Singing with Joy

Several years ago I heard Renny Khan from U. of A. International, originally from Trinidad, tell the story of a group of Caribbean islanders in the early 16th century. These people had heard of the Spanish and their ships--news had gone around the ring of islands fairly quickly of these sailing ships that arrived and enslaved or eradicated the populations. So when the sails appeared on the horizon, the entire population, which might have been Carib, or might have been Arawak, or maybe of some other culture (and probably did not call themselves either Carib or Arawak in any case), walked off the island and drowned themselves. The obvious story was framed in the knowledge of what they walked away from, drowned themselves to avoid. To me, the more pressing story was what they walked towards--what in their worldview was waiting for them in that possibly saving embrace of the sea. With the entire population gone, no one was left to tell that story, and it was that loss--the loss of a functional world view--that began to pick away at me. At that time, I had not turned my hand or mind to poetry in a shamefully long time, but the occasion put me back in that mode--in a messy and erratic way.

This past April, when Joy Harjo was the opening guest artist at the Edmonton Poetry Festival, my friend and mentor, Anna Marie Sewell (whose name comes up in earlier postings), the former Poet Laureate of the city, organized a Poets' Jam to kick off the Festival. She invited a number of us to consider performing something on stage, in a loose group, after Joy and Anna had done their opening performances. I had never done anything like this, and had not even tuned my old guitar in another shamefully long time, let alone sing along with some others or supply accompaniment. But we can die only once--so I submitted that poem of the islanders who chose the water, and Anna accepted it. That acceptance began an educational couple of weeks of rewriting to get it into a shape and rhythm that could work out loud and to accompaniment.

In the end, it appeared to work pretty well--thanks to some strong percussion support from the others on stage (Gary Garrison, Ivan Sundal, Joshua Jackson, Daniel Poitras as well as Anna Marie and Joy) and from the audience, to keep me on pace. At least, nobody got up and left or called for their money back...

(Photo credit Randall Edwards, who took pictures of all the Festival events, photos that can be seen on the Edmonton Poetry Festival Facebook site)

Taking Leave                                     Don Perkins

A community

known

unknown

misknown

to history-- maybe

Arawak--

or maybe

Carib--

or maybe—not,

saw Spanish sails, knew the score,

walked off

the island:

The future’s

vacation

playground.

Beach paradise.   Setting

for countless     beer ads;

symbol   of quiet   retreat.

Packed up   the children   and walked

offshore    and down . . .  into what?

Oblivion? Freedom?

Life? Choice?

What did they call it?

Call themselves?

Optioned out to slavery, debauchery, disease, belittlement, dispossession and all the

     benefits and joys

     of civilization

they took . . . leave.

Of what?

Their senses?

The senseless?

To what? Make sense?

Stay sensible?

Get   away   from it all?

They took ---- leave.

To say “NO”?

To say “Not us”?

These are not their words

but ours: Not their answers

but ours. They took--leave,

moved down – and under—

maybe not away

but to.

Just maybe

meant  not  “No,”

meant,  just maybe, “Yes.”

We latterly enlightened latecomers

presume empathy  

for fellow humans

gone,    not lost--

Can there be lost

when found is not an option?

Not absent.

Not away for the day

from the office or school,

or missing some great party.

If we hear it at all,

their silence

gifts us this:

Dead certainty of our eternal ignorance.