Best Jamaican Poems
Lazy afternoon repast can be found,
Resting under a sheltering palm.
While troubles melt amongst,
Calm serenity.
Engulfed this careless castaway,
Setting adrift.
Mingling surf unto spray, and mist.
Welcoming me to mine,
Jamaican paradise.
Soft breezes carry aloft, high above,
Calm tranquility.
Waves brush smooth crystal sands,
Spreading eternally.
Enjoy vacations latitude limitations,
Without boundaries.
The island rhyme entices capturing,
Inner spirit to flight.
Imaginations glorious brilliance shines,
Exposing a crimson horizon.
Forgotten life's stress,
It's left miles behind,
Here simplicities refuge surrounds.
Freedoms song plays, separating realities,
Interruptions they aren't aloud.
Safe harbor beyond human intervention,
Releasing solitude's prisoner.
Let God be my judge what happens,
Here remains known only unto myself.
My heart lies at anchor beside tranquil,
Breezes across distant Caribbean Seas.
An ideal dreamer setting sail towards,
The melting sun.
BY CHERYL ANNA DUNN
At the heart of Marescaux Road’s Maroon and Gold
Lived a timid girl with dreams yearning to unfold.
An inner-city teen with a spirit aglow
Yet hidden in shadows, her potential lay low.
Then entered a teacher with passion ablaze
A beacon of hope, guiding through life’s maze.
With eyes full of kindness and words like a song
She saw through the silence, knew the girl didn’t belong.
Anne Girvan was her name, a mentor so bright
Igniting a spark and banishing the girl’s night.
With patience and wisdom, the teacher gently untied
The knots of self-doubt that had bound the girl’s pride.
“Believe, my dear,” she whispered, “you are strong,
Your voice is a melody; let it carry you along.”
In the world of words, the girl found her escape
A refuge in language, a chance to reshape.
The pen became the girl’s ally, the paper her friend,
Thus began her journey, a path to amend.
Through verses and prose, she let out her fears
Dropping them like anchors, dissolving in tears.
Anne Girvan—the guide, the catalyst of change—
Empowered the girl to break free from her cage.
In the alleys of Kingston, the girl’s story took flight,
A blossoming author, her words pure and bright.
She painted her struggles, her triumphs, her strife,
A testament to the teacher who transformed her life.
The pages reverberated with the strength of her voice
A symphony of triumph, a tale to rejoice.
The timid Jamaican girl was finally set free,
Her metamorphosis sparked by Anne Girvan's decree.
In Kingston’s inner city, where dreams often stall,
A teacher and poet answered her call.
Now she pens accolades for the one who believed,
Who unmuted her voice—her hero, reprieved.
This tale is her hymn to a teacher’s grace,
Whose influence lingers, transcending all space.
Decorated with praises among the heavens above,
Her ode to Anne Girvan, a testament of love.
THOUGHTS OF A JAMAICAN CHRISTMAS
I remember Christmas of yesteryear
Of John Canoe dancing with fife and drum
Horsehead would approach, it was scary but fun
And Scrippy scrappy looked like a real bum
Of Christmas breeze and Poinsettias red
Mixed with white Euphorbias in the flower bed
A visit to Nathans for cloth to make dresses
And drop curls all round my head for my tresses
I liked going downtown on Christmas Eve
Where the bustle of King Street was hard to believe
With balloons and horns, and pretty hats to choose
And noisy rattles to drive our parents to booze
Vendors lined the sidewalks their offerings laid bare
There were shouts for attention but nothing to fear
Next came a visit to Dixon’s Toy Shop
Where I didn’t want the choosing to stop.
Christmas Carols rang out through the air
Then at church the next morning with voices clear
Back home we were greeted with eggnog, and were free
To open our presents that were under the tree
At Christmas dinner our relatives we’d see
As the Miller clan gathered it was exiting for me
There was exchange of gifts and the joy of giving
It was really a great and wonderful feeling
The food was a spread of delectable flavors
Of turkey, rice and peas, sweet potato and lamb
Ackee and salt fish, roast beef, salad and ham
And I just can’t forget the Cranberry jam
The variety was great, too many to mention
And the carving of the turkey got everyone’s attention
But best of all was the sorrel, Christmas pudding or cake
Which gave us kids a chance to get tipsy or flake.
At night we brought out our starlights and clappers
The boys would light thunderbolts and we would run backwards
These memories are happy, in my mind they will stay
And I blend them with those we are experiencing today.
Winsome Miller-Rowe
(APROPOS OF THE MANY OF US: THE GREEN VILLAGE)
PROLOGUE:
Some don’t quite get it…
Life will reveal it to you:
Mothers are of God.
A
Keeping hope alive…
Strong stalwart sable sisters:
These are our mothers.
B
Ebony beauty…
Sustaining us in all things:
God bless our Mothers.
C
Beautiful sable souls…
Audaciously bold in faith:
Praise God for Mamas.
D
Ploughing up our hope…
Tears nourishing our courage:
Moms cultivate men.
E
God’s labouring wombs…
Moulding navels of His love:
Mothers…God’s angels…
EPILOGUE:
Happy Mothers’ Day…
Queens of our eternity:
Navel giving souls…
I love everything Jamaican in
you,,,frm islands of adventure,
to the seductive appetite of my
desires,,, served frm your
plattered eyes stare, to the
fresh water breeze, to the
sandy beaches, of your playful
touch....
Coast~to~Coast,,, all around
the world, in rise of the horizon
sun, down to the untamed
moon, bonds this Ring~of~Fire,
NEVER TO PART, day or night, i
am that #1 girl...
As the deep blue ocean,sails
deeper symphony in tune, my
hearts radiant vibe, to yours
where you and I, have made a
lifetime commitment into
unconditional love,,, for GOD
and each other, to the
Gideon,,, pure and faithful.....
I LOVE YOU THEN, I LOVE YOU
NOW, I LOVE YOU INFINITY, I
LOVE YOU ALWAYS, BECUZ I
FOREVER LOVE EVERYTHING
JAMAICAN IN YOU, NEAR OR
AFAR, I KNW WILL SOON BE
OURS TO REIN....
All Rights Reserved
June 26th, 2013
This is not my life
Where is the remote
I wanna rewind
What was on my mind?
This is no joke
Was I on some dope?
Smoking shag or sniffing coke
Is there any hope
I just can’t cope
Wasted time in school
Ignoring all the rules
Thought I had the tool
Now winding up a fool
This can’t be my life
Who to blame
When I took life as a game
It’s as if I’m going insane
Just disgrace and shame
God, it was just a dream
It was just a dream
But it seems so real
Life seems so mean in that funny dream
Gotta wake up, wise up and flip the scene
Karl Karlos Goulbourne
PREFACE TO A JAMAICA FAREWELL
When I’m gone
remember me in tamarind season
reflecting the bitter
sweet of life we shared
Raise eyes
to the ambers
and blues of Caribbean skies
Listen to the thunder
and hear my soul
soaring
In the searching winds of time
look for me in the ebb and flow
of the tides:
Frothing the shores
with salted memories.
Looking forward all winter for my vacation
A three-day excursion put on by We Are One Nation
We parked our RV’S near the foothill,
then hiked and climbed top of the cliff and met Will
When the sign appeared Reggae Pon the Mountain,
we were quickly escorted to the water fountain
Come and jam to the tunes of the Marleys
Hanga-langa and check out the Harleys
The Jamaican food—colorful, soulful—sublime
One look and I knew right away I would need more time
to enjoy Reggae 'Pon The Mountain
We bought masks, jewelry and tasted the cookies
Ingredients pure, strong, overwhelmed—we felt like rookies
C’mon stay mon, enjoy the music all day, sangalanga on Topanga
You know the Canyon known for the rock-stars?
Three days of festive delight, tonight be romantic, sleep in your cars!
Our host thanked us and said Jah be with you, Rastafari
We waved as he drove off in his Ferrari
We’ll be back tomorrow for the Caribbean callaloo
where we’ll stay all day and enjoy the hullaballoo
A music festival up on the mountain
It’s that time of the year when the shimmering lights come alive.
It’s Christmas time...Joy… peace and happiness in our homeland Jamaica.
The smell of mom baking the fruit cake with all the right spices and the aroma of hot chocolate tea permeates the Christmas air.
Mixing the sorrel with WATA, red label wine and don’t forget the white rum.
The honey glaze ham, the curry goat, and the gungo rice and peas are how yuh know yuh deh yard.
The magic of Christmas is complete when all the family sits around the table and remembers the good old days.
From our family to your family have a Merry Jamaican Christmas
He danced on the decks of tossing ships, danced only for dimes
He danced to the lash and sound of whips, hip moving like dream
And when he reasoned, his words sublime brought heavenly climes
Dance from plantation to Greathouse, dancing in gully and stream
And if we dance again today, he choreographs nuance and fiber
Still; this talented son, this bright native of the Martha Brae River.
He is the twin soul of that Manley, our horizons in the sun
And when at Mona, he taught me how to run with my ton.
O farewell, brother of my brother, mentor that from your distance shape
Me into a patriotic landscape where my children may build, farewell
Sweet intellect; and O may they bring our Mframadan like cloth to drape
Your rest. All your public life was nobly spent, farewell, Rex, farewell!
Your footprints are bright, not castles in sand, from high hills shine
The glory of your days. O Griot, go the bidding now of the Divine
O Blow the abeng now, beat the kumina drum, O village peel
The bells of jubilee again. Aluta Continua, Rex, go take your seal!
Mi mumma band her belly and bawl long time, yai water like rain
Hot like Clarendon springs, and the world like blue mountain mist
So cold, O emptiness, emptiness is such a dread, O such a pain
What shall we do with out hollowness now, and how shall we resist
Again the shackles of injustice, O that there were Marley
To sing this icon into the icon of memory, for all our history
Is but words on a page until we can retrieve the past to right
Today and make tomorrow bright again. He was that light.
Coda
O Kilmanjaro weep! O Timbuctu weep! O Meroe and kujo's clan
Weep for the death of man, a sterling man, a grandiose design
That met its worth in gold in deeds of him. All our life is like sand
Worn from the rock of being by tides and seasons, and no sign
To tell where wind or water carry us, we are blown away
The shadow of the sand is gone, but never cannot decay
It is too immaterial, its presence is like his fragrance here
Bill still O Niger, and you great Nile, I borrow you for a tear.
Mama
Her patient love
Her caring voice
Her kind deeds
Her loving heart
A woman of integrity and pride
One who would do anything for her child
A wonderful person is she
Who gives of herself to all including me
Even though she can be strict
She can also be fun
When hard times come
She shines like the sun
And always over come
By: Karl Goulborne
I have seen this river swell mighty
Like a woman with fetus near to come
I have seen it lift its burden heavy
Cottaless and laughing in its kingdom
But to today is a different rainy day
Nothing wash the brown of sorrows away
O hear the river lament in its clay
For its son, its only son has passed away
I have seen this river in tropic glee
Dancing down the mountain in childhood
Pushing back the angry colonial sea
O nothing could compare to its manhood
But today is a different rainy day
Sorrow is a hurricane in the fish pool
Where his eloquence held lofty sway
Our favored son, our star bright mule
O my heart too carries sorrow like a river
He was model, mentor, brother keeper
My island's best gold when love was silver
In sun or moon, or sweet translucent water
I hear abeng wailing, jon kunno bawling
O today is a different rainy day
Mframadan come down your pole crawling
Weep with us, weep with Martha Brae
Did you hear this Rex talk, or see him dance
Did you know this scholar, this special son
Did you sit in his class and dream in trance
With this son, the Shaman of the olive sun?
O today is a different rainy day
Today is the day of tears and broken heart
I want to hear the drums of Martha Brae
Weeping in Kumina where the waters part.
Fireflies
and glow-worms
crickets and frogs-
tropical sights and sounds
to log
* a stroll
inspired by journal of Marianne North 1830-1890 Painter extraordinaire
Let me show you the perimeter first Diamond with cool edges like water
Upon the shroudless sunshine of thirst That is the constellation he was after
Four well clad figures on the perimeter And a single soul back in the middle
Women all tha their provisions straddle Big broad bankras holding ends and center
Of the national pride of work, waiting On the morning bus to come, a new day
Away from the green canefields looking
In sweet wonder on history's fading May
But what holds my eye with still wonder
Is two women who never will surrender
The dread weight upon their head, like
A finger pointing at Christ on his pike.
Explanation: a bankra is a large Jamaican market basket
(b St Mary, 1923; d Kingston, 1975). Jamaican painter. He studied painting at the Art
Students League, New York, at the Ecole des Beaux-Arts, Paris, and at the Instituto Nacional
de Bellas Artes in Mexico. He returned to Jamaica in 1953, where he quickly established
himself as a major avant-garde figure, challenging the sedate homespun realism of
Jamaican artists such as Albert Huie and David Pottinger with vivid Expressionistic canvases.
Karl Parboosingh's "Jamaican Interlude, 1958" The work is aptly titled "Jamaican Interlude"
since, in it we see that quiet pause between two acts, as five figures obviously wait at the
roadside , maybe for a country bus to carry them to the weekly drama and hustle and bustle
of Saturday market. The five figures comprise four females and a youth, all depicted in the
same white garb. They are placed against the backdrop of the Jamaican landscape, a blue,
cloud-filled sky, lush vegetation, the hint of a cane crop, in the stillness of glaring sunlight,
waiting with their produce-laden bankras
Tirelessly rising, like cerosee tea to them, and apple to me
Tell them I am the Sankofa of the morning, shall we dance again
I was the Nightingale Midas could keep in the cage, the new sea
To sail, the festival beyond the extravaganza of old pain
Trim sail and bottle torch, but never weep with dry eyes
Bring flag and Mframadan down the pole and skies
Tell them the river journeys on, it comes for me
I am its harvest, I am its fruit, I am its Gethsemane.
ii
You young ones must away from your rage to my age tree
Take this stick of light, this magic of wisdom, this bright sage
Carry him like an argument to Pharaoh’s face and so see
Deliverance from the bloody seas of dumb guns and carnage
Let us dismantle the sorrow of ignorance, the need that chains
Us to the deaf ears of our broken and eternal complaints
For this native son, this black beautiful scholar was our wage
And from this griot and dancer we take the lessons of our age.
And always may I remember I am only a branch, I belong to a tree
Bigger than my baobab of dreams, I drink from where roots draw
The sweet water of revival, and quenched my thirst for history
And boons of culture. Always I now write for us, I write our law
Yet tongueless tongue-ing in Babel’s callous kingdom
Belly grinder, I rise to dance in new sheaves of freedom
The whip crack on black backs the sun could not dim
Cannot stop the clutchie smoking memory of him