"The Writer" A Self Portrait

A self portrait.

Celestial lady

I did this one for my friend Ana. She needed a bit of cheering up.

Nidhi James

Minnie Gupta 2

Minnie Gupta

Prayer for Favors

I came across this prayer and thought it was interesting. I don't know if it works and I know its not magic. True prayer comes from your heart. But, this can help you with the words.



Dear Jesus - Prayer for Favors

Dear Heart of Jesus: In the past, I have asked for many favors. This time, I ask you this very special one (mention favor). Take it dear Jesus and place it within your own broken heart, where your father sees it. Then, in your merciful eyes, it will become your favor, not mine. Amen.

Say this prayer for 3 days, promise publication and your favor will be granted. Never knownto fail.

The Look, Nadira $

Nadira 3

The second piece of Nadira

The Veil

There is only so much a person can do to hide their beauty. Even behind a veil, their beauty still shines radiantly though.

The Look. Nadira Williams

This bit of art was inspired by Miss Nadira Williams. I sincerely hope she likes it.

Golden Anklets

The curves of a woman as she sleeps showing the natural beauty of a woman and the adornment of her body.

Dark Poetry

Any writer will tell you about the trials they endure when writing a piece. This shows the strain, emotion, and blood that gives life foing into the writing

Golden Chain

Temptation

We know what awaits and yet we go for it.

Shy In Her Yellow Bikini

Posing in Jeans

She is just seductive enuough to close her eyes listening to faraway music and yet have yoru eyes glued to her image.

Dancing for her Husband's Pleasure

While the music plays, she dances only for the eyes of her Husband and none other.Her figure sways in rhyme, a prelude of the poetry to come.

Morning Stretch

She wakes up and stretches in the morning while her body is bathed in the warm glow of the rising sunlight

.

Golden Earring

He sits and notices the light reflecting off of her back and the colours and shades that his eyes drink in from her complexion. Then, he notices an adornment to her body that stands out, her Golden Earring.

Angel Eyes

These Angel Eyes are looking, let's see if they see you.

Queity Waiting

Done in pastel, this was originally flowered and scented.

Bedroom Rose

This is simplyknown as "Bedroom Rose". The rose may just be a reminder of the passions that had fallen asleep as the sun arose.

JIM JONES!!

This man left a stain on Guyana since November 18th, 1978. Since that time many people only know Guyana because of; Jim Jones, cool aid and 909 DEad!

Dreaming with a Red Pillow

The title should speak for itself. She is having a very vivid dream while clutching onto her red pillow.

Cyril Dabydeen

For those who know a bit about Guyanese writing, you'll know about Cyril Dabydeen. Here is a portrait of him. His contributions to literature happens to be very numerous. Check out his works if you get the opportunity.

Colour

Colour is a part of our lives and here we see how it can make a simple piece of drawing come to life with "Color" (Colour if you use the British English but Color if you use the American English.)

The Angel and her Badman

I call this one "Nidhi James and James Rakah" the only problem is that nothing can do justice to the real people. A picture is often worth a thousand words, but if the picture is of someone then it is speechless to the person.

Indian Maiden

This bit of artwork was inspired by Miss. N. James

Edward R. Braithwaite

There are some people that leave a mark and show the world their talents as writers. Mr Braithwaite is one such person. This Guyanese born writer wrote many books however he will always be remembered for the immortal story "To Sir, With Love".

Nadira

Some people look so wonderful, their features ooze sensuality. That is how Nadira is. This artwork captures a woman's beauty and the allure of her lips waiting to be kissed.

Walter Rodney

Few people realize the impact that Rodney had on the Guyanese people and on the world. When you look at it now you can see that he still has an effect. This artwork was done in honour of Dr. Walter Rodney.

Where can he be?

Is there anyone who can tell this distraught woman "where can he be?"

Girl with Mala

She is waiting patiently and however coyly to put those flowers on that special someone's neck.

Flowered and Scented!

She is already scented and has flowers surrounding her. She now waits for one to meet her.

Looking!

Here eyes are beautiful and so is she. None knows for whom she waits, yet, she looks and waits.

Sleeping Lovers

This artwork is entitled, "Sleeping Lovers". I tried to capture the beauty and warmth as well as the look of contentment in the faces of lovers lying with each other. All of my art thus far have had one thing in common, they show the feminine gender and I have tried to capture their beauty.

Fruits for Her Darling.

In "Fruits for her Darling" We see a beautiful woman carrying a basket of fruits for her sweetheart. It may possibly be that they have not seen each other in a while. She adorned herself and carries a seductive air about her while carrying the fruits showing the contours of her figure. The light smile on her lips shows that while she is offering fresh fruits to her lover, she herself would be the more appetizing dish before him.

DIA DANCER

I drew this piece and entitled it "Dia Dancer" because if you look at the Hindu festival of Diwali there would be small cups of light to guide the Gods to the houses of the believers. This girl is dancing for the entertainment of her gods. The fires are going and she is decorated in her finery. What a wonderful feeling it must be to be bathed in the glow of the flames and be enchanted by a beauty dancing and baring her soul before your eyes.

(Art by Samuel Singh)

What is a real War story?

Has anyone actually taken the time to think about what makes a war story real? We know of wars because we live in a society where news about war is a daily happening. We see it in the news, read books about it, watch television shows about it. Yet, do we know what is really real about a war story? I wrote an article a little while back that may give insight to such things. Take a few minutes and read it through. I'm sure it will be worth your while.

http://www.cinemaroll.com/War/Hollywoods-creation-of-what-is-real-in-a-War-story.29639

That is a discussion of war from the look of films. What we see in movies and what is purely cinematic and what it real. You'll find that what is real is very disturbing and that the soldiers themselves sometimes are unsure of what to expect. Honestly it seems as if WAR includes expecting death at every step and anticipating it before it takes your card and punches you out.

Enjoy the article.

Ulele Burnham Reflects on her Father

For those who took the time to read the article by Freddie Kissoon, here is one by Ulele Burnham. Freddie tried to make amends for the sins of the past but here we see something else. We learn once again that those who do not remember the past are doomed to repeat it. We have had enough of sugar coating. There are things happening in Guyana all to similar to what had happened 27 years prior to the now elected Government. It just goes to show you that the more we try to change sometimes we just remain the same. However, when we choose to think back to certain things, nostalgia plays tricks on us by making us think and believe that things were better than they really were. People on the whole have had enough of suffering. People all over are fed up. If you remember how things were, think of how things are today. Are they reverting back there? Is the vicious cycle still happeneing? I sincerely hope not, because if it is, it would mean that an entire nation has learnt nothing.

The truth is a bitter cup sometimes that we all must drink from. I honestly think that Ulele Burnham has had more than a few sips from that cup. I also happen to think that it was good of her to do that. So the next time you choose to think about things in a nostalgic sense and forget about reality. Here is something to bring you back.

This article was most wonderfully done and I know you will appreciate what was written.

Samuel Singh

Ulele Burnham is a barrister specializing in mental health and discrimination law and practises from chambers in London, where she has been based for the past nineteen years. "Philosophy is a battle against the bewitchment of our intelligence by means of language." Ludwig Wittgenstein My sister Melanie emailed me a copy of Freddie Kissoon's 6th August 2007 Kaieteur News column written on the 22nd anniversary of my father's death, accompanied only by the brief epithet 'who would have thunk?' After I had recovered from her unorthodox American conjugation of the verb 'to think' (something which would have caused our father as much consternation in his final resting place at the Seven Ponds as would Freddie Kissoon paying homage to him), I read the piece and thought. Those who know me will know that with me, thought can often take an extraordinarily long time and lead to debilitating prevarication. But on this rare occasion I thought a lot and thought rapidly. My first train of thought led me back to a 'Noddy' guide to Philosophy called 'The Consolations of Philosophy' by Alain de Botton which I picked up on one of my trips to a local bookstore, desperate to widen and deepen my knowledge of life and thinking, and desperate to feel that my brain was not merely reducible to a string of ill-remembered and badly organised legal principles and cases. As I read Freddie Kissoon's piece I was struck by an obvious paradox: that his imagined visitation from my father, in the course of which he found himself almost constrained to apologise to a man he had once vilified, had led him to dissuade his daughter from the rigours of philosophy or philosophical thought. How was it possible that a man whose assessment of another appears to have been altered by the passage of time, painful experience, and, most importantly, reflection, could conclude that a discipline aimed at elevating thought, reason and reflection over impulse and instinct was a futile pursuit? My second response to the piece was to think that if Freddie Kissoon could make some sort of peace with my father, publicly, it was time that I made public a small indication of my private battles and my peace also. The road I have travelled, my journey of philosophical reflection, has, I assume, been markedly different from Freddie's. Many may say, and I do too, that fortune has bestowed upon me a remarkable privilege in the circumstances. The fact that that road has been sometimes muddy - and often rough - has led me neither to an unconditional defence of my father as a political figure nor to underestimate the consequences for Guyana of his frailties as a leader and a human being. For many in Guyana today, there are, still, no roads. And such roads as there are appear to be going nowhere, fast. Much as I would love it to be the case, neither I nor History (to use Fidel Castro's coinage), nor Freddie Kissoon can completely absolve my father of his share of responsibility for this tragic state of affairs. And so I write this short comment with more than a little humility. My friends better versed in psychoanalysis than I tell me that pre-pubescent and pubescent rage against a father figure is fairly standard in children between the ages of 9 and say 13. They say that the disempowerment which accompanies the fact of childhood tends to manifest itself, at that age, in anger directed at 'the law' in the home. That law has, historically, tended to be enforced by the father. I, of course, enjoyed the dubious privilege of having a father who was "the law" writ large. When I was in the early part of the period in which adolescent rebellion is said by my friends to be commonplace, the anger at my father seemed, at least to me, to originate from quite a different source. By way of example, I remember a time when students at St. Roses High School took to the streets in revolt against the transfer of Sister Hazel Campayne to Eteringbang. For what seemed like the first time, I began to feel a real sense of confusion rather than rage. The man who presided over Sister Hazel's transfer was the man who, with my mother, had taught me about integrity, about the value of national self-determination, the abject immorality of colonialism, the havoc it wreaked on the psyche of the colonised and the disenfranchisement of the colonial subject denied a voice. Yet he appeared impervious to the voices of those who spoke, angrily, against him. I was, at first, angry at those who protested for failing to understand what he had so carefully sought to explain to me about the Western powers' commitment to destabilising left-wing regimes in the South. But later I could no longer feel secure that he was right, that what he did or oversaw was right. The voices of dissent were too loud and too close. My idol did have feet of clay. Much time has passed since the 1970s and 80s and I have been forced to think and to reflect. There is little detail about the period of my father's leadership to which I was privy - I was 15 when he died - but there is a great deal that I have read since, both damning and eulogising. I have wrestled with the myriad accounts of his deeds as issues of conscience for much of my adult life. There are questions that he may have been able to answer had I been old enough to formulate them while he was still alive. It may be a little known fact that he was rarely dismissive of his children when we asked him to explain things to us. He may, for all I know, have been able to silence his detractors with his own words. But I cannot, and will not, speak on his behalf. I know enough about what he was to be proud to have been his child and will continue to be grateful for many of the things he instilled in me. On the other hand, even taking account of the fact that I know much of what is written about him to be untrue, I have heard enough to have, also, a sobering sense of shame. It was not without years of thought and discussion with friends and family that I eventually arrived at something of an equable place in relation to this tension. Nonetheless, something niggled me about Freddie Kissoon's elliptical piece. I recognised instantly that it wasn't his criticism of my father because I am, regrettably for me, all too familiar with that. Nor was it his belated damascene conversion. I eventually came to the realisation that it was something less directly related to how anyone viewed my father; it was Kissoon's cynicism about philosophy that troubled me. It was his jocular rejection of what I see as an inherently valuable tool in politics as much as in psychology; something that was indispensable for me in my maturation process. What was it other than a philosophical approach which had led both Freddie Kissoon and me, perhaps without knowing it, to be sanguine in our reflections on a complicated man and a complicated period in Guyana's history? And as my Noddy guide to philosophy had informed me, the greek etymology of the word philosophy is philo (love); Sophia (wisdom). How can one even begin to understand (and change) the world - the stated aim of any political movement - if one does not strive for wisdom through considered thinking? I share Freddie Kissoon's view that the parlous situation in Guyana is one of which we should all, including administrations past and present, be deeply ashamed. It seems to me, however, that he, and others who care about Guyana, should embrace rather than jettison a philosophical approach. Philosophy is not concerned only with human malady. Much philosophical writing focuses, for example, on the pursuit of long-term happiness by the process of learning to defer gratification. So philosophical education, as my cousin Gary Lam reminded me recently, might do wonders for young Guyanese who see the answer to life's travails in the quick and easy money that might, at great risk to them, be obtained by acting as drug mules. An ability to reason would perhaps lead to mature reflection upon the consequences of such apparently impulsive decisions. It is true that a call to reasoned contemplation may, at first blush, seem empty in a society where few can avail themselves either the time or opportunity for thought. But a closer analysis may lead to the conclusion that only reason and wisdom can make our shame about our predicament productive. I am eternally indebted to my father (and mother, and not necessarily in that order) for teaching me how to think, even if that process has led me, at times, to be critical of him. It is time that we demand that our present leaders do the same, and better, for all the daughters and sons of Guyana's soil.

By llanusTuesday, August 21, 2007

The Last Legion

The movie "The Last Legion" was a good epic, just not as good as the more recent ones. Here we see Colin Firth as a Roman soldier and Commander. The flawless Ben Kingsley as Merlin and Aishwarya Rai as a soldier from Constantinople originally from Kerla, India named Mira. The film is loosely based on a novel with the same name.

The film is loosely based on 5th century European history, primarily that of the collapse of the Western Roman Empire under its last emperor, Romulus Augustus. This along with other items from the history of Britain and elements from the legend of Arthur provides a prelude for King Arthur to arrive.

The movie begins before the coronation of Romulus as emperor in 460. His father, Orestes, is the commanding general of the Roman army. Odoacer, leader of the barbarian foederati army, makes certain demands on Orestes the night prior to coronation, which Orestes rebuffs.

On the day of the coronation, Rome is attacked by the barbarians, Orestes is killed, and Romulus is exiled to Capri along with his shamanistic advisor Ambrosinus (Merlin). His prison is a villa constructed more than four centuries earlier by the emperor Tiberius. Romulus finds a hidden chamber in the villa with a statue of Julius Caesar holding a sword he had forged after his military campaigns in Britain.

Romulus is rescued by the Aurelius and some legionaries, along with the BEAUTIFUL East Indian warrior named Mira. They take Romulus to a seaport where the Eastern Roman Empire's ambassador has promised safe passage to Constantinople. However, Romulus and his loyalists barely escape after they learn the Byzantines have betrayed them and sided with Odacer.

Romulus and Aurelius seek refuge in Britain, where the Ninth Legion remains loyal. The party travels to Hadrian's Wall and finds no evidence of the Dragon Legion until a farmer approaches and reveals that he was the legion's commander.

Vortigen (British warlord) desperately wants the sword of Romulus to bolster his legitimacy as the ruler of Britain and kill Romulus as a gesture to Odacer. Romulus along with his faithful and few supporters mount a battle against Vortigen at Hadrian's Wall which appears hopeless until the Ninth Legion takes up its old Roman arms and uniforms and turns the tide of the battle. The two warring sides cease their hostilities when Ambrosinus kills Vortigen at a temple near the battlefield. That was a great scene. (We saw Merlin as a warrior).

Being sickened by the deaths in the battle and even the men he had to kill, the young Romulus flings away his sword and it pierces a large rock. Years later, Ambrosinus, also known as Merlin takes a young boy to the battlefield to describe the now legendary events. The boy asks what happened to Romulus. Merlin says he became a wise ruler and adopted the name Pendragon which the boy marvels is his family name.

The movie was a great epic. The acting was good but could have been done a little better. The action was out of this world. All in all, I think I would reccomend anyone to watch it. I enjoyed it.

Freddie Kissoon column August 6th 2007(Death Anniversary of Linden Forbes Sampson Burnham.)

I was recently sent this by a good family friend and it was by Freddie Kissoon. It makes for good reading and interesting for discussion. Check it out.


A voice from the grave that
speaks to me, tells me I'm wrong

About a week after my daughter entered Marian Academy to do her high school studies, she came up to me and told me that she wanted to pursue a degree in philosophy. I got a heart attack and died. I think my wife who was in the room and heard what she spoke dropped dead too.

After I re-emerged alive, I told her to stay away from that subject. It is a branch of human knowledge whose themes essentially centre on morbid subjects like the pessimism and fragility of life, the meaningless of the human condition, etc.

I urged her to keep away from philosophical subjects because one tends to become angst-ridden when one reads all these philosophy books that elevates the spirit but one day, we wake up to find that hope, optimism and expectations are dashed when one sees how the cruelty of reality brutalises the human condition.

I explained to her that students who read for a philosophy degree tend to become smothered with angst because philosophy holds out hope for the human condition but the practice of life is a road paved with good intention but its poison lilies will ultimately destroy your soul.

Today all the philosophy books I read have come back to torment me. I had immense optimism that the future would have worked 22 years ago on this very day, August 6, when I heard the news while reading a book in the John F. Kennedy Library on North Road that President Forbes Burnham had died.

The future for me and my friends, some of whom had died in the struggle for a free and just Guyana , was now assured. But country comes first and I know Guyana would dream again after August 6, 1985. The war had ended. Many were killed, tortured and imprisoned. But Guyana , like the Phoenix , would rise again.

Today, the Phoenix lies lifeless like a bird shot down by a hunter. The promise of tomorrow never came. Twenty two years ago President Burnham died and all I have in my hands to show my country is the inevitability of angst. What went wrong? How could such a beautiful struggle that resulted in the same freedom the East Germans got when they chopped down the Berlin Wall could have eluded a country that fought so hard for bread, justice and racial equality.

Look at Guyana today—there is no bread, no justice, no racial equality. Who says philosophy is right? Philosophy is about the uselessness of life. What went wrong? I don't have the answer. Something went wrong and in Guyana , the days of Burnham have come back. But back then I was a dreamer. I don't know if I can dream again.

When we fought Burnham, I was a willow; now I'm an oak. Shall we dream again? Can we still dream? I look in the mirror and I see the eyes of Burnham. They talk to me. Burnham says that I was wrong about him. I look away from the stare of Burnham. I turn and talk to the mirror and I ask the question – was I wrong?

For twenty-two years Burnham has been speaking to me from his grave. All I can hear is the echo of rebuke. I was wrong about him, he says. He tells me to look at my country today. And tell him what I see. I am ashamed to carry on the discourse. I see what Burnham shows me. I juggle the curves on my visage to hide the guilt. I let an intestinal smile hide the angst in my eyes.

Then I resume my poetry with Forbes Burnham. Yes, I see what he is showing me. Heartless men and women run Guyana today; the very territory we took away from Mr. Burnham and his anointed one – Desmond Hoyte. Mr. Burnham smiles as if to say that our misplaced emotions have caused the destruction of Guyana .

Forbes Burnham smiles as if to say: “I could have told you that these people would have been worse than me.”

President Burnham died 22 years ago and I as my fingers move on the keyboard to type yet another page about him, I know in my heart that I may be wrong about many of the things I wrote about him back then, now when I compare what is happening to my country.

I denounced him long before 1985 when he passed away. I participated in the angry struggle against him because I believed he was an unjust ruler. But inside the bosom of my heart, I carry the stain in my mind that those that succeeded him and his disciple, Desmond Hoyte after 1992, from the PPP may be worse than him.

The sycophants and parasites tell me everyday in the streets that Burnham was the worst thing to have happened to Guyana . The apologists and soup-drinkers tell me everyday in the streets that Burnham didn't believe in justice, freedom and democracy. Then I look to the heavens and I ask the stars to open the skies and let me in because the thought of knowing that our present governors are more heartless than Burnham is too much to bear.

I open the window and the savannah I see in the morning sun has the faces of our new rulers juxtaposed alongside that of Forbes Burnham and the interrogation begins anew. From his grave, Burnham begins his torture of my psyche. The angst in my eyes gives Burnham the answer he wanted to hear from me so long ago. Yes I believe there is no bread, no justice, no democracy, no freedom in Guyana today as in the seventies and eighties.

But maybe there were moments of the truth under Burnham that have vanished since 1992.

The tiny political elite and their nouveau riche friends own the country. Title has passed in their names. Under Burnham the land was still in the name of the Guyanese people. The money dried up under Burnham so the water stood at a trickle and the electricity became an infrequent visitor.

The post-Burnham and post-Hoyte state is drowning in money but where is it? Lights are going. Water has gone. We had treason accused in the dark days. We have treason accused now. We had the murder of an outspoken anti-government activist then. We have one now. We had a trade union movement that was disrespected then. We have one that is still disrespected but by a new government.

We had a subdued judiciary that was shaped when the shapers wanted it be bent. The new artists are still molding the judiciary. We had a state media then that was a Pavlovian dog. It is still running to its owner for food when the bell rings. The owner is not Burnham but those who succeeded him.

My wife is a chemical engineer and in her own diplomatic style she managed to persuade our daughter to drop philosophy in preference for a science field. Today she is at university doing the natural sciences. It was a relief. So only one member of the Kissoon household has to look back and reflect on the harshness of history and the brutality and injustice that characterise an unchanging Guyana .

Guyana may be worse today than when Burnham ruled it. That pain is unbearable. As it pierces your heart you wonder why life fails good men ad women who sacrifice their body and soul so justice can flow. But life's fountain is like a tap to be controlled by hands that are carved in blood.

Walter Rodney is dead. The spirit is dead. But the dream can never die.

GUYANESE IS NOT GT

Many people are under the misconception that "Guyanese" and "GT" mean the same thing.It is not so! Most definitely not! A Guyanese is a person in Guyana and when you say GT you refer to Georgetown which is the capital. Many people when they come overseas, they are under the impression that if they say they are from Georgetown that it is a status symbol and would make them that much cooler. The town area is not a status symbol. However, it seems like everyone both stupid and smart say that they are from GT right now. Most people from GT hate the country or rural people and look down upon them. There are also other reasons why. However, let's just leave it at this. Guyanese are from Guyana and they include people from Georgetown which is the capital. Georgetown is NOT, and I repeat, IS NOT an abbreviated term for GUYANESE. It has never been that way and as far as I see it will never be that way.

If you ask me where I'm from I'll say I'm Guyanese. I will never say I'm a GT man after all, I'm a Corentyne man. Therefore, I'm loud and proud of that fact.

FAMOUS GUYANESE

It is not often that we as Guyanese recognize the talent we have and those among us. I'm not sure how many of us know about Martin Carter but he was one of the finest poets and a son of Guyana's soil. Some may know of Walter Rodney who had his PHD by the time he was 24 years old. He was someone who had set an academic record in the University of the West Indies that has never been beaten. There are; poets, artists, writers, thinkers, performers and others too many to mention. What I did in putting this link below is to see how many we would look at it. It speaks of just a sample of the known people that Guyana has produced and yet Guyanese themselves don't happen to know. I take that back, there may be one or two who you may know or have heard of. The site is

http://moonsammy.wordpress.com/my-guyana/famous-guyanese/

Therefore, I challenge you to have a look and tell me how many of these people you know and have heard of. I also want you to tell me if you knew beforehand of their roots to Guyana.

Why A Pipe?

"Why A Bloody Corn Cob Pipe"
Today it was raining all day and while at work I was driving from Queens to Manhattan and then into the Bronx. After the errands of the day were over I spent over 2 hours with a friend of mine looking for a corn cob pipe. It then dawned on me that many people especially many of the younger generation now roll smokes just like the beginning. Many also go for menthol smokes and now we have someone going back to the very beginning by using a pipe. The more things are changing the more they are reverting back to thier roots. I'll admit I did take the pipe and had a look at it and it does have its own kind of charm. It reminds me so much of poets from the country and rural areas. It reminds me of hard work and people relaxing and it also reminds me of "Huck Finn" one of the best books a person can read. (Not meaning just redneck of course lol)

No one knows just when people started use the corn cob pipe. All that is actually known is that it was very easy to make. As a matter of fact, I found this info: "The first design for a corncob pipe was patented in 1878 by Henry Tibbe of Washington, Missouri. The company he created, Missouri Meerschaum, is still operating today as the oldest (and as far as I could find, only) corncob pipe manufacturer in the world. The company grows it's own special breed of corn developed with the help of the University of Missouri."

Johnny Cash Tribute by Samuel

Vampires by Samuel

What Is The Sign I Seek?

Sin in its has been vagabond that seeks forgiveness,

Desperately he seeks the scraps of Holiness,

That his polluted load may be taken from him,

And the pleasant rewards of his faith no longer seem grim.

All through my life I prayed while others jeered,

I loved Your sanctity while others never slightly feared.

In my wreched state I sought Your mighty touch,

Thinking of Elijah, Moses, Paul and such.

There is genuine terror when I think

that You still care for me even though in sin I sink.

I fail to comprehend Your complex terms,

and the ship of my sagacity no longer carries me at its stern.

What have I ever accomplished for You that Your Son died for me?

I now feel worthless of His messages preached from mountains to sea.

He showed us; brotherhood, love and repentance,

And he gave us access to his salvation without hindrance

to our clearance.

My failed conscience only reveals my shortcomings,

And while I seek to punish myself for my misgivings,

Divine intervention always reminds, “I am a child of God,”

Yet, yet I am still frightful why the Holy would want the sinner and odd.

– Samuel Singh (New York, 02/ 2004)

Mr. Sweet Talk by Samuel Singh

Look inna he shine eye

and hear dem nuff nuff word dat

a come from e mout dat a lie.

He can gyaf up people me a tell yuh dat

and wen you see im, he telling bout sumting new.

10 year now dem a mek bridge

but all dem a do a read book bout book wha write

but you know, one, one dutty does mek dam.

Dat blagghad Naag, come in mandir

and eat food and nuh giv

any a dem people who want am.

No. dem a siddung an laff and get fat

from abbie wok o sweat, blood and eye wata,

Now you kno wha mek dem smell like renk meat.

Dis one heh fuh PPP and PNC,

all de time dem a mek promise fuh bring moon

since abbie get mo blackout dan currant.

We need de light fu de pickney read

we want dem fu larn mo dan we

Nuh fu sen you baytah a Oxford and Cambridge from we money

Dat yuh fo mek we road.

Dis a me story a declarationdat get a tune

wat come frum de hungry bellie an the dyin lady

dat a lay down inna de street an front yuh house.

Well “Mr. Elect,” sufferin nuh always cum in

Politics dat read ‘opposition party influence.’

You tell dat to de muddah who bubbie

Dry She pickney die.

Wha bout dem flood wha come?

Yuh seh dat yuh a giv de bess fuh you bredda dem

but we see clean wata inna yuh drain wile

we gat fuh drink de dark kala pani mosquito wata yuh leff fuh we.

Is whe we clean wata deh? In yuh house?

Me tink you tink it good if you get am fuh

We benefit.

We barefoot school chile get feva

an me nah get money fuh medcine.

Me a cry every time me a see dem

hungry, hungry bellie dat groan fuh food

and de mout wid foam a carna and bus up wha leff

a brite line red.

Yuh see de muddah?

Me hol she han but can’t tek all de problem.

Now wen we ask fuh help you a drink wine and talk

“Nonsense, we have perfect social and economic structure.”

Me a still wait fuh yuh get sum structua.

Yuh kno me wife sell she tilarie

wha been in she family since she muddah, muddah time

so we can get food fuh eat and mek safe?

De shop nah even giv trus

so me can pay bak. But……..

wid wat?

Now “Mr. Sweet talk” we nuh barn inna de one same country?

yet, you mind deh sumwhere else

an nuh pon we like yuh should.

You a talk bout national pride and a wear

Diamond ring an

catapilla suit.

One day. One day, hungry bellie guh mek nuff nuff noise

an even empty barrel go come and roll

Fuh you full am.

You up deh a tink bout dear, dear ting

and me stan heah and a talk

bout poverty problem yuh bring..

– Samuel Singh

OLD YEAR’S NIGHT by Samuel Singh

Dreams unfulfilled,
ideas lying in the gutters of
my study.
Scattered papers of thought fluttering
when the paint peeled door
opens.
It’s hands twitch further
to an hour that millions
await, and I,
turn in disgust
stressing upon my losses;
of communication,
identity,
pride
and truth;
the loss of a year many tell me; wastedss
yet, much accomplished.
Another year, minutes away
And I vow;
Never to let,Never to have,
Never to demonstrate;
fears,shortcomingsand losses.
I will; ‘carpe diem etCarpe ano.’
– By Samuel Singh