Balandra Bay (1999) - Carlyle N. Matthew © 2006

Balandra bay-
roars of rough water
like hungry lions-
forbidding.

Dark rocks-
Sculptures,
like menacing giants-
imposing.

Carved and polished by wind and sand
and heavy pounding surf
turned to white spray...

light, white spray...
Winged echoes,
flying upwards-
and away,

flying upwards-
and away,

flying upwards-
and away,

flying...

We, eagles from memory's high vantage point....
Fish... as we swim
in ecstasy of the moment-
cherished.

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2002 Odyssey (2003) - Carlyle Matthew © 2006

Many fruit are in season
Birds chatter giddily with delight...
fluttering high on tenuous stems, they drink nectar
of mangoes and sapodillas...
occasionally preening themselves
in their new found state of abundance.

In this land of limbo
corruption encourages
intrigue and innuendo....
Pandemonium reigns...
Political ‘soucouyants’
with hands akimbo
abandon flight
then crawl way down low,
to ravenously feast on the dripping fats of state...
Suddenly, the salt is cast!....
A few try to shun the light of public enquiry...
however much too late.
Kidnappings
cause others by day- to fear bright light...
and many to cringe
under the dark cover of night.
Feting with unfettered passion in the month of August...
some are possessed collectively by impassioned spirits of Independence
and creativity
that call this Caribbean land home...
Moved by these,
refreshed by the blue/green Caribbean waters
and renewed by a resplendent sun,
I journey back to the land of snow.

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Excerpt form “Change is eternal - Rock Of Ages” (1998) – Carlyle Matthew © 2006

Change comes gradually...sometimes suddenly!
But death is always immediate!...
Like a cool chill in the heat of day;
or a premonition in the form of a large yellow moth upon a wall.

It is the faint scent of perfumed flowers called wreaths,
when woven together well....
a wake with coffee served with biscuits,
and good rum for those who would imbibe.

It’s the blur of rising conversation,
between men and women with sad or smiling faces,
sometimes a combination of both.

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Excerpt from “Genius like Nature – The River” (2000) – Carlyle Matthew © 2006

It’s a heavenly place and time of rebirth and renewal,
ushered in by a timeless beat....
industrious black ants will once again cut tender leaves,
and wave their headpieces like revellers on carnival day.
They will greet old friends,
and make new ones,
jostle for right of way,
dance back and forth as though drunk with merriment,
but dance they will to a glorious pulse on this primal stage of life....
all in homage to a Mother Queen
lying far below in a labyrinth that is her castle .

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Excerpt from “Genius like Nature” (2000) – Carlyle Matthew © 2006

Who truly knows the voices of spring, or even that of nature?
never will you see a flower green with envy;
nor one blue with sadness.

The lilac does not bow before the rose,
nor the daffodil before the sunflower ;
from aurora to twilight...
beauty is in all.
Even crows have their divas,
and humming birds their moments of rest...

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Excerpt from “Genius like Nature” (2000) – Carlyle Matthew © 2006

Nature sings, not in vain, not for vanity,
not even to celebrate a trillion thunderings...
nor to lament the fury of tsunamis that ravish a wind swept land...
how could she?
She is both cause and reaction,
doer and the done,
Her moans are not warnings , but primordial utterances,
that emanate from an abysmal place within,
as those of the blacksmith, or woodcutter,
when labour is lost in rhythm,
even so, she does not toil.
She is...

Nature is the blinding light of the brightest day.
The engulfing darkness of night when black air merges cobalt blue;
the rustle of brown leaves along a tree lined sidewalk on the way.
Nature is one,
all is wonderful nature ....

She is the very winds that sing-song her sirenian melody
to a chorus of ocean’s sonorous bass;
all this and more amidst an unending symphony played under her multi-hued canopy;
Volcanoes - wise old Griots rumble her guttural chants,
“Yeah, there was a time,
a momentous time,
a blessed time,
a joyous time,
a time rich with flavour and ripe with taste,
an auspicious time,
a time like no other time,
and we will talk about that time at this time, yeah!....”

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Excerpt from Love Remembered (1998) – Carlyle Matthew © 2006

Love,
your spirit,
a cool breeze soothing....
voice a thrill....
confident stance....
and stare becoming
a smile....
captivating.

Secure is this man
that finds your bosom....
welcoming....
Your comforting touch
reassures my soul.

Love's,
warm, sensuous pool
deep and thrilling ,
where passions meet,
and all else cease to exist....

Love…
Intoxicating , wild....
like scented perfume of the violet clematis.
a beautiful woman
to hold,
like Venus called Aphrodite,
thrilling in embrace....
exciting in rapture.

I sing songs in muffled tones....
my mouth pressed between your breasts....
a place where the beat of your heart
is close to my ear,
providing clear tempo for my love songs.

My mind wanders over the hills and mounds
of your body
seeking adventure in the shade
and warmth of your delightful valleys....
there are many places to rest and roam....
I laugh from the joy and wonder
of finding myself in a place
where dreams appear real
and the nectar of love falls abundantly like rain.

Love,
Is there an appointed time or place to meet?
What colour dress will you wear?
How will you comb your hair?

Tell me love...
tell me love.
Tell me.

Will you know me love?
Tell me love,
Tell me.

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Excerpt from Remembrance Day (1998) – Carlyle Matthew © 2006

We walked through the grassy square...”Memorial”,
in the heart of Port Of Spain.....
very quiet...much like a cemetery... few people

We walked slowly along the concrete pathway...
towards the monument.
He held our hands perhaps to keep us from running towards it...
Perhaps as a sign of respect for the long lost soldiers
being honoured,
or to make sure we took in the details...
----------- Always remember that … He died fighting the First World war.”
There was great strength and pride in his resonant voice....

He had known his Father
for only seven or eight short years of his life....
Then his father died fighting the first world war.

Fighting the First World War...
Fighting the First World War...
These words were to stick with me forever.
Though never to ever know a grand father,
but to cherish the knowledge and be proud...
that he died fighting the First World War.

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Excerpt from “The City that never sleeps” (2000) – Carlyle Matthew © 2006

We walked the night streets-
saga boys-
more an upright crawl…
with bodies angled-slashes /
but with more attitude than exclamation marks!
It was the mid ‘sixties, before denim was big, and innocence lost to change....

The Western main Road was surreal in its glow of neon lights...
animated by the real life actors on stage there....
“Swing high”, “ Nita ”, “Bumpy” and “Old Oak”...
“There are many myths and fables in those names;”
a microcosm of the Island’s larger stage,

It was an atmosphere laden with a thousand scents, sights and sounds,
chiefly between Bournes road and Mooneram street.
Of hot curries being prepared for rotis;
coconut vendors deftly slashing fruit for sale;
chance aromas of perfumes
clinging to bodies of young women
cut as fine as mannequins....
their fresh innocent beauty like rainbows, much too pretty to last....
but like candles…exalted in the burning;
heady scents of rum and other potent kindred spirits,
in first, second and third incarnations,
coupled with those of the St. James fish market at Vidale Street...
sights of lonely, mangy dogs with fleas their closest companions,
curled as tight as knots, in dank, dark corners;
of women and men at ‘Universal ‘ and other bars,
laughing with gold teeth bared,
and talking in loud, sharp staccatos...
(their saucy conversations none of our business)...
some dancing backwards like crabs,
to calypsos and local hits,
blasting from juke boxes that bedazzled the eyes;

smell of stale sweat, from laboured bodies that seem to cry out for water and rest;
solemn women dressed in angelic white , ringing bells and practising religion...
all with an air of mystery
from a faraway land;
the sounds of cars and horns honking for what ever reason;
and myriad others details
though individually distinct were part of the totality that was St James,
“The City that never sleeps” in Port - Of- Spain, Trinidad.

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Excerpt from “The Good ‘Ol Days” (1998) – Carlyle Matthew © 2006

What happened to the good 'ol days?
when long distance was a race you ran...
not a phone call to dear and cherished ones.
Days when friends were family ...
and family friends.
The moon a thing of awe...
not the ore to be mined next
When you fished for real fish
not genetically altered tomatoes
or zucchinis with scales.

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Excerpt from “The Good ‘Ol Days” (1998) – Carlyle Matthew © 2006

Cyclops peering, overbearing…
speaking coldly in many tongues.
Ra-ta-tat-tat...in the hall.
hoot toot ...and a waterfall.
Three thousand cacophonous ideas , ' in no time at all.'

Violence exported.
young minds distorted...
age of innocence taken to flight
Children mesmerized, everyone traumatized
by surrogate parent in a box.

Peas to bullets.
peashooters to guns.
Nowhere to hide, too late to run.
Imagination checked
escalation running wild
Only gunfire, destruction... attentive students.
It's only a show, it is really too sad....
-the message not the medium-....
Life’s great trepidation
brought to you
from Pandora's station.

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Excerpts from “The old Yard” (2000) – Carlyle Matthew © 2006

I still remember the old yard like it was...
before the house became a church.....
like a familiar painting on the canvas of my mind;
It had aged slowly like people did long ago....
when wrinkles were never surprises,
and hardly cause for reflection....
same as brown stockings, worn high and rolled below the knees

Bouquets of familiar flowers pop up in my mind like imminent appointments...
random shapes and colours as varied as duties on a busy day;
jump up and kiss me, crept low between smooth stones the size of hops breads;
blue bells -random greetings- wove sinuously through sweet lime bushes;
roses, poinsettias, carnations, exhoras and foxgloves all imbued the yard
with it’s special Caribbean charm...
And those lilac flowers ...I never knew their name... shaped like fluted glasses....
The plant was a late but welcomed arrival to the yard.
I had found the Lilac clinging tenaciously among wild dasheen
on the banks of the river on the west side near Terre Brule ...
same place where good luck provided a blue back crab
that could have escaped a Sunday stew....
perhaps only postponed ....
I found a nice spot for the Lilac on a mound next to my Mother’s parlour...
and a better one for the blue back...

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The Torrent (1999) – Carlyle Matthew © 2006

Out of the blue was a faint rustling of fronds on a coconut tree,
not unlike the sound of a paper fan on a muggy day.

A mysterious force seemed to selectively shake each branch in undulating motion.
All else was uncannily and unusually still.

Softly and slowly the momentum of the rustling increased.
A stout Mahogany to the extreme left next joined the impromptu performance.
Its leaves bristled and its branches turned upwards like flared skirts in a strong breeze.
The intensity of the now whistling and evident wind increased.

The wind, able and majestic conductor queued each tree’s entry along its path
until the valley was a crescendo of wailing noise.
The sound was like that of a hundred garrachas being scratched
by as many percussionists, amply accompanied by others with myriad bells and whistles.
-----------
White mist hung like wet silken sheets low against the dark blue green mountainside,
visible in parts between the mottled , antennaed roofs of houses;

Silt laden water from the now flooded street merged in swift and graceful form
with that of the already swollen canal.

The loud pitter-patter of heavy raindrops reflected their force
as they bounced high off the sidewalk and galvanized roofs.

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Rainbow fire (2000) – Carlyle Matthew © 2006

Pretty bird on electric wire
preening feathers of rainbow fire
my, how your habitat has changed
from days of old to techno age
was it better then or now?
electric wire versus tree bough
now at ease on your man-made stage
soft feathers ruffled by changing breeze

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Storm/Musical riot (1999) – Carlyle Matthew © 2006

Winds howled,
trees bent and shook;
The winds blew the trees like giant flutes,
raking leaves off trees
like angry reapers would pods of peas
and snapping sturdy branches
as kindling for fire.

Rains pelted,
windows rattled with sound;
The rains played the windows in steady rhythm,
sometimes drumming upon the roof
like dried peas falling on a floor
or ringing discordantly
against an outer door.

Sirens wailed,
animals went silent with fear;
The Sirens plaintive cries pierced the heavy air,
with high pitched howls
they sped to emergencies with little quiet
more than just a storm,
this was a musical riot.

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The Crack Piper of St. James (1998) – Carlyle Matthew © 2006

This Piper played no merry tune
that one would recognize
nor did he lead rats, or mice, or little kids
to an untimely demise.
He danced to a fragmented tune
composed by a demented mind
-All called him ‘Dread’ for name-
for piper was a drug addict,
head ruled by crack cocaine.

Opaque dots for pupils
wild look in busy eyes....
Feet covered with failing shoes
body with soot and rags...
While reaching for the beer he begged
he thanked me for the same,
then to my great surprise called me by my name.

You see...
This Piper was once a tailor
thirty long years ago
talented in his endeavour
printed media claimed it so
I knew the man from our youth
and yes, did call him friend
but the way this tailor looked right now
it seemed too late to make amends.

‘Dread’ took on a haughty look
as he cursed patrons at ‘Universal bar.’
They looked at him contemptuously,
he gesticulated from afar.
The busy Western Main road the Piper strode
with wild and unchecked strides....
turning suddenly,
he slapped his face
then slapped his chest,
heavily...
as if to emphasize...
As everyone gazed his way,
to my great surprise...
he shouted., "My life’s a movie!
I am Hollywood's greatest prize!"

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The Oyster Vendor (2000) – Carlyle Matthew © 2006

The oyster vendor ,with felt covered head , bent forward as though in prayer....
shucking oysters -each no larger than the circle made with thumb to middle finger-
into glasses filled with white or thick, blood red hot sauces.
These large glasses were for his big customers....
all each of us could afford were ten in the shell for ten cents....
grudgingly sold to us....
with much grumbling on his part about us using too much sauce....
yet not enough to discourage.
Our confident body language contrarily said we were his most valued customers.
Oysters were supposed to make a man virile,
these were being wasted on us in our early teens.....
Women were a long way off...
but the sauce was great and the pretence was all that mattered.

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YearsS of Senses and Sweetness (2000) – Carlyle Matthew © 2006

Girl you so sweet...
If I were five years old,
You would be my paradise plum,
or my sugar cake,
or my Julie mango.
Bringing sweet taste to my mouth
and satisfaction to my heart.
Because that is what sweet was then.

Girl you so sweet...
If I were ten years old,
You would’ve been my box kite,
dancing in the sky.
Because when you dance,
your hips go this way,
and that way,
and this way,
and that way,
and down and up.
Bringing thrill to my eager eyes.
and an unquestioned excitement to my body.
Because that is what sweet was then.

Girl you so sweet...
When I were in my teens,
You would’ve been the lyricism of a sweet calypso,
the magical sounds coming from a tenor pan,
or the deep throated resonance of a six bass,
even the tongue twisting melody of a Picoplat
in a Kymet tree;
like your voice,
these brought a complex musical joy to my ears,
and cause me to contemplate
Nature’s generosity of spirit..
Yes, those are the things you would’ve been...
Because that is what sweet was then.

Girl you so sweet...
At twenty,
You would’ve been the fragrant scent of a beautiful rose,
pressed close to my flared nostrils,
the perfume of lavender or lilac blooms on the breeze
of a cool, moonlit night.
or the fresh, salty sea air
wafting between the swaying palms,
because your scent...
brings a potent , overwhelming desire,
and the need to please you tenderly.
Because that is what sweet was then.

Woman you so sweet...
If I were in my thirties,
You would be the tactile grain of red cedar,
on a masterpiece of art,
that of warm, sand trickling through my fingers,
at Maracas beach,
or the rich text of a good book,
imbued with timeless mystery,
because your touch,
reaches deep within my being,
bringing sweet, unexplained ecstasies to my mind.
Because that is what sweet was then.

Woman you so sweet...
and you’re so real...
then...
and now....
You are so, so sweet,
that you’re all those things...
and much more.

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Limbo Dancer Mask Carlyle Matthew © 2010

Ah want somebody to limbo like me…
limbo, limbo like me.

The highly energetic and gravity defying limbo dance of the Caribbean, now popular in many parts of the world is one in which a dancer or dancers (taking turns in competition) would lean backward, while sliding their feet forward in an attempt to gradually move (arms or hands should not touch the floor) under a horizontal bar which is supported between two vertical poles…sometimes cloth is wound around the bar and set on fire. The beaten brass flames flowing around the head of the dancer in the featured mask is used as an illustration to reflect this. Once each dancer has successfully danced under one level, the bar is systematically lowered to determine how low each dancer can go without knocking the bar down, until there is an eventual winner.

The red, white and black colours in which the mask is painted harks back to the national colours of the artist’s Trinbagonian roots from where the limbo dance is said to have originated, while that of the light green alludes to the Caribbean.

With this Limbo Dancer mask (in which the dancer is shown as if in contemplation, while caught midway below the bar) the artist draws an analogy between the limbo dance and that of the Earth/Spirit dance of mankind…in succeeding to overcome the material and progressively move toward greater spiritual enlightenment. An excerpt from the Limbo Dancer’s poem is used by the artist to illustrate this analogy:

“As from that momentous bang of conception's potent impact,
we lay in material state of spiritual awakening;
free to lock twin horns of thought and reaction
in this everlasting and immortal combat.

Ah, to taste the sweet, sweet, taste of mortal pleasures
that flow like honey through swollen veins,
coalescing and fermenting
with yet sweeter thoughts of the immortal
in spirit light.
A sweet, bitter joy...
same when caught between the limbo poles...

Undulating and carraying* backward low
while transfixed in this state...
we drink of a flowing, intoxicating, fervent brew
prepared to advance,
incapable of retreat
as the rhythms reverberate to and fro.”

Limbo high, limbo low
limbo fast, limbo slow
limbo left, limbo right
limbo day, limbo night
limbo, limbo, limbo…

© Carlyle Matthew March 2006
www.maskerpieces.com
*Carray: a colloquial term used to describe particular movements by Stick fighters in Trinidad and Tobago. Its use has transcended this to include similar movements by limbo dancers while addressing the limbo bar.

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Maasai Bull - Myth or Reality Mask Carlyle Matthew © 2010

Standing rigid, they leapt straight up to touch the sky,
the sound of their chants echoed like rolling thunder…
This was neither myth, nor magic, nor mask,
all gazed in great awe and wonder.

It is said the Maasai are/were inseparable from their cattle. In yet another original design by the artist, the bull icon is used in this work to represent the composite idea of the Maasai.

From the tip of the left horn images of masks seemingly emerge out of the mist of time…
Mask-like faces in many colours and ever increasing detail, gaze from the side and bridge of the nose.
The bridge is indicative of the hills of Maasailand.
In short, the left side of the mask (facing viewer) represents the collective myths about the Maasai.
On the other side of the bridge of the mask, there is the face of a grandmother, that of a smiling young girl and another of a Maasai warrior – a moran -. This side is representational of the current reality (even now in a state of change)…
It shows the Maasai in traditional dress.
The white, curved horns over the face of the mask represent the veil of mystery surrounding the Maasai.
- Mask over Mask-.

Many, many years ago before these days of mass media, to hear about the Maasai, evoked feelings of great awe and deep contemplation about the lion hearted spirit and amazing culture of these people who whether justified or not, stood together steadfast in their beliefs.

Today, as the steady feet of time and change race towards this brave and immortal people, the Maasai no longer retreating into the hills of Maasailand, appear to rush to confront and perhaps embrace the lions of modernity.

And maybe some day in the future, others will again hear the rise of majestic chants of achievement in feats beyond measure by another people of unflinching and monumental stature that will be reminiscent of the Maasai.

But like ancient volcanoes in these mysterious lands of thunder, wise old Griots may one day rumble guttural chants, as they remember the Maasai of old:

“Yeah, there was a time,
a momentous time,
a blessed time,
a joyous time,
a time rich with flavour and ripe with taste,
an auspicious time,
a time like no other time,
and we will talk about that time at this time, yeah!...”

© Carlyle Matthew March 2006
www.maskerpieces.com

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Soul Flyer Mask Carlyle Matthew © 2010

“Who truly knows the voices of spring, or even that of nature?
never will you see a flower green with envy;
nor one blue with sadness.
The lilac does not bow before the rose,
nor the daffodil before the sunflower;
from aurora to twilight
beauty is in all.
Even crows have their divas,
and humming birds their moments of rest…”

The Soul Flyer (mask done in 1991 was the second in a new generation of larger masks done by the artist, where copper, brass, acrylics and other material were used in a more predominant manner…the first in this series being Soul Rising) is surrounded by much glamour and glitter, however the feathers of beaten brass around the face suggest the ability to soar to great heights. The horizontal copper bars represent the trappings of the material world, though the Flyer is able to discern this in an easy and understanding manner.
These are all many aspects of a busy life…

The innate peace reflected on the Soul Flyer’s face contrasted with that of her cosmetics is but a hint of the duality of human nature…-a blend of material and spirit-
The Earth/Spirit dance…a dance to the song of nature…

Silent long enough, is to understand fully the tempo of this rhythm...
One love song...one strong beat ...one unending melody...still and slow
One....
There is no beginning to this song,
nor end to this dance;

And the caped dancer readily and joyfully indulges in the oneness of this reality. However there can be times when the travails of this complex dance appear quite overwhelming.
To the casual observer the dancer may be “out of step.”
But the Soul Flyer, rather than becoming dismayed, and without missing a beat,
retreats deep within
to a place of profound silence,
where all else even silence, ceases to exist to come upon a beauty unlike any witnessed before,
(a beauty representing the source of peace…
The source of love…
and that of re-creativity…)
to once more dance until she becomes the movement,
to sing until she becomes the song,
to beat the primordial drums of life until she becomes the rhythm…
doing these kinds of things all day long....

© Carlyle Matthew March 2006
www.maskerpieces.com

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