Stood-up on a rain date in New York City,

I dodged the sunset and hopped a “D” train home,

Where, brimming with blissful solitude,

I urged the Muse to purge me of ulcerous self-pity –

Sonic grooves by Alanis setting the mood

For repentant limerent spectres to roam.

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Then ferocious catcalls in the corridor

Ripped me from an entranced state,

Echoed like rutting felines in the alleyway,

Too vulgar and sexual to be ignored,

Intruded on an impromptu mini-holiday —

My solitary, literary weekend escape.

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Through a cracked peephole I dared,
Despite my paralyzing, unutterable fear,

To observe lewd gestures of the same

Vicious thugs whose vile words and three-pronged stare

Five years back had degraded me past naked shame,

Had left me drowning in blood and putrid smears.

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In an update unbeknownst to me,

Buried beneath grim news headlines,

The terrifying trinity was on parole.

A mockery of justice permitted them to be free

But imprisoned my courage behind bars of old,

For which the keys were impossible to find.

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How I hated waiting alone for the police,

My pulse throbbing at a blistering pace!

Flashbacks transported me to that horrible Saturday,

When three men morphed into a six-legged beast,

Ravaging a blithe spirit until hope in Man rotted away

And her peace and joy vanished without a trace.

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© 2012-2015 Chantale Rêve

All Rights Reserved

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One buoyant call at the heartbreak of midday

Disrupted desolation’s hypnotic lullaby,

Placed a damned soul’s desperate plan on hold,

Whisked subterranean shadows away.

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Through my iPhone his lush baritone

Throbbed past brown fuzz into my ear,

Shocked flatlined blues into brisk blips,

Breathed oxygen into triple sets of wasted lips.

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Intoxicated with intravenous chordal bliss,

I wowed my alias in vowing not to be a stranger

If only my caller would delay the date

On which we shall reciprocate a fated eternal kiss.

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Poem “Unlimited Knight Time and Bleak’s-End Minutes”  © 2015 Chantale Rêve  All Rights Reserved

Image by AliCe玥


What a scintillating sensation on the tongue — now, now — when saying “Me gwan fill ma belly” and “methinks I shall find sustenance.” OK, I only think but don’t say either phrase, unless chatting with close friends. Yet the former statement is a dart to the bull’s-eye of my desire to satiate my appetite. When *tings* get primal — be the desire for food, water, sex, inner peace or safe shelter (in any sequence but nevertheless linked to survival) — my mind-spirit connects to Mamma Africa, no matter how mixed my ancestry and no matter how Eurocentric my primary and secondary educational experiences.

Thus, I urge (with the pronunciation “uhhhje”) you all to read blogger louella001’s essay, below: “Of creoles and other ‘undignified’ speaks.”

louella001

Being from the Caribbean, I unavoidably grew up in a place with more than one register. There’s the queen’s English, then there’s broken English or more particularly, Trinidadian English, which isn’t a standardised form of usage of the English language. Rules are rules. So, how come we find so may snatches of one language buried so deeply into the culture of another that the users of the language don’t even know the actual origin of the words they use? A perfect example is one that I heard from a friend of mine of African language influencing our Trinidadian creole. Who knew that obzokee, meaning funny looking, is of African origin? Or yampee is the mucus that collects at the corner of your eyes. Or a sou sou, which is a system of saving where all members pay installments of a sum of money over a period of time…

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