Vernon L. Jackman was born in Road View, St. Peter. He attended Speightstown Boy's School and lived in Barbados until age10. He is an award winning poet and educator who holds bachelors and masters degrees from Cornell University. At Cornell, he won all of the poetry contests and received an honorable mention in the fiction contest. He has published poetry, short fiction, a children's book and is currently blogging the chapters of a book on spirituality and self-improvement titled Radiance Benevolence Abundance. Mr. Jackman resides in South Carolina with his wife, Dr. Lorraine Jackman, and their two daughters.
More information about this author can be found at: http://bit.ly/vernonjackman
DawnscapeSails flesh out and shiver,
nightshift insects lose their bleat
in the click and wail of cicadas,
angling louder to the incoming
light. That seam between dark and day,
tailored in roughly.
Attempts at waking. Birds.
An old woman reveals herself
through fret and stagger,
through the grate of leather,
hollowed on cool tar;
and a road coils grey,
straining to the foot of a hill.
The too sudden light reveals us,
returns the brutal outline of shacks,
and galvanized roofs that blind.
Light scuttles back the choppy talus
of our nakedness. Below,
the water changes its ridges; winds alter,
swilly with half-awakened syllables.
or the screech of the island's limestone ache?
Branches stir. Lapsed,
water drains: a cool finger
down the spinal groove in a leaf.
after Gary Sato's "Desire"
and your belly cramps with needles:
fills up with sunlight,
warm as porridge, but weightless.
That nervous echo of blood
beats the walls inside
as trees (angered and hurt in a storm)
hurl their limbs on frail houses.
getting sticky between your fingers,
and you've taken up a wayward kinship with the sun,
walking shore in stiff, salty rags.
Noon bleaches the crescent bay hard and bright.
Bareback, your skin tempers like a steel drum.
If berries blew down in green shower
striking the hollow of your back
you'd break slowly
into a familiar, saddening song.
An almond, speckled purplish, opens
like a woman's love,
and dry leaves rock downward, cradled in air.
You hunger now. Birds tidy their nests
and fly toward sleep.
Trees go cool and silent.
kicking sand into a darkening veil-resolved
to curse the fat smiling moon,
and those whispers, coddled in grassy spaces.
It is fruit you want:
that copper almond, fallen in the bushes
with its tiny wooden bell
and part slowly: the flesh wet, dark before its pink;
its sigh blowing from another mouth.
Woman's TongueStooped under the shak-shak tree
hung there and shadowless,
lighter than wood smoke curling from shacks,
she is an ancestress,
stranded in the windy clack.
Leaned forward, she holds herself
She fingers remembrance,
twines the weathered strands of her frock
along the frozen dance,
cast in hard shadows of branch and bramble.
She reaches for an utterance
to give memory and curve,
where the names of things eddy,
break and separate.
The trance has her.
Burdened with the first spoken thing,
she cries into the dark of herself;
turns back from the pit of her stomach:
shaped recollection, clicking semantics.
She warns, prays, curses
and suddenly is gone. Only tracks of heat remain,
winding where she spoke.
D.J. writes very special poems with bajan accent, which express the feeling of life of the West Indies.
He published the poems in a book called:
'D.J.s Book O' Rhymz - Feelin' A Way'
A nice example:
The Only Peach In a Tamarind Tree
I have the only peach in a tamarind tree,
And she's shining so bright; the whole world can see,
And the only hand that can reach to pick her is me,
And she will be placed on a pedestal created just for she,
And the only ones up there who could exchange juices is we,
So that no one else could taste of my sweet delicacy,
But hey thats just selfish little ol' me,
Because I want the only peach in that tamarind tree.
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