Monolithic, Adrian's form
stands stitched to the doorway
lit from behind,
peering into the balmy darkness,
his commanding voice silent,
tongue-tied in the farewells.
This choreographer, voice coach,
theatre costumier and
occasional caterer of economic meals
has been sewing for two nights
preparing the show.
It's Carnival.
For days after Jouvi
everyone wakes at five a.m.
to hypnotic beats which pulse to crescendo by seven,
this inviting rhythm permeates our curtains
and all Porto Spain.
No one worries about water cuts that last for days,
first the water looks rusty,
becoming a trickle, then it's gone;
the evening streets of Belmont unsafe for getting more.
Adrian's visitors talk happy-language,
they are exuberant in dress,
these are the beautiful people,
laid-back, their movements strong and graceful,
with open bodies and faces;
they dance unhooded by convention,
with physiques having talks of their own
amidst laughter and gesture.
Guests share his unfinished sofa
with its fabric oozing out;
cement bags have pride of place
as living-room dividers,
next come linen baskets spilling textiles,
then a camp bed.
Giant watermelons dominate the tiled kitchen,
my hedge against dehydration
and falling mineral count.
Adrian rules his world from the bathroom,
with a shrill and nasal voice,
on the purple telephone;
privacy, a velvet curtain,
his wiry, lithe body
snaps in and out of the forlorn,
stoic and practical.
He switches from droll to sullen
as the mood takes him
in a world punctuated by drama
and the This and That
of theatre life, news, gossip,
operational decisions
and acts of kindness.
He runs around the house in vest and shorts
a tape measure about his neck,
an Imperial rendering of life on the edge
preoccupies his imagination.
Adrian judges the Carnival
while devils slither in procession,
their tiny tar-spitting cauldrons preparing the way,
their red tails and balls swinging mischievously.
Large puppet butterflies appear
with wings tall as trees,
they stomp robotically around and about,
strapped to their fantasy,
lacking the flair
of those less encumbered.
Meanwhile steel bands pan furiously
each float bettering the other;
Tobago islanders are the best,
rehearsals have been frenetic
urgent and recent.
One solitary girl parades lightly,
neat and trim,
with a large peacock feather
strapped to her back.
Self-contained,
she steals the show.
Trinidad 2002
Artichokes and Sweet 'Potatoes
