Sint Maarten (for —)
i. The Blue Bitch Bar, on the boardwalk behind Front Street, Philipsburg, was where we read, Friday night, during the Book Fair -- dogs chased kids on Segways a band played Third World classics waitress gave me the wireless password -- patrons were polite writers applauded each other, and you reminded me of someone I loved, and who loved me 45 years ago. ii. “Casino country” said a friend, and downtown, lining narrow cobbled streets, jewellery stores everywhere, their elderly women who get a tip if you enter and buy -- a yellow antique car decorates Old Street Indian shops offer deals on saris and ipads, and back at the book tables, you sign faith for a young one who believes in more than cruise-ship terminals -- but we can’t go back, you and I to undivided lives, to love as seminal as pelicans browsing uninvaded shallows. iii. At Boundary Monument, driving to Marigot Shujah points the flag of the independence movement for a united St. Martin no more French lagoon, or Dutch salt pond, a mosaic “island of dreams”, multi-national, multi-lingual cosmopolitan Caribbean -- I didn’t see enough of bay-embraced quartiers and small hills to measure the fantasy, like bridging the points between archived nostalgia and relentless vague desire. John R. Lee Saint Lucian writer, broadcaster, teacher, Bible preacher John R. Lee has a recent publication, Collected Poems: 1975-2015, from Peepal Tree. Click here to learn more.
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The Ekphrastic Review
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January 2021
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