Craftmanship

Fishermen, by Hector Hyppolite (Haiti) 1946

I met my wife in Port au Prince,

by watchful eyes of Baby Doc;

I will forebear to bore withal,

not weary with strange circumstance,

for fear Tonton Macoute about.

Each taxi - Tap-tap - symbols swathed,

a syncretistic blend of two,

both Voodoo, Roman, catch-all type,

dashboard paraphernalia,

with Papa’s glower as final power.

We learnt photography was out,

one’s spirit stolen by the lens;

but quite unfair, I took my chance,

snapped fisherman atop his mast,

before he bore us in his craft.

He could not shield his eyes as climbed,

for fear the crash would dash on deck;

his hands tight wrapped around wood pole;

this white man, tourist, flashed his cash,

a stash more weighty than man’s food.

She dropped sun glasses from boat side

while, quick as flash, dugout canoe,

a lad had dived, as finding pearl -

retrieved and earned his dollar too,

with admiration from the crew.

We sailed to isle of La Gonâve,

saw ceremony on the beach,

converted oungan burning books,

which incantations stormed his craft,

while thunder rolled round heaving seas.

I wonder now, some fifty on,

that boatman, dare provide the scene -

though not pathetic fallacy -

the ciné, for tour mission fund,

poor sailors of benighted land?

Geography was not my strength,

so I thought flight Tahiti bound;

another art, though less a wife.

I’m glad that Haïti entered life -

some story for those folk back home.

Engaged, for ring, we sponsored child,

a Creole speaking girl at school.

Her father was of fisherfolk,

so she might climb some greasy pole,

and wave goodbye to shifting sands.

Hyppolyte - his canvas, card,

with chicken feathers for a brush,

discovered by surreal brand

as the Grand Maître of his class -

would learn to spread a wider net.