Performance of Long Celia by Nasaria Suckoo Chollette

Nasaria Suckoo Chollette performs her poem “Just Long Celia” at the National Gallery in Grand Cayman.

Our editor, last weekend, had the opportunity to view “All the Coals We Left in the Fire” which is a survey exhibition by leading Caymanian artist, Nasaria Suckoo Chollette. With the distinct pleasure of being guided through the work by the artist herself, the experience ended with a recitation of Just Long Celia depicting the story of a slave Celia (though to be tall hence the “long” descriptor) who heard of freedom and rightly demanded it yet was met with charges of seditious behaviour and rewarded with lashes instead of a loosening of her shackles. May we all be like Celia - standing tall and defiant in the face of injustices for what is our divine birthright - self autonomy.

All the Coals We Left in the Fire is on show until 13 October 2022 at the National Gallery in Grand Cayman. If you won’t be able to visit and view, keep an eye on this space for more pieces connected with Nasaria’s work or check her out on Instagram @suckoochollette

yes by MOON

you catch me looking

what? you say

– nothing.

you stare

tell me it's okay.

say it

and I want to, but what would I say?

that yes.

I do

want you to fuck me.

yes.

I want you to fuck me like it's the last sex you'll ever have

like the world is falling to pieces and our love is

the only thing that can save it

like you'll run out of breath if you stop kissing me

biting me

like the fire between our bodies is the very spark that

set creation in motion

drink me

like I'm the best thing you've ever tasted

like mine are the only waters left

I want you to fuck me like it's our salvation.

to play my moans like your favourite song

to make a symphony of me

play my body like a dub riddim

fingers stroking every note

skin against skin

love me like kette

and djembe

love me drum and bass

waists wining

vibrating

doh stop yet

I want you to choke me

let me show you how much I trust you

watch my eyes roll back

then breathe me back to life

fuck me bones against concrete walls

bare ass on counter tops

hands tied

fuck me like 90s dancehall

raw

uncensored

rough

loud

like rebellion

like we alone can destroy the patriarchy

fuck me with meaning

like our black and gold is beautiful

enough to end colourism

fuck me fast

like all our demons are chasing us

then slow

like brown rizzla

or ackee opening

or honey

fuck.

love me.

love me soft

love me cotton and silk kisses

'til you cover every inch of me

with the ganja on your lips

cohiba roots like vines across my flesh

love me smoke and gasping breath

love me like you came

to learn new languages

leave you speaking in tongues

licking, tasting

every

single

drip

don't waste

a

drop

leave me

digging

nails into sheets

and flesh

hands in your hair

summoning seasons and gods

with these chords

as I tremble

love me in earthquakes

lightning

and hurricanes

then calm

we enter the eye

mine open and mek four

with yours

this. is what I want.

this. and more still

as I look at you

lay you on your back

and show you all the ways I'd like to

return the favour

the exact. same. way.

can't you see it in my eyes?

the ways I want to

love you holy

like white rum

anoint all the neglected

parts of your heart

body

spirit

love you in harmony

sigh simultaneous

make you moan melodically

make the neighbours jealous

of us

inside each other

fuck.

I want to

love you.

but I can't say this,

can I?

say it.

you say

I wrote (you) a poem

I reply

---

moon is a two-spirit multidisciplinary creative born on turtle island to Jamaican parents. moon is currently based in Kingston, Jamaica, and prefers to speak through music, art, and poetry. as a writer, moon explores identity through themes of culture, spirituality, race, sexuality, love, and the myriad ways they intersect

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My Mother in His House - Poetry by Neptune Naiadis

My family has an old house,                                                                  

and still,

bright flowery yellow walls

greet me.

If I breathe deeply enough,

the air becomes sweet

with molasses,

the voice of my mother

singing to

sunday gospel,

thyme and garlic

thick in the air.

Our pink rooms and

blithesome voices

filling

the emptiness.

But that is not where I was

raised,

my mother’s tunes were

only a cover for

skeletons etched into

the floors,

and that her children

wouldn’t hear my father,

one hand on his switch,

Woman fi get lick like pickney,

Don’t mash up me food

Her voice would

turn shrill

under the sweet morning air.

She once told us that

meant a game of hide,

and she would come

seek us when it was over.

She never did find us.

Instead,

we found her, bloodied body

hunched over the still lit stove,

singing flesh crackling

in that mangled tune,

my father over her,

burnt chicken in his hand.

---

Neptune Naiadis is a writer whose work has appeared in publications such as the Caribbean Writers Journal and Rebel Women Lit. She is a current student at the University of the West Indies and an aspiring novelist, young media writer, and businesswoman with a small handcrafted jewelry business. As of 2021, her favorite book is Kingston Noir.

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Breaking Water by Solare - Poetry

It is not pain I feel. This tight trembling and disintegrating of spirit and soul is not pain.

It is not regret that I feel. Those memories and moments shuffling between the sheets of my mind could be described as anything but regret.

Perhaps, it is anger that I feel. Anger at a system that refuses me full autonomy over my flesh and any contents therein. Anger at a system that should have better things to do than persecute me for not wanting to bring an innocent child into their world – to die…from hunger, gunmen, men who take, women who fake. These should be their main preoccupations yet under my bloomers you will find them with their magnifying glasses as the land runs red and dread.

Or maybe, it is disappointment. Religion has let me down; my parents have failed me; and my friends don their wigs and robes to judge.

Oh! It may be shame that I feel. Hiding this story of mine high above the clouds where only the most elevated may reach it because they don’t shame, or do they?

It is relief that I feel. Like a deep, satisfying inhale of sweet mountain air after a marathon run. I cannot afford diapers; I may buy more gin than baby formula, but should it matter? What criteria must I fulfil to feel release and justified in my choice?

Is it joy that I feel? Am I glad that I don’t have to worry for the lack of support system, the father who is already absent before I could exhale in orgasm or the evaporation of the dreams I hold?

I did not want it. I may have loved it but that is questionable because I fear I know not love itself. I chose and now I am stuck, trying to find a placeholder for these feelings that I think I should have.

Pain, regret, anger, disappointment, shame, relief, joy, confusion, and uncertainty? I am allowed all— same as I should be allowed my choice.

So, I am sprawled here, cushioned by the Caribbean Sea, shaded by the sun’s rays above and somewhere…out there…on the shore there is guilt waiting to climb into this knapsack of emotions.

My tears meet the sea in a salty family reunion, my chest heaves and sighs with the heaviness of it all, and I think to sink with this hamper to the midnight depths…down, down, down, deep, down.

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Lights, Camera, Action by Tonia M Revers

Dem seh life is a movie, so mi play the character. 

Mi nuh alright, mi is just a really good actor. 

Mi a follow the script and a look forward to the end.

Cause to be honest, mi a get tired fi a pretend. 

Yea, mi can mek a very heavy load look real light.

Daily, mi smile and laugh loud like mi neva did a cry ina the night. 

If only you did know all a wah mi go through and still a go through ina life. 

You would a sorry fi me.

All a the hurt, all a the pain, all a words dem wah slice mi like a knife.

You woulda cry wid me. 

Mi woulda talk to somebody and unburden mi thoughts but mi nuh have the money.

But maybe if mi get did the chance, in the end, my therapist woulda likely need therapy.
 

Everyday mi adjust mi mask and use duck tape pan the cracks, 

And take mi time and take the knife dem one, one out a mi back.

If only somebody coulda look closely and see the mismatched pieces coming apart. 

Mhmm, them woulda probably see it and call it mosaic art. 

So another day, another act,

And the facade remains intact.

Mi glimpse the script fi get some quick direction,

Lights, camera, action.

Mama Ocean by Neptune Naiadis

Baby boy Ocean

swallowed me,

he gulped 

and   

suckled my body,

tugging milk from my breasts, 

and womb,

umbilical cord twisting into shark teeth

corroding into 

dust

and in the walls

of that womb

I heard a gentle voice praying

that 

“Mama ocean needs nourishment”

There is smell of salt 

and ackee on 

coal fire

in grandmother’s backyard 

that

awoke 

my mother

who sat by

my blood that trickled

into red earth

the duppy tree 

pulling her into

lamenting with ancestors 

I, cannot become a woman

in this world

the men will breed 

into me

seeds of destruction

knead my breasts, 

weave copper in my uterus

but 

the cursed baby 

will be born into this family

 the ocean,

my child who hears the oceans,

blue child of the oceans, 

let him corrode me

that blood, 

was of my dying baby, 

my uncle,

sat idly by, 

his pants already unbuckled,

bulging eyes 

transfixed

on breasts 

that bounced

with fresh milk

and

newness.

my eyes sore from the pain 

of the death, 

that disappeared

when I held Ocean in my arms

and he consumed me.

---

Neptune Naiadis is a poet, twice published in the Caribbean writer’s journal0 and a current student at the University of the West Indies. She is an aspiring novelist, animator and young businesswoman currently running a small handmade jewellery business. Her favourite book, as of 2021 is Fauna by Jacqueline Bishop.

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The Soliloquy of A Thousand Slaps by Solare

Mi gi’ yuh nutten fi bawl fah? Eh!!? Ansa mi wen mi a chat to yuh bwoy!

Yuh tink because yuh teelie start act like tree trunk sey yuh is a man?

Well, if yuh is di big tree, mi a di small axe. Ready long time.

Imagine sey yuh good fi nutten Pa’ leff fi buy cigarette 9 years ago and all now, eh? All now. Storm, fire, all pandemic reach and still mi yeye cyan bless pon him crusty neck back? 9 years – a mi one. Well, mi and God alone.

Mi juss now start come. Fi real – a come mi dis a come and mi nuh wan no boderation oi!

Look how mi find a nice, clean man wid two likkle Nanny inna him pocket, wey know how fi tek wi fi Devon House ice cream pon Sunday and yuh shoob yuh dutty finger dem innahim face? It look like yuh wan wi nyam mud fi di rest a wilife.

Know fi come outta big people argument. 

So wah if Clancy slap me 2 time? Yes, mi ears ring lakka di church bell dung a di Catholic Church but dat no sey yuh fi match him size. A so wen love sweet big people, passion rise.Mi nuh wan hear sey him call yuh no name. Ef him never ketch yuh a daub on mi purple lipstick pon yuh face, him wouldn’ have nutten fi sey.

Come yah bwoy! Mi hand nor mi mout nuh tiad yet eenuh. When mi dun wid yuh a bet yuh never dweet again. Sey bet!

Stop chat fart bout Clancy a abuse me and me a abuse yuh. Yuh know abuse? Yuh see wen dem mad people lock up dem pickney inna dungeon and starve dem – dat a abuse. Yuh love use dah word deh lightly – a me push yuh out, labour fi a day so if me wan drop lick pon yuh yah tidey, lick a go drop. Bout abuse.

Guh dung a Mass Tam and buy a tin a bully beef mek I fix Clancy summen sweet fi him figet how yuh brazen. And when him come tonight a beg yuh go ova Billy go watch TV.

‘Sas crise, look how yuh swell up mi hand wid yuh tuff skin and have di nerve a bawl. Move outta mi yeyesight cause di more mi look pon yuh and see yuh Puppa inna yuh face a di more mi get bringle.

Buy one suck-suck fi yuhself a di shop and memba mi change,oh. Anju, mi sey fi tap di rass bawling inna mi ears!!!!

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Solare (nom de plume) is a Jamaican poet, although her collection remains scattered on bits of paper lying on the ground, making the place untidy. You can find her everywhere there is love and fun.

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Ole Jezebel by Karolyn Smith - Poem

I remember being called “Ole Jezebel”

The name had rolled off her tongue

and landed like acid in my ears

creating holes that grew wider

as each letter wound its way down my ear canal

landed in the back of my mouth

and left a cavernous hole in my wisdom tooth

I was twelve

I was twelve when I was called “Ole Jezebel”

because of the shiny gold earrings I wore dangling from my ears

—

as if they were beacons

for the men who leave their self-control, unused, under their mattresses

I was twelve when I was wrongly attributed the term harlot (for that was its meaning)

all because I dared to be bold enough to wear matching gold hoops in each lobe

Bold like Jezebel

who was wrongly attributed the characteristic of a temptress —

she was a princess

and then a queen

whose only crime

was to be bold enough

to worship a god she knew

Years later I would

have appreciated being called Bathsheba...

but even she did no wrong

but to be beautiful

in the presence of a king

whose self-control had

been put away underneath a prayer mat

only to be plucked on strings

as Psalms

But at twelve, I knew none of these things

the way I do now

so I bore the acid of those words, “Ole Jezebel”,

felt my wisdom tooth rot and ache

took the gold from my lobes

melted them with my tears and heartache

(What do you know of a 12-year-old’s heart pain?)

I stuffed the molten gold in my wisdom tooth

where it caught and stored

the venom

of misspoken words.

I forgot it there.

I only just remembered it

now I am old

and still bold

wearing what I please

how I please

and someone dared

to call me Ole Jezebel

This time I laughed

A big belly laugh

I laughed till the gold rattled.

Fools!

Don’t they know I am a Queen?

(c) Karolyn K Smith 2021

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Karolyn Smith was born in Jamaica, spent her formative years in New York, and currently resides in Grand Cayman. She is an author of two self-published collections of poetry and enjoys writing every chance she gets. Karolyn is a constant pen for the universe as she draws on all her experiences to write on human experiences such as grief, loss, love, healing and friendship. 

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