Louise Simone Bennett Coverly

Dutty Tough
Sun a shine but tings no bright; Doah pot a bwile, bickle no nuff; River flood but water scarce, yawl Rain a fall but dutty tough. Tings so bad dat nowadays when Yuh ask smaddy how dem do Dem fraid yuh tek tell dem back, So dem no answer yuh. No care omuch we da work fa Hard-time still een wi shut; We dah fight, Hard-time a beat we, Dem might raise wi wages, but One poun gawn awn pon we pay, an We no feel no merriment For ten poun gawn pon wi food An ten pound pon we rent! Saltfish gawn up, mackerel gawn up. Pork en beef gawn up, An when rice and butter ready Dem jus go pon holiday! Claht, boot, pin an needle gawn up Ice, bread, taxes, water-rate Kersine ile, gasolene, gawn up; An de poun devaluate De price of bread gone up so high Dat we haffi agree Fi cut we yeye pon bred an all Turn dumplin refugee An all dem marga smaddy weh Dah gwan like fat is sin All dem-deh weh dah fas wid me Ah lef dem to dumpling! Sun a shine an pot a bwile, but Things no bright, bickle no nuff

Rain a fall, river dah flood, but, Water scarce an dutty tough.

Colonizing in Reverse
Jamaica people colonizin Englan in reverse. By de hundred, by de tousan From country and from town, By de ship-load, by de plane-load Jamaica is Englan boun. Dem a-pour out o Jamaica, Everybody future plan Is fe get big-time job An settle in de mother lan. What a islan! What a people! Man an woman, old an young Jusa pack dem bag an baggage An tun history upside dung! Some people dont like travel; But fe show dem loyalty Dem all a-open up cheap-fareTo Englan-agency. An week by week dem shippin off Dem countryman like fife, Fe immigrate an populate De seat 0 de Empire. Oonoo see how life is funny, Oonoo see de tunabout, Jamaica live fe box bread Outa English people mout. Wat a devilment a Englan! Dem face war an brave de worse, But Im wonderin how dem gwine stan Colonizin in reverse.

Back to Africa
Back to Africa, Miss Mattie? You no know wha you dah seh? You haf fe come from somewhe fus Before you go back deh! Me know say dat you great great great Granma was African, But Mattie, doan you great great great Granpa was Englishman? Den you great granmader fader By you fader side was Jew? An you granpa by you mader side Was Frenchie parlez-vous? But de balance a you family, You whole generation, Oonoo all barn dung a Bun GrungOonoo all is Jamaican! Den is weh you gwine, Miss Mattie? Oh, you view de countenance, An between you an de Africans Is great resemblance! Ascorden to dat, all dem blue-yeye White American Who-fa great granpa was Englishman Mus go back a Englan! What a debil of a bump-an-bore, Rig-jig an palam-pam Ef de whole worl start fe go back Whe dem great granpa come from! Ef a hard time you dah run from Tek you chance! But Mattie, do Sure a whe you come from so you got Somewhe fe come back to! Go a foreign, seek you fortune, But no tell nobody say You dah go fe seek you homelan, For a right deh so you deh!

Cuss Cuss
Gwan gal yuh fava teggereg, Ah wey yuh gwine goh do? Yuh an yuh boogooyagga fren Dem tink me fraid o yuh?

Goh wey, yuh fava heng-pon-nail, Is me yuh want fe trace? Me is jus de one fi teck me han An leggo pon yuh face.

Fe me han noh jine chu ch an me naw Pay licen fe me mout, Me wi tell yuh bout yuhse yah Gal noh badda get me out.

Me noh know is wat kine o chuch Fe yuh mout coulda jine, Yuh lip dem heng dung lacka wen Mule kean meck up him mine.

Gwan, me an yuh noh combolo, Yuh foot shapeless an lang Like smaddy stan far fiing dem awn An meck dem heng awn wrang.

Fe yuh foot fava capital K, Koo pon yuh two nose-hole! Dem dis big an open out like Miss Tane outsize fish bowl.

Goh wey, yuh kean bwile sof egg But still yuh want get ring, Noh man na gwine fe married yuh Wen yuh kean do a ting.

Is grudge yuh grudgeful, me kean cook But me ben goh dah good school, Me got intelligency yuh Illiterated fool !

Me sorry fe de man yuh get De po ting hooden nyam When you ackebus him salt-fish An bwilivous him yam.

Noh Lickle Twang!

Me glad fe se's you come back bwoy, But lawd yuh let me dung, Me shame o' yuh soh till all o' Me proudness drop a grung. Yuh mean yuh goh dah 'Merica An spen six whole mont' deh, An come back not a piece betta Dan how yuh did goh wey? Bwoy yuh noh shame? Is soh you come? Afta yuh tan soh lang! Not even lickle language bwoy? Not even little twang? An yuh sista wat work ongle One week wid 'Merican She talk so nice now dat we have De jooce fe undastan? Bwoy yuh couldn' improve yuhself!

An yuh get soh much pay? Yuh spen six mont' a foreign, an Come back ugly same way? Not even a drapes trouziz? or A pass de rydim coat? Bwoy not even a gole teet or A gole chain roun yuh t'roat. Suppose me las' rne pass go introjooce Yuh to a stranga As me lamented son wat lately Come from 'Merica! Dem hooda laugh afta me, bwoy Me could'n tell dem soh! Dem hooda sey me lie, yuh was A-spen time back a Mocho. Noh back-ansa me bwoy, yuh talk Too bad; shet up yuh mout, Ah doan know how yuh an yuh puppa Gwine to meck it out. Ef yuh want please him meck him tink Yuh bring back someting new. Yuh always call him "Pa" dis evenin' Wen him come sey "Poo".

Elizabeth Barrett Browning

A Child Asleep
How he sleepeth! having drunken Weary childhood's mandragore, From his pretty eyes have sunken Pleasures, to make room for more--Sleeping near the withered nosegay, which he pulled the day before. Nosegays! leave them for the waking: Throw them earthward where they grew. Dim are such, beside the breaking Amaranths he looks unto--Folded eyes see brighter colours than the open ever do. Heaven-flowers, rayed by shadows golden From the paths they sprang beneath, Now perhaps divinely holden, Swing against him in a wreath--We may think so from the quickening of his bloom and of his breath. Vision unto vision calleth, While the young child dreameth on. Fair, O dreamer, thee befalleth With the glory thou hast won! Darker wert thou in the garden, yestermorn, by summer sun. We should see the spirits ringing Round thee,---were the clouds away. 'Tis the child-heart draws them, singing In the silent-seeming clay--Singing!---Stars that seem the mutest, go in music all the way. As the moths around a taper, As the bees around a rose, As the gnats around a vapour,--So the Spirits group and close Round about a holy childhood, as if drinking its repose. Shapes of brightness overlean thee,--Flash their diadems of youth On the ringlets which half screen thee,--While thou smilest, . . . not in sooth Thy smile . . . but the overfair one, dropt from some aethereal mouth.

Haply it is angels' duty, During slumber, shade by shade: To fine down this childish beauty To the thing it must be made, Ere the world shall bring it praises, or the tomb shall see it fade. Softly, softly! make no noises! Now he lieth dead and dumb--Now he hears the angels' voices Folding silence in the room--Now he muses deep the meaning of the Heaven-words as they come. Speak not! he is consecrated--Breathe no breath across his eyes. Lifted up and separated, On the hand of God he lies, In a sweetness beyond touching---held in cloistral sanctities. Could ye bless him---father---mother ? Bless the dimple in his cheek? Dare ye look at one another, And the benediction speak? Would ye not break out in weeping, and confess yourselves too weak? He is harmless---ye are sinful,--Ye are troubled---he, at ease: From his slumber, virtue winful Floweth outward with increase--Dare not bless him! but be blessed by his peace---and go in peace.

A Dead Rose
O Rose! who dares to name thee? No longer roseate now, nor soft, nor sweet; But pale, and hard, and dry, as stubble-wheat,--Kept seven years in a drawer---thy titles shame thee. The breeze that used to blow thee

Between the hedgerow thorns, and take away An odour up the lane to last all day,--If breathing now,---unsweetened would forego thee. The sun that used to smite thee, And mix his glory in thy gorgeous urn, Till beam appeared to bloom, and flower to burn,--If shining now,---with not a hue would light thee. The dew that used to wet thee, And, white first, grow incarnadined, because It lay upon thee where the crimson was,--If dropping now,---would darken where it met thee. The fly that lit upon thee, To stretch the tendrils of its tiny feet, Along thy leaf's pure edges, after heat,--If lighting now,---would coldly overrun thee. The bee that once did suck thee, And build thy perfumed ambers up his hive, And swoon in thee for joy, till scarce alive,--If passing now,---would blindly overlook thee. The heart doth recognise thee, Alone, alone! The heart doth smell thee sweet, Doth view thee fair, doth judge thee most complete,--Though seeing now those changes that disguise thee. Yes, and the heart doth owe thee More love, dead rose! than to such roses bold As Julia wears at dances, smiling cold!--Lie still upon this heart---which breaks below thee!

A Man's Requirements
I Love me Sweet, with all thou art, Feeling, thinking, seeing;

Love me in the lightest part, Love me in full being. II Love me with thine open youth In its frank surrender; With the vowing of thy mouth, With its silence tender. III Love me with thine azure eyes, Made for earnest grantings; Taking colour from the skies, Can Heaven's truth be wanting? IV Love me with their lids, that fall Snow-like at first meeting; Love me with thine heart, that all Neighbours then see beating. V Love me with thine hand stretched out Freely -- open-minded: Love me with thy loitering foot, -Hearing one behind it. VI Love me with thy voice, that turns Sudden faint above me; Love me with thy blush that burns When I murmur 'Love me!' VII Love me with thy thinking soul, Break it to love-sighing; Love me with thy thoughts that roll On through living -- dying. VIII

Love me in thy gorgeous airs, When the world has crowned thee; Love me, kneeling at thy prayers, With the angels round thee. IX Love me pure, as muses do, Up the woodlands shady: Love me gaily, fast and true, As a winsome lady. X Through all hopes that keep us brave, Farther off or nigher, Love me for the house and grave, And for something higher. XI Thus, if thou wilt prove me, Dear, Woman's love no fable, I will love thee -- half a year -As a man is able.

A Woman's Shortcomings
She has laughed as softly as if she sighed, She has counted six, and over, Of a purse well filled, and a heart well tried Oh, each a worthy lover! They "give her time"; for her soul must slip Where the world has set the grooving; She will lie to none with her fair red lip: But love seeks truer loving.

She trembles her fan in a sweetness dumb, As her thoughts were beyond recalling; With a glance for one, and a glance for some, From her eyelids rising and falling; Speaks common words with a blushful air, Hears bold words, unreproving; But her silence says - what she never will swear And love seeks better loving. Go, lady! lean to the night-guitar, And drop a smile to the bringer; Then smile as sweetly, when he is far, At the voice of an in-door singer. Bask tenderly beneath tender eyes; Glance lightly, on their removing; And join new vows to old perjuries But dare not call it loving! Unless you can think, when the song is done, No other is soft in the rhythm; Unless you can feel, when left by One, That all men else go with him; Unless you can know, when unpraised by his breath, That your beauty itself wants proving; Unless you can swear "For life, for death!" Oh, fear to call it loving! Unless you can muse in a crowd all day On the absent face that fixed you; Unless you can love, as the angels may, With the breadth of heaven betwixt you; Unless you can dream that his faith is fast, Through behoving and unbehoving; Unless you can die when the dream is past Oh, never call it loving!

A Sea-Side Walk
We walked beside the sea, After a day which perished silently

Of its own glory---like the Princess weird Who, combating the Genius, scorched and seared, Uttered with burning breath, 'Ho! victory!' And sank adown, an heap of ashes pale; So runs the Arab tale. The sky above us showed An universal and unmoving cloud, On which, the cliffs permitted us to see Only the outline of their majesty, As master-minds, when gazed at by the crowd! And, shining with a gloom, the water grey Swang in its moon-taught way. Nor moon nor stars were out. They did not dare to tread so soon about, Though trembling, in the footsteps of the sun. The light was neither night's nor day's, but one Which, life-like, had a beauty in its doubt; And Silence's impassioned breathings round Seemed wandering into sound. O solemn-beating heart Of nature! I have knowledge that thou art Bound unto man's by cords he cannot sever--And, what time they are slackened by him ever, So to attest his own supernal part, Still runneth thy vibration fast and strong, The slackened cord along. For though we never spoke Of the grey water anal the shaded rock,--Dark wave and stone, unconsciously, were fused Into the plaintive speaking that we used, Of absent friends and memories unforsook; And, had we seen each other's face, we had Seen haply, each was sad.

William Wordsworth

A Wren's Nest
AMONG the dwellings framed by birds In field or forest with nice care, Is none that with the little Wren's In snugness may compare. No door the tenement requires, And seldom needs a laboured roof; Yet is it to the fiercest sun Impervious, and storm-proof. So warm, so beautiful withal, In perfect fitness for its aim, That to the Kind by special grace Their instinct surely came. And when for their abodes they seek An opportune recess, The hermit has no finer eye For shadowy quietness. These find, 'mid ivied abbey-walls, A canopy in some still nook; Others are pent-housed by a brae That overhangs a brook. There to the brooding bird her mate Warbles by fits his low clear song; And by the busy streamlet both Are sung to all day long. Or in sequestered lanes they build, Where, till the flitting bird's return, Her eggs within the nest repose, Like relics in an urn. But still, where general choice is good, There is a better and a best; And, among fairest objects, some Are fairer than the rest;

This, one of those small builders proved In a green covert, where, from out The forehead of a pollard oak, The leafy antlers sprout; For She who planned the mossy lodge, Mistrusting her evasive skill, Had to a Primrose looked for aid Her wishes to fulfill. High on the trunk's projecting brow, And fixed an infant's span above The budding flowers, peeped forth the nest The prettiest of the grove! The treasure proudly did I show To some whose minds without disdain Can turn to little things; but once Looked up for it in vain: 'Tis gone---a ruthless spoiler's prey, Who heeds not beauty, love, or song, 'Tis gone! (so seemed it) and we grieved Indignant at the wrong. Just three days after, passing by In clearer light the moss-built cell I saw, espied its shaded mouth; And felt that all was well. The Primrose for a veil had spread The largest of her upright leaves; And thus, for purposes benign, A simple flower deceives. Concealed from friends who might disturb Thy quiet with no ill intent, Secure from evil eyes and hands On barbarous plunder bent, Rest, Mother-bird! and when thy young Take flight, and thou art free to roam, When withered is the guardian Flower, And empty thy late home, Think how ye prospered, thou and thine,

Amid the unviolated grove Housed near the growing Primrose-tuft In foresight, or in love.

Beggars
She had a tall man's height or more; Her face from summer's noontide heat No bonnet shaded, but she wore A mantle, to her very feet Descending with a graceful flow, And on her head a cap as white as new-fallen snow. Her skin was of Egyptian brown: Haughty, as if her eye had seen Its own light to a distance thrown, She towered, fit person for a Queen To lead those ancient Amazonian files; Or ruling Bandit's wife among the Grecian isles. Advancing, forth she stretched her hand And begged an alms with doleful plea That ceased not; on our English land Such woes, I knew, could never be; And yet a boon I gave her, for the creature Was beautiful to see-a weed of glorious feature. I left her, and pursued my way; And soon before me did espy A pair of little Boys at play, Chasing a crimson butterfly; The taller followed with his hat in hand, Wreathed round with yellow flowers the gayest of the land. The other wore a rimless crown With leaves of laurel stuck about; And, while both followed up and down, Each whooping with a merry shout, In their fraternal features I could trace Unquestionable lines of that wild Suppliant's face. Yet 'they', so blithe of heart, seemed fit

For finest tasks of earth or air: Wings let them have, and they might flit Precursors to Aurora's car, Scattering fresh flowers; though happier far, I ween, To hunt their fluttering game o'er rock and level green. They dart across my path-but lo, Each ready with a plaintive whine! Said I, 'not half an hour ago Your Mother has had alms of mine.' 'That cannot be,' one answered-'she is dead:'I looked reproof-they saw-but neither hung his head. 'She has been dead, Sir, many a day.''Hush, boys! you're telling me a lie; It was your Mother, as I say!' And, in the twinkling of an eye, 'Come! Come!' cried one, and without more ado, Off to some other play the joyous Vagrants flew!

Daffodils
I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. The waves beside them danced; but they Out-did the sparkling waves in glee: A poet could not but be gay, In such a jocund company:

I gazed--and gazed--but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought: For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils.

It Is a Beauteous Evening
It is a beauteous evening, calm and free, The holy time is quiet as a nun Breathless with adoration; the broad sun Is sinking down in its tranquility; The gentleness of heaven broods o'er the sea: Listen! the mighty Being is awake, And doth with his eternal motion make A sound like thunder - everlastingly. Dear Child! dear Girl! that walkest with me here, If thou appear untouched by solemn thought, Thy nature is not therefore less divine: Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year, And worship'st at the Temple's inner shrine, God being with thee when we know it not.

London, 1802
Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour; England hath need of thee: she is a fen Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen, Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower, Have forfeited their ancient English dower Of inward happiness. We are selfish men;

Oh! raise us up, return to us again; And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power. Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart; Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea: Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free, So didst thou travel on life's common way, In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart The lowliest duties on herself did lay.

Claude Mckay

Flame-Heart
So much have I forgotten in ten years, So much in ten brief years! I have forgot What time the purple apples come to juice, And what month brings the shy forget-me-not. I have forgot the special, startling season Of the pimento's flowering and fruiting; What time of year the ground doves brown the fields And fill the noonday with their curious fluting. I have forgotten much, but still remember The poinsettia's red, blood-red in warm December. I still recall the honey-fever grass, But cannot recollect the high days when We rooted them out of the ping-wing path To stop the mad bees in the rabbit pen. I often try to think in what sweet month The languid painted ladies used to dapple The yellow by-road mazing from the main, Sweet with the golden threads of the rose-apple. I have forgotten--strange--but quite remember The poinsettia's red, blood-red in warm December. What weeks, what months, what time of the mild year We cheated school to have our fling at tops? What days our wine-thrilled bodies pulsed with joy Feasting upon blackberries in the copse? Oh some I know! I have embalmed the days, Even the sacred moments when we played, All innocent of passion, uncorrupt, At noon and evening in the flame-heart's shade. We were so happy, happy, I remember, Beneath the poinsettia's red in warm December.

Adolescence
There was a time when in late afternoon The four-o'clocks would fold up at day's close Pink-white in prayer, and 'neath the floating moon

I lay with them in calm and sweet repose. And in the open spaces I could sleep, Half-naked to the shining worlds above; Peace came with sleep and sleep was long and deep, Gained without effort, sweet like early love. But now no balm--nor drug nor weed nor wine-Can bring true rest to cool my body's fever, Nor sweeten in my mouth the acid brine, That salts my choicest drink and will forever.

Jasmines
Your scent is in the room. Swiftly it overwhelms and conquers me! Jasmines, night jasmines, perfect of perfume, Heavy with dew before the dawn of day! Your face was in the mirror. I could see You smile and vanish suddenly away, Leaving behind the vestige of a tear. Sad suffering face, from parting grown so dear! Night jasmines cannot bloom in this cold place; Without the street is wet and weird with snow; The cold nude trees are tossing to and fro; Too stormy is the night for your fond face; For your low voice too loud the wind's mad roar. But, oh, your scent is here--jasmines that grow Luxuriant, clustered round your cottage door!

Reference Page

1. http://jis.gov.jm. Retrieved September 12, 2013.

2. http://poemhunter.com. Retrieved September 12, 2013.

3. Wordsworth Edition Limited (Ed). 1994. The Collected Poems of William Wordsworth. Hertfordshire, London.