Oh To Be In Trinidad
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Oh, to be in Trinidad
when the hot scented currents flow,
from East Dry River to Nariva
samaan and silk cotton tree grow.
Where whisperin’ palms reach
across island reef and coconut lagoon,
and the forests of Papa Bois
flower with poinsettias in bloom
Oh, to be in Trinidad
inside the spirit house of Trestrail,
and be again that child before
the Voyage of Six leavin’ did sail.
Where by antiquity starlight
Amerindians roved 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 burnin’ 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 uprisin’ does a trumpet sound!
And ghosts of the revolution
fan its flames in the hot ragin’ sun,
where dat voodoo spirit rise
de obeah moon of de Caribbean
Oh, to be in Trinidad
for crab and callaloo on Sunday,
let the Boca gulf gates lull
and stars over Monos my fears allay.
Feel and hearken to your ear
its island windsong at your door,
and dream of moonlit tides
lappin’ upon her hideaway shore
Oh to be in Trinidad
in Caroni for the Scarlet Ibis flown,
hummingbird’s backward skip -
beauty I’m richer for havin’ 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 allyuh mad 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
one day do solemnly toll 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
Copyright © Keith D Trestrail | Year Posted 2022
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