" + say + "

function PUW (Location, XLength, YLength) { window.open(Location, "Pop", "menubar=no,toolbar=no,location=no,scrollbars=yes,directories=no,status=no,resizable=no,width=" + XLength + ",height=" + YLength); } function NewWin (here) { window.open(here, "new", "menubar=no,toolbar=no,location=no,scrollbars=yes,directories=no,status=no,resizable=yes,width=760,height=200"); } var batikPoem; bat01= " avocados

at dusk
in the city of Cartagena
Cartagena of the Indies

at dusk in the old port
where the galleons of Spain
bellies heavy with rich pickings
once heaved on the slow swell

at dusk
on the stone quay
beyond the clamour of the market,
comfort of steaming rice and beans,

at dusk
I passed three warehouses
three deep barrel vaulted caves
with their great arched doorways open
to the sea, to the light breeze and smouldering light

and the first was filled with ripe avocados
and the second was filled with overripe avocados
and the third also
was full of avocados, rotting,
their skins polished to a hard dull sheen

enough for a hundred lifetimes
like a great treasure of dark emeralds
an abundance becoming worthless
a wealth so great it turned to waste
on the quay at Cartagena
as the sun at the sea's edge
spread and spoiled and sank
"; bat02= " bamboo

all year the bamboo
has thickened over
the path north &
my sister & i rarely
look that way. we
talk of many things
during the measured
duties of the day or
the soft caresses on
straw mats but
never of you

*

cut in the time of
the dark moon the
bamboo does not bleed

it made the walls
of this house you built
it made the flute
you used to play to me

broken in the time of
the dark moon my
heart does not weep
"; bat03= " bananas

the bird is in the bananas
the bird is singing
the bananas are also singing.

they have grown so full their
puckered mouths have closed
& they are singing a swollen
song the song of the root
sung through the silent throat
to the root in its darkness
the root of all this matter
inventing in the darkroom of soil
and sending its creations up
to take a look around & sing
to it of what they see.

the bird, on the other hand, sings
in response to a root inside
or everywhere around her. this gives
her wings. & that
is another
difference between
a bird & a banana
"; bat04= " bus stop

They got off the bus. The dust
spumed under thick tyres, fell back.
Cool, breaking day. The road
stretching from there to there, from
dust to dust, hunched trees, scorched bushes,
small cane huts by the gritty beds of gutted streams.
And here? A square paved with dry leaves and dust,
a street of shuttered houses, a corner
where a bus stops twice a day. Somewhere to stay?
A small wind stirs, that must have strayed in from the sea
that is somewhere over there, beyond sear fields
of scrub and yellow dust, on an already hazed horizon.
Their throats are dry and ache for coffee,
but more than coffee, for a release
from the land's tension, for the sea that now
aches in their noses, swells and ebbs
with each wave of hunger. Beside the mud wall
and the dusty flowers they put their bags.
One smokes a cigarette. They wait for the bus.
"; bat05= " butterfly

the old butterfly had been around the house
for days, sucking sugar & stumbling into walls,

but now she has reached the garden & her huge
body straddles a cracked orange in the grass.

her turtleshell wings are erect, even in dusk
the sharp black eye mocks its watcher

but she is too rigid: there is no flicker
of interest or fear as we approach, respectful

but not closely enough related to wish to attend
her wake or wait to watch the actual collapse

which will happen in its own world
in the moonlight under the orange tree

when the butterflies come, blue as death,
to hover gleaming at the jungle's rim.
"; bat06= " cabbages

the young girls are cutting the cabbages
green leaves closed over white hearts

they are cutting with knives that gleam
like moonlight, like rings, like tears

the young girls are stripping the cabbage beds
their flesh is the warm brown of fertile earth

what will open their green leaves
or pierce their white hearts?

knives or moonlight
rings or tears
"; bat07= " corn

how can we talk of life who drift
each day between coming & going
the lifting of the fruiting stalks
from the fields to fill my belly
& my childs. these presents offer
themselves & i peel the green
wrappers to take the golden gift
but where anything comes from is
not truely known. i can only
accept the thick stalk of the
corn, of my man, & take the fruit
whatever it may be, & bear it
on my back, in my belly. & do
not think this lessens me:
death is for the dead, & where
i find myself is what i do & am,
but i cannot talk of life
"; bat08= " fishing

daybreak. they come from the houses,
the small wooden houses, like rafts, like arks

& from a boat's dark hollow they unravel
a mass of strings; a shawl to wrap the chill waves in,
a hammock to rest the uneasy dreams of water,
a tattered handkerchief to trap the silver tears
beneath the waves eyebrow

& they drag it across the sand like a dead seal,
they walk into the water wearing all their clothes

& now they form a semi-circle
in which some of them are swimming,
& now they close the circle
& their first and last stand on the shore
& now they all are pulling, pulling,
pulling as if the
whole weight of the sea is in the net
& now they all stand in the shallows
& the breakers below their knees
seethe with white water & flashing shiny fish

& that last heave has seperated the foam from the fish
that touching the shore twist in the dry current of the air
becoming pearl, shell & metal shards, as helpless, as fleshy
as ripe fruits, but without the promise of seed or stone,
completely dead

a small boy lifts them one by one
from the sand spread like a jeweller's counter,
threads them together
in giant earrings, through their mouths

into the boats' lee the fishers pull the net, pick up
their bunched trophies, go back to the houses

palm trees caught in a net of light, the almost
tideless sea. a faint shadow of silver
splashed upon the sand
"; bat09= " for h.

the thick leaves frame my nature
& the yellow fruits
sing in their fullness of the simple
strength of growth.
& i who know so many of their secrets
but do not presume
am held in the magic & in this way
become my own spell

i am a lion, a black lion, living
in a dreamland of ethiopia:
not the land of arid hills where men
chase each other in that
endless savage hunt of humans where
food gets less not more;
but one blurred with ripeness, dense
with flowers & singing birds.

here i sit crowned by giant leaves
& rich glowing blossoms
& my eyes so black beneath my black
tangled twisted mane
are curious & bright & look upon
two worlds in the same dream

"; bat10= " hibiscus

walking down the trace
a wall of burning mouths

the air smarting with
the smell of burnt bamboo
a wall of burning mouths

the heat suffocating the dust
the light chipped into pebbles
hazy fire blossom on the hillside

a wall of burning mouths
their thin tongues worn limp
scent & the colour of skin rubbed raw

"; bat11= " hummingbird

the brown water has the
pace of a buffalo, its feet
in the mud, its way
blocked by reeds

a hummingbird hid
in the orange tree, singing
from the stillness at the heart
of speed

***

everything is there
before we get to it

& clipping on a codeword
file it in our experience

this tagging takes a
certain blind courage

even when others
have invented & agreed
to use the code

so i am amazed by
the daring of the human
who first saw this

chip of light & energy
sucking the sweet of the trees

& called it hummingbird
"; bat12= " joses party

Down steep stairs in the scented dusk, smooth bodies
bob in tiled water, blooded by sunset;
others wearing white speak low on the terrace,
words circle words in an intricate dance.

What will become of all these pretty people?
this laughter, those sly looks, soft mouths?

The red moon rises, teeth gleam in shadows,
fallen bouganvillia float in the pool;
at the cliff's edge young men tease each other:
fear makes a fine exciter of their flesh.

When the final, dangerous, uninvited guests appear,
they will at least be half-expected.
"; bat13= " jouvert morning

The sun. The sun
jumps up on the Savannah, a copper mask, a blazing pan
beating, just jumping, no stopping,
its deep bass echoing in the haze that makes the houses
seem to vibrate, belly-out, shift their sides;
and coming with the heat, the thrum and thrust of drums
rising in the dust churned by heavy trucks whose steel
shimmers as they rumble like chariots of thunder
in the ruck and swell, the surge of masqueraders:
a tumbled mass of sailors, kings, red indians and demons,
birds and beasts, gods of cloth and cane and feather
who roll and ripple on the riffs, the bursting waves of brass
breaking on a hoped-for shore where everybody is somebody
and the masks of everyday drop like discarded rotis
to be crushed by the feet of the dancers in the street
as freed and lost inside the tempo they celebrate themselves.
"; bat14= " mangoes

because the rain has not yet fallen
the valley's curled lips sweat towards the sky

& because the sun has buried itself in the valley
the sweat is yellow, yellow of soil becoming sand
of dry cane, of sulpher, of fire

& because this yellow cannot be denied
because it glows in the heart of green
green the child of sun and water

the huge trees with their domes of darkest green
their thick cool domes of oily leaves
are drenched with yellow blossom or dripping mangoes

green mangoes that are flushed with sunlight
mangoes turning more yellow than earth than fire
whose flesh is becoming sunshine & liquid

that hang like beads of yellow sweat
& fall for the ants, the village children, the passerby,
that are caught in sticky hands, in reed baskets, in hats,

so that everyone can eat the fruit of the sun
the yellow sun cobwebbed by clouds

& because the mangoes are ripe the parrots are coming
macaws with bellies the colour of ripe mangoes
with backs the colour of brilliant sky

amazon parrots whose heads are splashed with blossom
whose backs are washed the light blue of spring water
whose bodies are the green of leaves in the rain

the rain that is beginning to fall in the valley
"; bat15= " maracas beach

In here we lose the wider view
have become tightened to a table
the shade hardens dull metal
sticky circular stains

his hand sulks smoothly back
to the wet glass his eyes
ignore rebuffs defeat rejection
glance at the roof tin and girders

outside, bodies pass each one
interesting sunlit and warm
- Everything, I want everything -
he turns the glass laughs

that was not what he meant to say.
"; bat16= " oranges

which came first
the colour or the fruit

***
through the archway
a tarnished moon.
in the wicker basket
green oranges huddle
in unweeping melencholy

***
in the long grass a ripe
orange. its heart
secretly stolen by ants

***
in the tree a young
boy &
the oranges. both
will come down
together

***
when they are ready to be picked
the oranges
stop pretending to be leaves

***
the orange on the table
drew all the light in the room into it
& still it did not shine

***
even in the hand the orange
maintains an air of
resolute inviolability

***
her fingers pressed just so hard
into the orange
flesh into flesh
her mind was elsewhere

***
the torn skin
shards
of a broken pot

***
nothing is shared
as simply as
an orange
"; bat17= " orchids

some people collect orchids like stamps
or pull them up to wrap in glass
in cellophane, in metal, as if they
had no right to stay where they
were found, or found themselves,
longtongued as playful cats,
in their secret places
under the trees

what we uproot to possess turns artificial,
once plucked, the true & secret beauty's gone.
yet, if you must take, do not imprison:
put the orchid behind your ear,
take it dancing & crush it
in a fragrance of flesh
on the forest's bed
"; bat18= " palmtrees

a long time ago
they grew to love the sun
so much they simply
stood & dreamed
until their claws
turned roots & they could
no longer fly

& then small mammals
learnt to climb
up into their crutches
to steal their eggs
before they laid them

great flocks of them
flutter by the shore
they do not notice
the small mammals
the sun shines on them &
they are still dreaming

***

in the enormous
room of the dusky plain
worn by their efforts
against the cobwebs
of dust & haze, like
tattered feather dusters
the palmtrees are propped
up against an horizon
glowing red raw with
the ageless domed lamps
of cane fires
"; bat19= " sugarcane

as the day breaks they are cutting the cane
the slave cane whose nightflowers of plumred & purple
are hiding their revels from sunlight and sight,
that rears over its cutters cracking and whooshing
with the powerless energy of a starving peasantry;
that is a nightmare army of zombies, a fierce
thick floodtide of spears & fluttering pennants,
surging rebelliously & unable to rush forward,
checked by centuries of slavery that have bred it almost
seedless and sterile, needing man for
each new generation
that's grown from the speartips of those chopped & pulped
by generations of men who are scarcely more free:
and where the cleared ground ends they confront each other
the cane that is slave to its planter & cutter,
the cutter near slave to the owner of cane

in the dizzy heat of midday they are cutting the cane
bottles of water & white rum lie in the shade of slashed fronds
with white rum & red anger they are cutting the cane
chopping the thin bones for the marrows sweetness
with cutlasses that live in contempt of bone
the bone of the neighbour who looks at your wife
the bone of your wife who's run back to her mother
the bone of your friend who's been seen with your boyfriend
every mad grievance can be cut out with a cutlass
but not the grievance of cutting the cane for a pittance:
both cane & cutter carry leaf swords for the owner

in the cool of the evening they are cutting the cane
the endless cane, the cane they make endless,
the cane like themselves, like the arms of the hungry,
the sweet cane that leaves
a sour taste in the mouths
of its cutters
"; bat20= " to arima

At the bus station
the passengers for Arima
form a long quivering snake
whose head has been trapped
in high metal barriers, baited
by the empty bay.

Three bus drivers arrive
and standing outside the grille
begin to chant 'Only trust him',
which the smallest of them
follows with a stomping sermon
- 'Let there be light'.

The queue observes them
with polite murmurs
and the tolerance extended
by those bored by waiting
to buskers anywhere.

At last the preacher
calls on us to pray
for our deliverance,
and in the soggy heat
a deep murmur rises
wordless, heartfelt,

and the bus to Arima
snarling its gears
drowns out the amen.
"; function bomm(song,say,len,ht,fig,figw,figh){ batikPoem = window.open('','bomm','toolbar=no,location=no,directories=no,status=no,scrollbars=yes,resizable=no,copyhistory=no,height=' + ht + ',width='+ len); text = "" + say + ""; text += ""; text += ""; text += ""; text += ""; text += "

"; text += "dave calder"; text += " "; text += song; text += "
DAVE CALDER © 2005 "; text += " " text += "

"; text += ""; batikPoem.document.write(text); batikPoem.focus(); batikPoem.document.close(); var batikPoem=""; return; } function picki(h){ if (h==1){bomm(bat01,'avocados',640,520,'null.jpg',2,2);} else if (h==2){bomm(bat02,'bamboo',744,520,'02.jpg',300,300);} else if (h==3){bomm(bat03,'bananas',744,520,'03.jpg',214,246);} else if (h==4){bomm(bat04,'busstop',744,520,'null.jpg',2,2);} else if (h==5){bomm(bat05,'butterfly',744,520,'05.jpg',290,290);} else if (h==6){bomm(bat06,'cabbages',744,480,'06.jpg',277,300);} else if (h==7){bomm(bat07,'corn',744,520,'07.jpg',228,300);} else if (h==8){bomm(bat08,'fishing',744,520,'08.jpg',258,300);} else if (h==9){bomm(bat09,'for h',744,520,'null.jpg',2,2);} else if (h==10){bomm(bat10,'hibiscus',744,520,'10.jpg',300,191);} else if (h==11){bomm(bat11,'hummingbird',680,520,'11.jpg',184,251);} else if (h==12){bomm(bat12,'joses party',640,510,'null.jpg',2,2);} else if (h==13){bomm(bat13,'jouvert morning',680,520,'null.jpg',2,2);} else if (h==14){bomm(bat14,'mangoes',780,520,'14.jpg',300,300);} else if (h==15){bomm(bat15,'maracas',640,520,'null.jpg',2,2);} else if (h==16){bomm(bat16,'oranges',640,520,'16.jpg',260,295);} else if (h==17){bomm(bat17,'orchids',786,520,'17.jpg',293,202);} else if (h==18){bomm(bat18,'palmtrees',640,520,'18.jpg',187,300);} else if (h==19){bomm(bat19,'sugarcane',784,520,'19.jpg',271,393);} else if (h==20){bomm(bat20,'to arima',600,520,'null.jpg',2,2);} else return; }