Cyril Dabydeen’s work has appeared in over 60 literary mags and anthologies, including Poetry (Chicago), Prairie Schooner (US), The Critical Quarterly (UK), Canadian Literature, and the Oxford, Penguin and Heinemann Books of Caribbean Verse and Fiction. Published 20 books of prose and poetry—the latest being God’s Spider (Peepal Tree Press, UK) He is a former Poet Laureate of Ottawa (1984-87). He has taught Creative Writing at the University of Ottawa for many years. He is of indentured Indian heritage born in Guyana, S. America. Contact: cdabydeen@ncf.ca
Special Collection: Creativity in the Time of the Pandemic 2020>>
A Life Of Crows
Whoever we may have become
watching the crows circling
the house and making
loud cawing noises.
A caterwaul, believe me, sounds
for whoever else is listening,
as my neighbour said it’s only
about those dying.
He would take his dog outside
and look out for everyone—
what the crows know best,
birds’ ways no less, or it’s about
something else as ethologists
like Konrad Lorenz couldn’t tell.
Words left unsaid—
about my neighbour, Manuel,
long gone, broken by illness—
crows looking over now.
HEART & LUNGS
The air we breathe is what the lungs
know about, what the ancient Greeks
or the Pharaohs contemplated best
more than Harvey of blood circulation.
Oh the heart and knowing what else
the rib cage tells us about, a distinct
rhythm only I will contend with,
like Odysseus, or some other
I’ve considered less about at
odd moments in distant places,
the imagination indeed, or being
Homer again with mythology.
Ithaca I will aim for, returning
home where I consider brain cells
and start humming to myself
about the liver, kidneys, spleen;
and veins, arteries, aorta, the alveoli,
bronchial tubes as I breathe harder
making sure I’m one step closer
to my own creative self, I know,
but resorting to valves; and those
who will come after with gadgets,
a doctor’s tools yet hanging around
the neck I will again dwell upon
in my own way with a mighty
heave, not unlike real drama
played out on stage, bloodlust
being tragedy from the start.
PAEAN
My vessel, your vessel,
speaking in tongues,
my face close to yours
bending forward,
thighs uncorrupted,
feet splayed out
my voice in your ears,
this moment only–
lips pasted together
laughter I hear again,
with more praise,
a tryst starting over
heaving in, time’s
foreshadowing—
the night’s reckoning
what’s yet to come,
beckoning to you–
hands linked together
more than I care to tell
about being who we are,
with everlasting love
PRISM
This is a crepuscular time,
dark shades in between,
sun being harnessed–
the formidable heat
in the display of green,
ochre, mystery once again.
Looking around, insides
turned out, vermilion hues;
a body pouring out
this moment when all else
is happening–
Eyes, hands & feet,
further blinking,
somersaulting shadows
And with our salted
brows, the body turning–
a sulphurous sun in
my midst, beating down
from the mirageous
sea of sky.