person:martin carter

Guyanese Literary ‘Giant’ #Sir_Wilson_Harris Leaves Behind a ‘Literacy of the Imagination’ · Global Voices

▻https://globalvoices.org/2018/03/16/guyanese-literary-giant-sir-wilson-harris-leaves-behind-a-literacy-of-

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Sir Wilson Harris, the innovative Guyanese writer who categorised his work as “quantum fiction”, died on March 8, 2018 at his home in England, at the age of 96.

Widely considered to be a pioneering voice in English literature, with a beguiling intellect and masterful grasp of language, Harris began his career in Guyana as a land surveyor. The job took him on jaunts to the country’s fascinating interior, where he grew close the indigenous people who lived there. The knowledge they shared with him and the majestic backdrop of the Amazon rainforest would go on to feature in many of his novels. He explained, “I look to create a kind of community that has a literacy of the imagination in it, that can unlock polarisations and fanaticisms that bedevil us.”

Beginning in the mid 1940s, Harris’ poetry was published — alongside that of other important poets like Martin Carter — in Kyk-Over-Al, one of the region’s definitive publications of the post-World War II era. Harris soon transitioned his metaphorical skill to other literary genres, expanding his writing to include essays and novels.

#gutane #littérature

Poems Of Shape And Motion
(Martin Carter, Poems of Succession, New Beacon, 1977)
▻https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Martin_Carter
▻https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A0k7XKx2I90

Shape and Motion One

I was wondering if I could shape this passion
Just as I wanted in solid fire.
I was wondering if the strange combustion of my days
The tension of the world inside of me
And the strength of my heart were enough.
I was wondering if I could stand as tall,
While the tide of the sea rose and fell.
If the sky would recede as I went,
Or the earth would emerge as I came
To the door of the morning, locked against the sun.

I was wondering if I could make myself
Nothing but fire, pure and incorruptible.
The wound of the wind on my face
Would be healed by the work of my life
Or the growth of the pain in my sleep
Would be stopped in the strife of my days.

I am wondering if the agony of years
Could be traced to the seed of an hour.
If the roots that spread out in the swamp
Ran too deep for the issuing flower.

I was wondering if I could find myself
All that I am in all that I could be.
If all the population of stars
Would be less than the things I could utter
And the challenge of space in my soul
Be filled by the shape I become.

Shape and Motion Two

I walk slowly in the wind,
Watching myself in things I did not make;
In jumping shadows and in limping cripples
Dust on earth and houses tight with sickness
Deep constant pain, the dream without the sleep.

I walk slowly in the wind,
Hearing myself in the loneliness of a child
In a woman’s grief, which is not understood
In coughing dogs when midnight lingers long
On stones, on streets and then on echoing stars,
That burn all night and suddenly go out.

I walk slowly in the wind
Knowing myself in every moving thing
In years and days and words that mean so much
Strong hands that shake, long roads that walk
And deeds that do themselves.
And all this world and all these lives to live.

I walk slowly in the wind,
Remembering scorn and naked men in darkness
And huts of iron rivetted to earth.
Cold huts of iron stand upon this earth
Like rusting prisons
Each wall is marked and each wide roof is spread
Like some dark wing
Casting a shadow or living a curse.

I walk slowly in the wind
To lifted sunset red and gold and dim
A long brown river slanting to an ocean
A fishing boat, a man who cannot drown.

I walk slowly in the wind
And birds are swift, the sky is blue like silk.
From the big sweeping ocean of water
An iron ship rusted and brown achors itself.
And the long river runs like a snake
Silent and smooth.

I walk slowly in the wind.
I hear my footsteps echoing down the tide
Echoing like a wave on the sand or a wing on the wind
Echoing echoing
A voice in the soul, a laugh in the funny silence.

I walk slowly in the wind
I walk because I cannot crawl or fly.

#poésie #musique #vie_intérieure #paysage #écoumène