April 2, 2019

Rayon Lennon

I, STUTTER

Dear King,
I am tired of thinking
About racism the way
I am tired of worrying
About no sun past
Dying the way I am tired
Of thinking about
Being fluent as a freeway
Even though I’ve stuttered
Since I was green in
A Jamaican countryside
Unaware I was even
Black the way
Now how snow
Lights up New
Haven the way
I’m cold as darkness
Shadowing a shrinking
Man crossing
A street in clapping
Steel boots the way true love
Has eluded me like real
Death the way
A white woman
In a black club once held
Me like hot coffee
And sipped from my
Mouth like she could turn
Me to wine the way
Afrobeat turned
Old hip hop to new
School punk rap to raw
Dancehall to crickets when
I stuttered a joke
In her ear and fear grew
Her eyes and she shrieked thinking
I had said something
Ugly to her when
I had said let’s go home
Later and love each other
But she might have shrieked
At the word home
Because home is life,
My friend, and you gave
Yours for ours, like the Bible
Says but didn’t the way
A Jamaican club
Can be America the way
The beat bounces off
The walls in between
Loneliness the way
Everybody’s body is
One tally once the music
Injects spirits the way
Once on a date a fire
Jamaican woman rejected
Me like my mother country
For being too Jamerican
The way a white man twice
Asked me to tell him
My story during
An interview for clinical
Labor at a detention
Center and I said
I stutter but
Didn’t say my angst
Came in a slave
Ship and I’m still
Silent but crying out
Because I want
My planet
To want me
The way I want my life
To be fluent as heaven
The way our devil
President’s in love
With golf the way I am
Because it’s therapy
And paradise
The way my present
Boss can rifle out
An email demanding more
Work in less time
Because my time
Was bought and sold the way
I want to respond
But don’t because
My boss has a boss
Who has a boss who has
A president who has a god
Who knows my thoughts
And yours and knows
We don’t reply because
All lives stutter the way
Death keeps tapping
At our door because
We can’t buy back
Time the way we are
Sick again from
Spring landing
With another police
Killing the way I wake
Up from a perfect world
Each day.

from Poets Respond
April 2, 2019

__________

Rayon Lennon : “In general, I don’t support Trump, but I recently read a Facebook post by a smart friend criticizing Trump for golfing too much. I started to golf two years ago and I am addicted to the peace it brings me, and I told myself that, if I were president, I would be golfing all the time too. So, sigh, I understand why Trump golfs a lot. At least that’s one thing I have in common with him. I was shocked to find myself defending Trump and my friend was too. I think it got me thinking about things we aren’t allowed to say, and it got me thinking about my life-long stutter and all the things I didn’t use to say because I stutter. All the things I say in poems now.” (web)

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April 18, 2018

Rayon Lennon

HEARD

I am still
Alive so
I move out
Of my doc’s
Cave-like office
And let the sun
Sip tears
From my
Pooling eyes.
I learned
I am
Dying
But all this
Psychic
Pain is nothing
If death will
Erase it.
I am still
Alive so I
Buy Jamaican
Food at
A Jamaican
Restaurant
And savor
The muddy
Sauce
Of the brown
Stew while
Ogling
The sunny
Jamaican
Cashier who
Looks me
Dead in
The eye
And tells
Me love
Is not dead
But on life
Support.
I say
I learned
I am dying
And she laughs
And says good
One. I laugh
Too to keep
The unknown
At bay. Cuddled
Dogs whine
Like babies
To me. I will
Never have babies.
I let that sink
Deep and forget
It. Though
I can’t.
I’m still alive
As I move by
A park teeming
With laughing
Children. The sun
Finds comfort
In a crib of trees.
And suddenly fall
Shines with greater
Focus, wind-carried
Orphaned leaves
Serenade streets.
I like to think
I’m dreaming
But the horn
From a sick car
Brings up
Reality. A young
Woman of about
20 models by.
She doesn’t even
Acknowledge me
And I imagine
That’s how death
Is—a gorgeous
Woman oozing
By without seeing
Me. She’s decked
In super tight
Whitish yoga pants.
Her ass bouncing
Like a basket-
Ball, her hair knocking
On her ass like
A good dribbler. I get
Hard and it makes
Me sad to think
I haven’t made
Love to enough
Angel-faced women
And now I’m on
The edge of leaving
Earth. I may
Attend a brothel,
I chuckle, that’s heaven.
I suddenly believe
In Heaven, a place
Of no worries, but not
Hell, a cruel
Fairytale.
I am still
Alive so I
Hoop it up
With some
Kids. My jump-
Shot is still
Alive and I rain
Threes. The kids
Tackle me
But I cannot
Be stopped
Like death.
At home,
An ancient
Apartment on
Edgewood Ave.,
I make love
To myself
Imagining
Coming
Like leaving this
Pretty awful
World.
Someone once
Said death
Is the ultimate
Orgasm. I am still
Alive so I shower
Slowly, allowing
The massaging
Water to cure
My worries.
I am still alive
So I enter
My wound-red
Sentra to go see
My father, the sky
Is a new version
Of blue. I am
Still alive so
I note how Father
Creaks with a cane
From an accident
With a crane
At work several
Years ago.
Blind in one
Eye, one and a half
Legs, cracked
Ribs. Are you
Okay? I say.
He says, I am
Dying. We are all
Dying. Even
The newborn is
Marching towards
Death. I say,
Who have you
Been reading, Dad?
He laughs. Wind
Nods the trees. He says
He recently
Flew to Jamaica
Where he built
A house overlooking
A sea-big
Woodland. I tell
Him I love him
Even though I know
He’s a womanizer,
Who left me
In Jamaica when
I was born
To marry America.
He once owned two
Wives at once, Mom
In Jamaica, and a cold
Woman in Connecticut.
Plus a woman in
Every parish.
But he’s never felt
Connected because he is
The unwanted
Product of an affair
Between his aunt’s
Hubby and his
Mom. So the father
So the son.
Dad once
Told me life
Is really freaking
Short and the only
Place to find joy
Is in a woman’s smile.
Heaven is a beautiful
Gal, he had said.
Go find you some.
He doesn’t know
What to say. So
I tell him
I love him again,
And he says
Your face
Has always told
Me something
Different.
Not now, I say.
I really love
You, Dad.
What’s wrong?
He says. Nothing,
I say. I say, Thank
You for bringing
Me to America,
A place like
Heaven if you
Want it to be.
I am still alive
So I fly
To Canada
To see
My mom, who
Is anger fighting
Godliness.
She greets
Me at the airport
Dressed in a sunny
Dark green dress. How
Is Trump’s
America? she
Wants to know.
I say, He doesn’t
Take office
Until 2017, Mom.
Her face softens.
I don’t call
Her Mom often.
Son, she says.
I’ve missed
You. Come stay
In Canada for good.
Trees scroll by
Like crumbled
Paper. Her barber
Husband is driving.
His night vision
Is poor, and he nurses
The car along.
I say, I don’t know
About living in Canada.
I have to see
How bad things
Get in the U.S., Ma.
The moon dangles
Like a dying bulb
Over clusters of houses
Followed by wide
Open spaces. I see
More houses than people
In Canada, it seems.
The streets are cleaner
Than a germaphobe’s
Place. But it’s wickedly cold,
Like the air has teeth
That nibbles at your senses.
And there is a silence
Everywhere like light
That never goes out. Mom’s
Condo sits like a nest
Of bricks on a mountain
That looks like the back
Of a dinosaur. I am
Still alive so I head
Out with my step-
Father’s 23-year-old
Son, Rick, who
Is so beautiful
Women look away
When he glides by,
Less they get sucked
Into wanting him. The women
Who look at him
Slither up and beg
Him for directions
And tell him they like
His moon-bright shoes.
He looks like a brown
Brad Pitt. It’s sickening
To think my life has been
This hell because I’m
Not beautiful. As we head
Downtown women throw
Themselves at Rick and all
He does is grin and jerk
His head back to look at
Me to make sure I’m catching
It all. It’s confusing.
I thought women played
Tight to get into. In the mirror
Of the cloud-touching glass
Building I see that my teeth
Are buck and yellow
And that my mother never
Took the time to fetch
Me braces the way she
Never got me glasses
But got glasses for herself.
I could stand to lose
20 pounds. My head is
As round as a deflating
Basketball. The black
People in Canada look
Like they carry a lighter
Weight of racism. The cops
Don’t seem to want to shoot
Everyone. The clean air
Clears my senses. The black
Men stroll with grateful
White women. The black
Women are so gorgeous
They appear like flowers
Somehow sprouting
In the deadly cold.
Rick’s beauty lights
The streets. Pale groups
Of women stop him
To ask him if he’s a movie
Star. I’m still alive so I get
Jealous and tell him
I’ll see him whenever later.
He says, No problem
Mon, in his poor
Jamaican accent.
When I get back
To the condo I see
That Mom has this after-
Cried face, and I ask
Her what’s wrong?
And she says she has
Missed out on my life.
Her face is as soft
As a swamp from bleaching
Creams. She is short
Like a middle schooler
With an unending supply
Of sarcasm and stories
Dug up from our past
Countryside lives
In Jamaica. I tell her
I love her and her face
Hardens into puzzlement.
She locks her
Eyes, and I think
She has been waiting
For me to say that ever
Since I was thirteen
And she left me
For good in Jamaica
So she could
Reunite with her
Deadbeat preacher father
Here in Canada. She unlocks
Her eyes with a smile
As dark comes
On like a comforter.

from Rattle #58, Winter 2017
Rattle Poetry Prize Winner

[download audio]

__________

Rayon Lennon: “I moonlight as a clinical therapist and in one session last fall I asked a client to write a forgiveness letter to himself; and in another session, I asked the same client to write a forgiveness letter to someone who has hurt him. I wrote my own forgiveness letters as well, which gave birth to this poem. I should also mention that I am a Barrel Child. The phrase ‘Barrel Children’ refers to, in particular, Jamaican children whose parents—compelled by social and economic challenges—choose to leave their children behind in Jamaica to pursue economic opportunities in other countries such as Canada, England, and the United States of America. These parents then send back barrels full of food and clothes and other items to their children. A good many of the children left behind face physiological and psychological challenges. I have devoted my life to correcting this problem. It’s easy to say too that this lightly fictionalized poem was informed by the shock of watching Trump win the election last November and our ensuing crush on Canada. Or that this poem is a meditation on mortality, in general. In some ways, it’s an elegy for the life I could have lived. It’s a letter and a prayer to a God I tend to disappoint but who continues to fill my life with otherworldly blessings; a forgiveness letter to my parents too, who I love dearly, though—for complicated reasons—I don’t believe I’ve ever told them I love them (except in poems). They have done the best they could for me and for that I’m forever grateful. It’s a love letter to New Haven, Connecticut; Hamilton, Canada; and all of Jamaica. And finally, a thank-you letter to and an elegy for Derek Walcott, the towering, Nobel-winning, Caribbean poet and my literary father (though I’ve never met him) who left this world last spring and whose life was, like mine now, an answered prayer.” (web)

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August 16, 2015

Rayon Lennon

SKY BEER

His daughter gets pregnant and everybody
thinks it’s his, because he’s Sky Beer. He’s never
washed nor combed his hair (he’s mildly
Rastafarian) and lives on a sliver of land
not high enough over the gully. When it rains
he’s always an hour or two away
from being washed away, in his sleep, no less.
Sky and his daughters, Chant, 16, and April,
12, sleep in the same room but never in the same
bed, and Chant’s been pregnant now one
month and Sky hasn’t chugged a beer in three
months because he can’t afford to, so it couldn’t
be his, he could never have done it sober. How he hates
when Sunday rises over the white, grave-gripped
Church of God and all the good Christians ejaculate
from their concrete box houses and stream to church
in sharp black suits and sun-catching white dresses.
He wishes it would rain and stay night forever. God can’t hear
the way the thirsty goats behind the sunny All Age
School weep and bleat at the merciless sun, nor
can He hear Chant and April snoring in the zinc
behind, nor can He see Sky Beer about to jump, all the way
down to the stony dry-season gully and break open
his head like a dry coconut. He’s not afraid of death. Death is
sleep and wake up in his own world. And death isn’t
ugly, death is that leggy browning down
near the cardboard church with HIV, too. Death is Sky Beer
asking Chant who the baby’s father is and her saying nobody
and him wanting to strangle her, but fighting death instead.
He hasn’t had a drink in so long. Now he’s tossing
down Red Stripes and tossing the bottles at the gully;
you ought to see the sounds they make
and don’t make when he hurls them into the deep
heart of the pool just under the bridge down
from the coffee field across from the rich white homes
with satellites and cherry trees. But he could never desert
Jamaica to slave on apple farms abroad to afford satellites
and lengthen his house. No. He will
never do what his mother and father did:
left him a boy with his dying Grandmother to fly
abroad and never returning, neither of them (mother
flew to England to be a nanny and his daddy
flew to Florida to pick oranges and apples.)
Nor will he work for Mr. Sharpe, the snowy Englishman,
in his Ugli factory and not because Sky’s only just over five
feet tall and would have trouble reaching
Uglies, those grainy green-skinned football-sized fruits, hybrid
offspring of tangerines and oranges, are as corrupt as kids
left behind by foreign-going fathers. Who impregnated
Chant when Sky Beer can’t even afford zinc
for his house? Mostly he does work with his tractor
which is parked out near the scarred main road.
He had to buy new zinc for the house when it
washed away last time. His wife, Willi, is gone now,
not dead, but she tramped back to live
with her mother, because he loved
to beat her in the rain so much. Especially
on Sundays to show the Christians crossing
the bridge now how much he doesn’t care
about God. Think about it. In 5,000 years
people are going to look down on us
for believing in heaven and hell. Hell and Heaven is
America, where money grows on farms and the Man
loves to hold you down. He’s not afraid of being
called stupid, undersexed and dangerous; he’s more
afraid of not being who he wants to be while
other people can be who they want to be.
He wants to be God, his own God.
He was born before Jamaica was born.
He knows how England treated Jamaica rotten
over the years before Independence;
a lot of people have forgotten that because look
how Jamaicans kill each other and the gays
in the name of God. Listen to that tractor fucking
up the land over the commons to build a new
missionary church that will kill twilight. He has no trouble
loving another man if love is love.
Sometimes he finds things and brings them
back but people think he’s a thief. Last week
a goat wandered into his kitchen and Sky Beer
marched him back to Monsieur Mather and now
everybody keeps an eye out for him.
There never used to be a barbed wire
fence on one side of him until his now-dead pigs
used to run all over the grounds of the peach All
Age School. Now if there’s a storm
he has to risk cutting off his head going under
the sharp spiky wires or else run up
the narrow path overlooking the high
speeding gully, knowing that one slip
and he’s gone forever. But you want to know
how he got his name. Sky Beer was down in the square
one night. Reggae music pounding. He was drunk
and dancing and then it started to drizzle
and the drizzle tasted like beer and he couldn’t
believe it and so he shouted, “Sky Beer, Sky
Beer,” to everyone but no one believed him
but they all started calling him Sky Beer.
But what does he care? What does he care what
this salty world thinks of him? “Sky Beer, Sky Beer.”
Even the little ones taunt him. He scares them and they
run but the big ones laugh in his eyes. The death of respect
is death. He wants to cut off his dreads but can’t.
His daughters even call him Sky when they are mad.
Who will raise the living from the dead? To jump,
he simply moves closer to the edge, and never
looking down, lets go of his worries, but he doesn’t
die; no, he manages to land on spongy wet sand
and only his ankles radiate with pain. Lying up,
he knows now he can only fall so far. Death is no longer
in love with him. So if he’s not God, then who is?
It’s Chant and April crying over him.

Poets Respond
August 16, 2015

[download audio]

__________

Rayon Lennon: “August 6th was Jamaica’s birthday, the day of its independence. Last weekend there were a flurry of events in Connecticut celebrating Jamaica’s birthday. I went to a cookout. There was music, children playing, adults reminiscing and there was a Rastafarian like the Rasta (named Sky Beer) who lived across my childhood home in Jamaica. Then I went home and read somewhere online that more than 60 percent of Jamaicans would prefer a Jamaica under British rule. This struck me as sad but telling. How many people at that cookout would like Jamaica to be back under British rule? And what would Sky Beer have to say about all this? I wrote this poem to explore those questions and find out how I feel.” (website)

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