.

So let me meander in the solitude and try to express what I think about poetry; I’m prepared for the losses in translation on the way but maybe something will surprise and keep guiding me.

It’s a wilful art of words defying expectations. It’s impulsive. It produces sumptuous feeling; enriched not by language structures (conceptualised rigidness and rules) but the deliberate abandonment of these. Or instead of being conceptualised (consciously) those structures become spiritualised in the stillness and composure. One is forced to “speak in tongues,” – if you like - at that silent, compelling command. Or perhaps possessed by the free language of spirit - I’ll call it “spiritised” language. And it doesn’t boundary or constrain but retrieves the limitlessness of creativity becoming a dancing art of ecstatic release. Bound spirits are freed. Stories aren’t told but “invoked.” This comes sometimes violently; a kind of intuiting violence that convulses the heart. It doesn’t concede modes of rationality but ruptures mind-fullness. I think it is produced in and from a kind of trance. For the mediation is imperative. It’s theatrical too; dramatizing and imagising everything. Inside the heart of bitter, beautiful or tormented experiences it selects the muse and moment for its expression. And it is impossible to refuse it just like drumbeat bounces head and tantalises body. It compels emotion; exorcising demons; magnetising deities of voices. Some erratic substance materialises – flailing lines of movement. You will know it by the place and mood wherein it takes or leaves you. The linear, like conceptual language is disrupted since it journeys too predictably. Feelings spin they do not strut from the boldness of imagination. The words arraying interrupted patterns are defiant in their wilfulness to delight and disturb. This “spinning” of feelings is an initiatory calling. It desires the muse to shape it somehow –and let it go. Or energise it into a living entity; freed from the wilderness of imagination but thrust into the substance of contending emotions. The calling is not a high or low, better or poor thing – for it refrains from borders that blight its power. It simply must be born; optimally from the soul tuned in purposeful contemplation. Timing – though not constraining – is precise. For it knows when to stir that soul. Pain and pleasures collide or maybe they are collaged in the shaping. There is a pervading ecstasy in the state of subconscious communication with the muse. Yet this ecstasy – or pleasure – is mirrored by the pain in releasing the spirit in the words. The contracting of structured language out of subconsciousness is a troubling feat and wonderment. So something palpably negotiated between muse and art manifests. One respects the other for without this neither exists. There might be sweet reluctance but the mediation brings a kind of empowering flightiness. By this, the muse delights in the madness permissible by the meddling spirit of their art. It does not aim to free nor constrain but perhaps to spark a discouraged soul. Emotional dalliances are the outcome. I mean – something seemingly secure is shaken. The rupture might aggrieve but something of it encourages action; this might be to dream new visions and believe therein. Fear takes a different place in consciousness - as the brevity of a gasp - for now something veritable has been released. Art and living merge. One enriches the other with awesome dependency; the muse must decide the order; recognise and accept the gift of thus being “mounted” (as it were) by this relentless, guiding spirit.



The above musings are just that “musings” which will evermore abide in solitude. I experienced the following on one of the Yari Yari nights when I couldn’t sleep. The attempt is to express the “lived experience” into art. But what was the “experience” that I’m trying to merge with art? “if you surrendered to the air, you could ride it” (Toni Morrison, again) – this is something like the experience. It was not a dream, but something more; kind of like surrendering to spirit…and so here goes…

Surrender

Birthing and burnishing
brilliance into the moon
of my scarred belly
the corners of my mouth
nearly tears
inviting
etherealities of peace
I simulate in wombing darkness
touching
memories of immortality
enticed by the blissfulness of flight
and as I climb the night sky tree
Amazonian shaded leaves needle me
soar higher something promises
fearlessly I traipse my imagination
into the dream of forgetfulness
and lay many miseries there

Some silhouetted form
outstretches
within the heart
of a translucent crevice
breathing sounding silent
with unknown aliveness
I am enjoying this fleeting
dance in the ravine
of sweet stillness
I am bounded beyond rooftops
of hurting and surviving
casting freedoms for my futures
I am enraptured by No-thing

Breathing and beaming reveries of
fluctuating light
I swirl in the void of
conjured sanctuary
everything releases me
my limbs synergise their own heavens
I float in the space of aborted sacrifices
I see light blushing my soul
I can be no more than
The All that I am
I do not struggle in spaces
of timelessness
I expand in the darkness
and the glow
glowing
glowings remain

M.Yaa Asantewa

Shout Out