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Poetry
A collection of poems reflecting on relationships, the earth, human nature, identity, and what it means to feel at home.
Nov 10, 2024
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Taste of Other
You say that you desire
all the passion and ardor of youths consumed
by the fire of love insatiable,
That you thrive on the pulses
of crowds through the streets,
in and out of metros,
On the beat of high heels and sneakers and shoes and feet
slapping the pavement,
making music that matches your own heartbeat
as the masses move onward
to their job, to their homes, to nowhere.
You say that you burn
for the way one melts into the throngs
that spread across the concrete,
the ease with which one loses themselves
to become an unidentifiable face,
the froth of a wave in the sea of bodies,
a part unless connected to the whole.
Would you love me if I was empty?
If all there existed was the shuffle of sandals occasionally?
Would you still burn
if the only way to be was one instead of many?
if the only face seen was yours
framed not by other nameless strangers
but by Lego buildings?
Would you still want
if the only fire was a flame cupped by brown, roughened hands
held close to the breasts of those whose hearts lay miles away?
if passion was a longing for the embrace of blood
and not the press of writhing bodies?
Would you still desire
if the music was the quiet hum of the lonesome few
and not the cacophony of shouted curses
and language as colorful as the buildings and tongues that uttered it?
if the only evidence of life
was the clothes that lined the balconies
and cars in the street?
Would you love this taste of other that was all bitter and no sweet?
Baqala
Tucked away in a wall of white
was a baqala that wore its years
in the dust that clung to clear glass.
If you blink too quickly -
if you didn’t pause in whatever quest you were undertaking -
you surely would have missed it.
It was unremarkable.
In a place where stores crowded each other
trying to be bold wearing muted colors,
it was easily forgettable.
So good was it at blending in
that one missed its presence.
In New York, the people were the crowd,
in Al Karama, the stores
sitting at the base of buildings were the crowd.
Tucked away at the end of Kwar Street
there sat a lonely baqala.
It had no companion,
none of shared tongue,
none of shared dress,
none to welcome the wandering souls
that sought brief respite from hunger or thirst.
It had grown weary,
hoping for more to come
and seeing carefully structured
houses of brick take their place.
Its bones were greying
and maybe soon it too
would become a faceless facade
in a sea of polished concrete.
Coffee
Coffee for the weary
for the ones whose clothes are covered in dust.
Coffee for the workers,
for the migrants,
for the ones who build the places we live
and work, and shop.
Coffee for Africa,
for the incense burners,
for the women who sweep their stores.
Coffee for the idlers,
for the men who sit on the roadside,
for the smokers who speak Arabic.
Coffee for the saloons,
for the men who cut their hair,
for the men that come and go.
Coffee for the barbers,
for the store owners,
for the ones who run their business.
Coffee from Syria,
from Sri Lanka in our stores.
Coffee for those who love it.
We grind and roast our own coffee.
The Feeling of Home
a long expanse of a plain light pink
or beige wall in
a place that looks like
part of it stepped back in time
in a place that writes
and rewrites its buildings to
recapture what was torn down
that feels like the ancient
never left its shores
and was buried beneath
the foundation of modernity and the West
that feels like the same air
that passed through those windows
and towers built to cool
that carried the salt on the skin
of the merchants carries
the sweat of the migrants
who rebuild history
that looks nothing like the
buildings I carry in my memories
like the streets that know my feet
like the food that my tongue knows
like the people that are me
shouldn’t make me feel
like I was looking at a white wall
in San Juan waiting for a maxi
or a car with a driver
a touch too forward
like I was walking the street
to get to the supermarket
my sister works at, next to
some 10 dollar store and a
Subway and KFC in the same building
like I was waiting for the light
to turn green so I could cross
the road to catch the bus
to head to Port of Spain
or go in the opposite direction
to Arima or to Fyzabad
or to San Fernando to visit
family that my grandmother knows
like I was only a stone’s throw
from my very first primary school
and my grandmother’s church
and the many small stores
that line the streets
like the smell of fish
that always made me gag
and the farmer’s market
were only a few steps away
like the hustle and bustle
of a place too small
to have real importance but
too big to have none
should not feel like a city
that is not a city
should not feel like I was
home.
Nightfall
I watch as day bleeds into night,
hues of pink, gold, and purple streaking the sky,
wispy cotton candy clouds floating by.
I watch as the sun prepares to rest,
slowly wrapping navy, star-spotted blankets around itself.
I watch as nature says goodnight:
Birds flying to their nests,
wings caressed by the evening breeze,
Trees quieting eager branches,
Loud barking being replaced by happy yips.
I watch as one by one, houses close their eyes,
Serenity washing over the town like a gentle wave,
Leaving peace and rest in its wake.
I watch as a lone figure strides up the street,
purpose strengthening his legs and lengthening his steps.
I watch as a smile like a wave breaks upon his face,
dragging the corners of his lips up like sand moved by the sea.
I watch as he nears, galaxies trapped in his gaze,
the starry sky in comparison growing dim.
My heart thunders,
struggling to burst from my chest to meet him.
I have waited a lifetime but I waited not in vain.
He has come
and the cricket's tune suddenly seems all the more sweet.
A Bond Worth Nothing
My words mean nothing
and my thoughts have no import
Do not ask me what I stand for,
I do not know.
Do not ask me what I will fall for,
the answer will always be everything.
My word is a bond broken many times over,
the vows of the unfaithful
Do not trust what I say,
my words are not my own
They mean nothing to me
though they mean everything to those who need them
My words are excuses for my inaction,
a flimsy substitute
You want more than empty promises,
tangible evidence of solidarity
I cannot give you more
than sympathy roused by occasion -
fleeting and weak -
than detached, temporary passion
You ask more than I'm capable of,
There is only so much empathy my heart could dispense,
So much pity I could be made to feel
I am nothing more than a repository of useless platitudes,
a cracked fountain of rusting hopes and leaking wishes.
I desire to more than simply desire,
but my hands have been broken by aloofness
and my mind is set on remaining indifferent.
El'isha Allen is a Senior Features Editor. Email them at feedback@thegazelle.org.
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