As part of the educational programme for All the Coals We Left in the Fire, the National Gallery hosted a poetry open mic night recognising the multi-disciplinary nature of Nasaria Suckoo Chollette’s art practice. In addition to her visual art work, Suckoo Chollette is also a theatre practitioner and poet; a selection of her poetry has been mounted as part of the exhibition.
Suckoo Chollette along with other local poets Camille Angel, Katelyn Bush, Latoya Francis, Patrick Lopez and Lauren Williams shared new and existing work inspired by, or thematically linked to Suckoo Chollette’s major artistic preoccupations: gender, feminism and the role of women in Caymanian community; race, racial discrimination and the deconstruction of harmful racial narratives; and heritage, cultural memory and Caymanian cultural traditions.
Work was also shared by audience members during the open mic portion of the evening.
Below are a selection of works read at the event:
Nasaria Suckoo Chollette
Womb Basket
Singing into poem: Cry cry baby, moonshine dolly, lalalalala, la la la….
They say a womb is a hollow pear-shaped vessel within a woman’s body.
Hollow
as in
an empty space
containing nothing
not anything at all
they say.
But what if a womb is a bowl full of hope?
a cavern brimming with secret dreams
a bathpan overflowing with remembrances;
echoes of little feet stretching into life
fingers signing out sacred messages
moving in rhythm to the reverberating ebb and flow
of synergistic marrowed pools
and lips that chant a familial melody
Should not a womb be known as a hallowed pear-shaped vessel?
in which is stored latent seeds
some of which will flourish and grow to bear fruit
while others returned to Forever
from whence they came
their memories and fleeting love filling all the barren space
of a hollow womb.
So for every woman, girl
who only carried echoes and memory songs
a gift-
a moonlight woven womb basket,
in which to swaddle passing moments
to gently sway them in your arms
with softly hummed lullabies
for what was only meant to be
a little time.
Remember the Smell (by Virginia Suckoo)
My Mama went up to Mr. Rudolph’s place
to book the front seat for Tuesday morning
He said someone already booked it but it is free for Monday.
Well you will have to make a switch,
because Monday will not work, that is my wash day.
Clean clothes hanging on the line, the scent of Fab detergent blowing in the wind
Remember the smell?
Anyone who knows my Mama would know that, if she can’t get the front seat
she would not be dragging herself up on no truck back,
sitting on no hard wooden bench all the way to George Town,
she wouldn’t be stepping over coils of thatch ropes, crocus sacks and baskets of cassava,
ripe bottlers, pumpkins and peppermint mangoes
Remember the smell?
She would not be inhaling the scent of all that dried salted grouper,
conchs still dripping with sea water,
seashells with the creatures still inside.
She wouldn’t be sitting on no truck back listening to fussing and cussing,
smelling no smoking tobacco pipe
Remember the smell?
The truck swaying from side to side trying to avoid the potholes,
everybody on the truck back
slipping and sliding against each other
until they got to Savannah where the road was paved and smooth,
lined with blooming logwood, jasmine and citrus trees on both sides
Remember the smell?
Finally they reached George Town,
everyone got off by the Old Market on Cardinal Avenue
pulling their baskets, crocus sacks and thatch ropes,
making their way inside to sell their wares.
Turtles were being butchered and sold,
ripe pineapples from Honduras on a nearby stand
with bunches of guineps and crabs on a string hanging over.
Remember the smell?
Miss Doris Restaurant stood nearby on Shedden Road,
counters laden with hot coffee, cocoa, chocolate cake,
fresh bread and margarine,
home-made mango jelly,
ripe bananas,
just squeezed orange juice.
Everyone was happy to buy and rest awhile
Ooooh Remember the smell?
Camille Angel
These Pockets
The women in my life have had to be everything. An aunt is a mother, a mother is a sister, a grandmother is a mother, a friend is a cousin; and she has been ‘abundance’ in the ‘scarcity’ because this is what a woman is; we are what we give. Any woman can be molded into this lineage. We have all filled our pockets with odd-ends:
bobby pins for our niece’s graduation night; proudly pressed into the cap;
soft mints for impatient children in hard church-pews,
extra jack-and-ball for the neighbor’s clumsy son;
june plum plucked ripest for stained hands to enjoy the red-orange rush candied by the season’s longing
hair clips for her friend’s youngest daughter and rollers for the oldest’s night out; ready to be spun and primed for evening – in a cloud of borrowed hairspray
There is no saying what more a woman can make out of nothing; or the simple acts of divinity that she will carry out. She must be so many things, pockets of people unto herself; she is someone different to each need she meets and yet has none.
One day when she becomes her grandmother. With worried hands and a thick Norberg’s milkshake accent, sweetly chiming: “Welcome-home!” from the kitchen; a faithful statue below the beams like the wide-wooden arches of the old airport – she will call all her children to the table for Sunday dinner; giving to them whatever she can.
She searches the deep lineage of a quiet domicile; in an absolution that belongs to only women with pockets full of odd-ends. It is ground provisions on route from family; it is a little cash when you can; it is an extra room if you have; the quiet rocking of a child and a mother just-born; a phone call when you are feeling down; a grandmother who is ‘abundance’ – she becomes a “giving”; never questioning whether her pockets are full.
Katelyn Bush
(Instagram: @therosepetals__)
Ma’a and Teedee Go to the Art Gallery
Oh! Teedee come yah quick
Lemme show you sometin
You see dis ting right ya?
Dis wa your ma’a used to sleep in.
You know dem sweet plantin
Da every minute you wan me fry for you
Dese here the old leaves from the tree
Still ga some use though, just like me
When the leaves turn brown, almost til it red
We use them to stuff our plantrash bed.
Wasn’t trash to us
In those days, nothing go to waste
Cept when the leaves get too wear down
We bury it and put new ones in its place.
I don’t know why she gah it so high
Almost look like a cradle
Many generations born from this
Like Mary and Jesus stable
Like the shepherds, I used to pray
Now I lay me down to sleep
I pray the Lord my soul to keep
Yes darlin’ same one I teach you to say
I never did tell teedee
About the years I spent in grief
That I could die before I wake
All this misery the Lord to take
Mummeh forcing me in marriage bed
Said need a man to bring some bread
But Him providing didn’t give me peace
When he went to sea
What a sweet relief
Beverley could come over
The one Mummeh didn’t want me to see
The other women would talk
Catching gapseed while hanging out clothes
Crucifying me with every pin on the line
But only if they could walk
In my shoes and feel
The flusteration
The sufferation
Of being beaten down in this little island
Or maybe they do know.
I turn to teedee and tell her
The bed was my altar
Where I loved
And where I sacrificed
Where I witness death
And where I birth new life
To others I may seem like old plantrash leaves
To be discarded and cast out
But I have a sacred purpose too
And so do you.
Jubilee
Jubilee according to the dictionary:
- a) a special anniversary
I attended the festivities
Belly grumbling, Cayman-style beef calling my name
Visions clouded with
Hues of red, white, blues
Waving victorious
Happy and glorious
But what glory is mine?
Shades darker
Tongue bends to “improper”
The only history I’ve known
Is being demolished for a resort
Can a colony be home?
- b) A celebration
I’ll take the vacation though
To rest and reflect on
The Day of Jubilee when my ancestor were free
Beating the gumbai
Scraping the graters
Playing their fiddles
Little children waving green
Palm trees, holy day
How it does not matter
To our colonial calendar
- c) a year of emancipation and restoration
I would tell them how
Our freedom is incomplete
Ruins of empire pierce
Our dignity, a plantation mentality
Sweeping away our history
Segregation a reality
Development but still in poverty
Greed, conquest, profit on repeat
Emancipation without restoration, reparation, redistribution
Is no true jubilee.
Kerri-Anne Chisholm
Have You Seen the Moon?
But have you seen the moon?
Meet me down by the border, where the sand covers the sea grape roots
Like a cool blanket guarding from the shadows that spring forth from the reflections
of the silver moon beam dancing along the still waters.
Still waters?
These waters are charged with the turbulence of generations who laughed as they bathed on paradise’s edge.
Whose tears merged with the salty fathoms of ocean that separated
Island from city, family from father.
Who swayed and sang hymns at holy seaside baptisms,
and at unholy hours patiently waited for a catch
to fill the mouths of wide eyed little’uns.
Whose feet were guided by the light of the same full moon to wild fields to gather silver thatch tops
to dry, to strip, to wrap, to twist, to weave, to plait, to coil, to sell,
to send off on the bellows of ships to tie anchors in ports they would never see.
Meet me under the warm glow of a moon set on fire by the blaze of sun.
Where soul and heart become attuned to the softness of changing seasons.
Where forecasts of rain, drought, storms and harvest brew ready to be spilled out on the earth.
Have you seen this moon tonight?
Sean Ebanks
Mary Street
One end to another it’s about as long or short as 100 meters, maybe
One end’s on the seaside by the fish fry where the bones dry under occasional wife beaters, sitting lazy
One end’s on the asphalt where the red green and gold they come to bleed out in litres
In the middle there’s the paved ocean floor now filled with avian sub-letters
1000 dollars for a gallon of gas and an open fish license, non sense
Those not from around here still get their 50% so many fools will still sell them
Your very government has spared no expense at canonizing a felon
And all the old folk who can’t pay the rent will have their homes taken from them
But wait, a new bank goes over where memories are lying
I Remember some schoolgirl on this spot lay dying
Still, it’ll only take us another week or two to have a whole new remodel
That old home charm we can easily destroy and crap out a whole new condo
The huddled masses we’ve seen fit to employ will not include your own kind though
Somewhere an old house is burning, insurance deny it
We eat up your patois and spit out histrionics
Haunted:…difficult to ignore or forget .. undone
I am haunted by old things and I can’t be the only one.
Latoya Francis
Pickney of Blood and Bone
Pickney, of blood and bone.
Who you fah?
A weh yuh come from?
The hue of your skin
like that which has been
intimate with the sun.
The shape of your face,
resembles royalty long gone.
Your presence exudes a majesty
we have longed to behold.
Your eyes red like fiyah,
tells I the half has never been told.
You walk into room and your
aura is commanding.
Yet there is grace that surrounds you
which is gentle and unassuming.
Pickney, of blood and bone.
Mi seh weh yuh come from?
Who you fah?
I am a daughter of this soil.
I carry my nation on my back.
I give birth to sons and daughters
Who will do the same, plus tax!
I am from the place where
Sun land and shore meet.
I am from a land that has forgotten
about their people and their ancestral feats.
To know me, is to know the struggles
of all those who came before me.
I stand with my head held high,
my shoulders back,
You will behold me!
Unrecognizable due to the remnants
of the pillage and the rape.
My identity left in shambles
by those who claimed they were
here to save the day.
A child of blood and bone,
yet my only claim to my ancestral land
is through a bank loan.
You ask me, who I fah and
where mi come from.
I will tell you who I am and
who I shall become.
I am the voice of change,
the evidence of divine grace and mercy.
To the pirates and squatters,
I am the voice of the wind,
heralding, “a new day has come”.
Damani Gow
(Self-published book of poetry, Blunt Expressions)
Graciously One Wanders (GOW)
I gravitate to the stronghold,
The foundation upon which my family name was born
Graciously One Wanders…
A life of travel is in my destiny
And with this life, comes much knowledge and responsibility.
Undoubtedly, wisdom is attained and humility practiced.
I have awoken with a fresh state of mind
Patience is a part of me
And ignorance has fled the scene.
Such a relief to be of sound mind
And walking at a carefully selected pace
No rush, no race, no ravenous motives I say.
Old souls vibe together
And the concentration of energy is grand.
Appreciation is key
As tomorrow is undetermined while today is good.
Nothing is truly mistaken
As all that happens is meant to be.
Thank you for understanding
For what was once missing has been found.
I was once out there, and uneasy
Now I am presently here and this is acknowledged.
I am enlightened, and graciously wandering with a traveler’s insight.
The Island Poet
I write not for the sake of writing,
but rather, I write for the purpose of sharing…
Sharing thoughts, ideas, emotions and above all,
A message of love.
At times it seems like a mystery,
for where do the words come from?
It is a puzzle that is being assembled
right before my eyes.
It is me, from within, embracing the outside world.
Listen to the waves colliding with my shore,
and perhaps be inspired by the island poet.
The Island Poet –
He who roams the surface of the Earth,
like everyone else,
yet more stoic than most.
Scenes unseen are captured
and the one thousand words of a picture
are transformed to a painting that you may hear,
spoken by a poet who paints words
that are voiced through the air.
The Island Poet, that I am.
Set Me Free
Like a bird uncaged,
Set Me Free.
Like a school that is out for the summer,
Set Me Free.
It is time to be unleashed,
freed from captivity.
The work has already been done…
and I have prayed and pleaded with the universe.
I am looking for things to turn around.
This time, a turn-around, for the better.
I am ready for the next best thing.
Exaltation is not what I seek,
A release is what I need.
To be free, is to truly be me.
The first of my name
and the last of a dying breed.
The future is now,
and now is the time to set me free.
My routine yearns to be redefined,
my dreams have been refined,
I have drawn the line.
Mentally, my voyage has begun
And I am already there.
Waiting for these positively charged changes
to be reflected in reality,
and this shall…
Set me free.
Alanna Warwick-Smith
My Cayman
I look around the house I grew up in,
Open the suitcase I do not remember purchasing,
And slowly start to pack.
I open the fridge and I taste my childhood.
I taste buttery breadfruit,
and the brown sugar of the neaseberry,
There is no sweeter pleasure,
than fresh made swanky on a hot summer day.
I flip through the photographs, and I feel my childhood in the curated memories.
I feel the coarseness of the kitchen, in my great grandmother’s hands as she kisses me hello on a Sunday after church,
I feel the Ironshore on my bare feet and the fishing line spinning circles on my arm and I remember what it was like to be fearless.
I turn on the forgotten VCR player and I hear my childhood.
I hear the caw of the Cayman Parrot on my walk home from school, 3PM on a Tuesday afternoon,
I hear the hum of “munzy boat” from the man sitting on his porch and his cry of “who ya mama is?” when he sees me walk past, unfamiliar but just familiar enough.
I slowly pack the memories of my childhood,
Into suitcase I do not remember purchasing,
I label it “adulthood”,
And slowly walk out the door.
Lauren Williams
Inspired by Nasaria Suckoo Chollette’s “Un-Being”
What can this ocean bring today?
I have stories to tell
you have stories to take
my son and grandson have stories to make
I will hear your secrets
and you will hear mine
as i spend my day sweeping
and will do that for a while.
you give us an abundance
food, movement, healing
a carer with soft hands
swaying side to side
promises of a new life
if fear does subside
what a beautiful song you sing
with many sad tales
you would wail when the sky is pouring
as these men would invest their tears into you
they would wonder if their home
made of stilts.
would hold up if they do
as you rock their boats
the way you please
my secret is that as I sweep this sand
footprint deep
even if i try to forget our past
to forget my wrath
it still lingers like a cigars cough
your body still lingers against this shore
i cannot make amends with you
a messenger
and the very nature of God.
footprints before me
came unwelcomed
only wanted
then taken for granted
the stories they may have screamed
out to you
and you listened
but could only weep
and wail
as they weeped and wailed
in their mothers’ tongue
after their moans and screeching
this tongue turned sharp
but generations of cursing
became futile
gums became thin
until it was nonexistent
stripped of an inner knowing
of their spiritual existence
of their taste
of their voice
the way they used their hands
feet
eyes
life of gray; eugengrau
to hold and forced to let go
to sweep behind their steps
over and over again
until I heard your secrets
and refused to sweep behind mine.
Youth Excellence and Innovation Today
The child that is not embraced by the village, will burn it down to feel its warmth.
This youth
You-
Will feel the cold of a meaningless world,
And you will need to burn it down
To feel its warmth.
A fire, a voice, a feeling
A hum, a push, a gravity pull.
That of which you may feel-
Feel it deeply.
Set your heart ablaze.
Lift fire to things that do not serve all
Or for those who need a helping hand.
Ashes to straw walls, they are not made for heavy rain.
When the ceiling leaks, and the windows are barricaded,
Leave the room.
Find home and strength within yourself,
You will find it bigger than your fears.
Build upon the foundation of where your feet are pressed into earth.
You may sing a new song, without permission
fortunate for past rhythms…
But if you must feel the warmth a little more…
Speak your truth
From a fire, a voice, a feeling
A hum, a push, a gravity pull.
How do you set your heart ablaze?
There is a need…
In you believing.
we need you to believe in yourself.
despite the odds and how failure may feel
how you think it makes you look-
memorize these times now
let it be known
you are the beholder of this heart holding fiery feelings.
Paint this picture-
small stones together do make a wall
or a tower
or a beautiful bridge.
small things that make big things
big things that help small people
the anchor and sail of this nation
made by your little deeds
we need you to dream big
and do small actions for a bigger picture
big actions to help every corner of creation
for those who haven’t heard
for those who have been overlooked
to help oneself
to see the change they could have never dreamt of
ideas others couldn’t dare themselves to think about
you need you to feel this warmth.
WHO WILL YOU BE IF YOU LISTENED TO DOUBT?
Day After Tomorrow
My identity cannot be picked like fruit
and sold
even if the desire comes from a place of hurt.
even if my soul feels the anguish of the seashore
how it is creeping closer and closer to the heart of the land.
who I am can be defined in the solace of a few trees, in shade of the yellow star
gammies working hands
platting thatch of her collection of memories of time before
because before they understood unity
before they were sure of who they were
and what was for them.
but, only if she could sew me a sense of security
and tell grandpa the sea will always have fish, forever
for her to tell me that I belong
in a land
that remembers me.