3 poems

A N D R E B A G O O

EPITHALAMIUM

then I heard what sounded like a great multitude

like the roar of rushing waters and like loud peals of

laughter, a river of

feathered men arrayed, multiplied

each begetting the other in a bestiary

of fierce, molten muscle – astral

bright and sparkling

did Sappho sing of these peacocks?

of that Apollo over there, silver goblet in hand?

already they have entered me

in the whorl of this diamante world as I

stand on the pavement,

the threshold of some solemne flow

I smell frankincense and myrrh

I smell the smoke of Ash Wednesday

what if the purpose of life is play? not

hedonism, not excess, but, rather, happiness – its

pursuit, its facilitation, its glittering?

with slow steps, drunk with wine, these men crush

petals of confetti, and come at me – strophe after

strophe, facet after facet, and one,

shaking his gleaming

locks, approaches, taller than tall, and says:

WORSHIP ME,

THE TREE OF HEAVEN

embroidered all over his body are tattoos of

myrtle leaves, vines and tropical ferns

what if life is an endless procession and

no one will remember me?

what if life is a lie?

no one tells you there are things that will

never be,

never happen for you: like children, like houses, like

gazing at stars while on Mt Kilimanjaro – I go

with this man for the rest of Carnival Tuesday

and see in him an inmost swell, that projects outwards

from each bulge of his body to mine.

Father, crown my head with wreaths of glory

Mother, be glad for this my marriage to a king

opened and opening, within me, is a vista to the

eclipsed Earth’s golden ring,

as seen from a blood moon

ANTI-EPITHALAMIUM

It has come to this: me rotting on this

Pew, listening to these readings about

Love, how it is as strong as death, and bliss

Is only to be found in what God has wrought

Between man and woman; among the stones

Of the wall behind the altar where you

Assume a new form to, with ring, disown

Our wedlock. And the rain’s dark, fragrant hue

Envelops the church from the outside in,

The first drops like the fresh revelation

Of what coming inside me meant, sin

Not sin, not yet denial’s wet cumulation,

The waters of a season of drowning,

A brown river of thunder and rapture.

PROTHALAMION

For Spenser, even rivers could

fuck, could join in holy

ceremonies, their nuptials

attended by nymphs and gods.

This pisses me off as I walk my

dog one evening, considering

the unjust geography of the

world, its countries and realms,

its commonwealths and states.

In no place am I seen. Justice

Bereaux says we cannot

love, and the politicians

say they cannot say what

they cannot say. The voice of

the people, some believe, is

the voice of God. But I am

thinking of rivers. In one

poem by Spenser, the Thames

and Medway merge. I lived

near the Thames once, would

cross Waterloo Bridge to go to

lectures on the Strand, and

somehow bright spring was

the worst season, its rain as

cold as an empty nightclub’s

floor. I would think of

all the other rivers I had left:

Matelot, Grand Riviere, the

creek at Red Head Bay

that fanned out over buttery

sand in dendritic desire, its

warm water the clear stream

of the body’s wisdom.

How stupid I was to

believe in the world; to

think I had to board a

plane to find a life in

which I could openly love.

Turns out I am powerful,

I am raw, rushing past this

life and its sordid edging of

broken dreams. Turns

out the only matrimony I

need is here, walking home

through a field as vast as

a man’s wide back,

watching bare trees yawn

upwards to the sky’s

blue ectoplasm as Buster

paws for hidden truths.

For Swensen, rivers are

not rivers, but things that

are falling. Who says

you cannot enter the

same stream twice, when

all water is the same?

Andre Bagoo is a Trinidadian poet, writer, essayist and journalist. His latest books are Midnight Bestiaries, Narcissus and The Dreaming.