June 2007

IThe dilemma of Mr. Smith of sunset valleyFiery dawn, capricious dawn, let down dawnWhat do I do with her?What do I do about her?Maybe I shall let her set outMaybe I shall let her dawn on me.IIAt the shores of poetryYeats*, Joyce*, Plath*Now trickling, now flowing, now floodingThis river runs deep, runs strong, runs fast alongOutpourings of Shakespearean* iambic pentameter to drown me,These they flood into the river, to break down my dam of illiteracy.IIIInsomniaAt the coffee house,Time escapes my watch,Like sleep escapes my coffee drowned eyesIVThe Caribbean expressOn and on he goes,Like the chook chook trainTrainloads of words, never broken, never derailedDickson E Wasake

Four years spent in a city where dogs are as common as the air we breathe, their poop even more common in uncommon textures, sizes and distribution, usually on small, stone-paved roads leading to student apartments, unvisited dentists’ offices, and the occasional ‘Arab store’, where the garbage trucks make more noise than army tanks, starting at six in the morning and coming back again to haunt expectant ears at dinner time. The very first year was one of mere adventure. A dusty foot daughter of the continent trekked worlds she’d not known before, all the while thinking that mentalities and goals were analogous.