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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required Oh, to be in Trinidad when the hot scented currents flow, from East Dry River to Nariva chaconia and silk cotton tree grow. Where reaching palms whisper across island reef and coconut lagoon, and the forests of Papa Bois flower with lotus lillies in bloom Oh, to be in Trinidad in the time of the House of Trestrail, and be again that child before the Voyage of Six leaving did sail. Where by antiquity starlight Amerindians crossed its riverbends, and tall masted clipper ships sailed the spice seas to its far ends Oh, to be in Trinidad when equatorial rains have passed, and gaze Big Wet to Big Dry hot burning canefield and wildgrass. Lowland baptism of blossom resurrect from Toco to Mayaro Bay, and in reacquainted seasons waves of consciousness slip away Oh, to be in Trinidad where tales of bacchanal abound - how old chimes with new yet uprising does a trumpet sound! And ghosts of the revolution fan its flames in the hot raging sun, where dat voodoo spirit rise the Obeah Man when day is done Oh, to be in Trinidad for crab and callaloo on Sunday, let the Boca gulf gates lull and stars over Tobago my fears allay. Dream and moonstruck gaze till Monos windsong wakes no more, listen and you too shall hear rapping upon her hideaway shore Oh to be in Trinidad in Caroni for the Scarlet Ibis flown, hummingbird’s backward dance - beauty I’m richer for having known. And in days of future years tread again the hot Maracas sands, or horse trails of Blue Range and Rancho Caballero grasslands Oh, to be in Trinidad when the Oval’s at its raucous best, and the lions of Queen’s Park bay for Christians in noble contest. Where the air sweet with rum hangs with doubles and curry pot, and the drums and soca play till all yuh feelin’ Hot! Hot! Hot! Oh, to be in Trinidad playin’ mas’ with cart and barrow, when masquerade and fete jump loudest to Kitch and Sparrow! Calypsonian tents jammin’, limbo flame sparks the night flare, and steelpan Carnival streets jumpin’ from Icacos to Saint Clair Oh, to be in Trinidad among the blood of African slave, and not be destined alas to lifeless fill a cold foreign grave. And where indentured souls in waves landed upon South Quay I pray the bells of Greyfriars solemnly toll in absence for me Oh, to be in Trinidad when the great Savannah dawns. Hot roti and roasted corn in early light over its tracks and lawns. Land of my nativity begun from hills to blue Caribbean Sea - I miss that golden age ended and lament what must be must be Written: August 1995
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