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After Gary Butte “So crossing the river and walking the path we came at last to Kumasi.” – Kamau Brathwaite  The Merchant, by Gary Butte (St. Lucia). Contemporary. Prologue: The Merchant Did he arrive at sunset’s orange hour or with the anonymous midday bustle markets busy before Sabbath-- and evening or noon height, him, stranger with strange wares looking for a berth in the fabled city. Who wants cantos from placards of bewildered widows? Totems to soft bones of decimated embryos? Androgynous puppets parading obscenely between certain jars?-- “Any credit for dark sayings of Babylon, Bhutan or islands of the sea?” Fifth Avenue needs no merchandise of prophets-- with their Greek vases their silicon tablets their first editions high speed subways and twin towers-- won’t spare a dime for this third world primitive his ark of Mesopotamian innocence his naive style.  The Way Up, by Gary Butte. The Way Up From Ur to Haran down the Crescent Valley to Egypt back again to the terebinth trees of Mamre, and the Canaanite was then in the land. The Man came in the heat of the day on their way to the boulevards and museums the malls and stadia, suburbs and ghettos to strange women and rich men’s catamites. After, the plain of Siddim smoked like a cursed holocaust and salt pillars lined the road to Zoar.  The New Age, by Gary Butte. The New Age “city of gold, paved with silver, ivory altars, tables of horn.” – Kamau Brathwaite remembrances of ghosts: masks of indifferent hostility nightmares we had not imagined shame applauded across networks distractions at the frenetic tips of fingers-- privacy, thought, prayer ‘itation, Jah – banished.  A Kiss, by Gary Butte. A Kiss “It was the bolero, Ramona, the bolero, a kiss of jazz creole lady with the Rita Dove lips, not forgetting, Maritza Andean pan flutes breathing reggae at El Solar Casa Cultural in Bucaramanga -- Celia Cruz, Lady Day, Sesenne Descartes Makeba, Piaf, Edith Lefel souls many, so many, Ramona -- lovers scarved with rainbows scattering galaxies out of sad earth raising for us pardons, benedictions, homecomings.”  Doors to Infinity, by Gary Butte. Doors to Infinity Turnstiles, tokens, trains eternity of rails receding Flirtatious oval eyes retreating to masques of faces The familiar loved becoming stranger You between the glass doors echoing reflections Your heart, furtive fervent, fugitive.  Animal Man to Angel, by Gary Butte. Animal Man to Angel “the sons of God saw the daughters of men that they were fair; and they took them wives of all which they chose” – Genesis 6:2 In the chronicles of giants Fire loved a woman of earth with peacocks at her feet hibiscus through her locks and deep dimples under her laughing-- when she betrayed him (his fantasies bored her eventually) for a one-boat fisherman and his spectacular nets flung over green islands and flying fish -- their son, confused between his elements, took to the airwavesand broadcast himself Huracán furious against surf, hill defiant lamp.  Morning Roosters, by Gary Butte. Epilogue: Morning Roosters
"and the feather, red rooster, reminds us he watches; " - Kamau Brathwaite A rumour, and more than a rumour, of cockerels -- from Kumasi to tents of Kedar from markets of Sichuan to Port of Spain’s Savannah -- The great Comb that raised the world to the first sun comes again with His plumes and spurs comes to take for Himself a harem of a bride from every coop and hen house of earth ̶ Egyptian Fayoumis, Japanese Bantams, Rhode Island Reds and Blue Cochins Guinea Hens and Creole Leghorns, among the bridal caravan of pullets -- He comes of course, with morning and trumpet radiance of the last sun. John R. Lee John Robert Lee is a Saint Lucian writer. His most recent publication is City Remembrances (Mahanaim, 2016). His Collected Poems 1975-2015 is forthcoming from Peepal Tree Press (UK) in 2017. Gary Butte is a Saint Lucian artist with several exhibitions to his credit.
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March 2023
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