Blindman's Bluff - Victor D. Questel

i
Ash Wednesday
and
No one goes for cane
in this island anymore.

Burnt out by liquor
I stumble words
that only the wind
hears
as you reach the end
of your endless journey
no end

as pink smoke rises
over the setting sun

and a discarded float

haunches with shame in a drain

its once proud dragon neck broken
like
that band's collapsed canopy
whose bassman is dead without
a shadow of a doubt.

But that's what this country is about,

the burning of flesh and cane;
the ash
of effort.

Find me that voice which
cried
"Land, Bread and Justice"

Find me that voice which
cried
"I come out to play"

and Today
I will show you
the splintered halves
of your twisted
self-
mockery.

ii
The music in my head
is still drunk

as I replace the seventh beer bottle
on the ringed floor,
the rings of water
trapping my down-ward stare.

Remember,
the game is blind man's bluff;
but the end
is when you pin the tail on yourself.

iii.
Put on the light,
there are too many sounds
here
I cannot name.

No eyes like Heartman's
patient heroes,
I burn silently in my den,
seeing
each shaven convict' s head
reflect a blind future

Pacing the room
I go north from the Demerrara window
only to be drowned in the paper
gulf
pinned on the wall
as my hands grope between
the Dragon's tooth
and
the Serpent's pointed grin.

Its all mapped out.

iv.
Already
that raised hand
that flings your garbage,
balances the ash
on your child's forehead,

stalks his future dreams.

Look,
a staring finger paces the sun's dead centre

---

Victor D. Questel (1949 - 1982) Trinidad and Tobago
Source: now 4/5 Spring '74, Stewart Brown (ed.), Jamaica