There’s some deep grooves
laid down through the moves,
forced or voluntary,
in the migrant’s heart
a migrant’s heart will always be a split – colonialism running through the blood like dis-ease
stitched together, makeshift, with tartan, kente, plastic and twine, scattered cowrie shells divine.
a ghost of its former self,
a migrant’s heart will always beat
out of place and time.
Sunday afternoons, after fried curry and rice and West Indian dumplings,
we’d sit on a brushed flannel blanket covering the velvet settee. Legs too short to touch the multicoloured carpet beneath.
We’d sit straight, only our eyes moving, wandering over the bright yellow textured wallpaper, tracing patterns and exits until we were dizzy.
He sat in one armchair and her in the other. Armrests protected with white hugging linens. Dollies on head rest, sideboards, side tables. Everywhere.
Behind him hanging against the white washed wall was a black velvet scroll depicting the islands of Trinidad and Tobago. Home. A silence presence.
If he was in a good mood then there’d be port and a cigar and the gramophone sounding out with soul. Other times, black and white TV shows like Survival and the history of athletics, we had to watch. Still and silent.
We were his children brought up to do as we were told. To not ask why and call our elders uncle or Tantie . Any deviation from such a course of action would result in rage and beats.
My imagination became the place of expressing my range of emotions. My imagination became the place of power and choice. Freedom.
Pigeons. Standing there.
From a marionette flat
with a pebbledashed balcony
grey feathered birds, standing
there, there on the railings.
After Paula Dunn
based on the weather
handing over a landscape like a veil,
a limited palette
to keep things simple
but storm coming on, clouds layered,
winds textured
and dark low lying land brushmarked
and glazed for atmosphere
the yellows, oranges and browns brood
within depths of time and place
searching for a flick of white
to rest and breathe
After Lubaina Himid
Worn timber, cowrie shells,
currency and shoreline,
you sound like waves
and the creaking hull of death.
I try to imagine, she said, what it would be like to be taken from all that I knew, moving in a stinking wooden vessel over something I knew not what to call but it swallows our bodies whole. See sea, sea see. Propped against a white wall to suggest a wave in motion, the angle of pleasure, as I witness it, from the other side, here and now, I rumble with displaced memories. Memories that traumatise but hold onto me like seeds buried within my hair, bearing into my flesh.
After Althea McNish
Sunflowers
big and bold
inspired by Van Gogh’s
brandished
across a
yellow and white
striped field
black lines
outline floppy leaves
and dozing closed heads
bright colour carried to
this grey isle
not a luxury but a necessity
for survival
for blooming
another time
uprooted
sunflowers
Living Wild Studios 