Posts (page 2)
I've got a book poems, If Only the Dust Would Settle:Selected Poems (Würd sich der Pulverdampf endlich verziehn), coming out soon. The poems are in English and German and they are interwoven into a personal essay which contemplates the meaning of home. It takes the reader on a journey from the Caribbean, to the USA, to Liberia, West Africa, to England and finally to Switzerland.
Book is available at www.amazon.com, www.borders.co/authorhouse/8455, www.infibeam.com/book
Death Is Not Always A Sad Event
Two days after I visited Melide in Tessin, Switzerland, I had to travel to my home, St. Thomas, US Virgin Islands. My father, who was 94, was ill. At that age, his illness spoke of urgency, and my dad, who is the last of his siblings, had already spoken of his journey on earth coming to an end. We, his children, were impressed by his strenght, his resilience, his ability to cope and recovery from illness brought on by longevity. He just bounced back from anything old age had thrown his way. He showed us, by example, how to cope with such adversity. His death was no surprise as we had been forewarned by him. Death came as he was surrounded by all of his children, a grandson, and church friends. It was as though he had made an appointment with us to be there on this specific day and time so he could take his leave. The nurse confirmed our suspicions when she said that "he was travelling," and soon he took his last breath. The final exit from this world was sad and we were there to cry on each other's shoulder and give each other strength to acknowlege that he was no longer with us.
The funeral brought family together. We had come from Switzerland, California, New york, Florida, the island of Antigua. Family and friends, we had not seen in thirty or forty years came to bid farewell to dad. Seeing family and friends brought smiles on our faces as we hugged and embraced each other on this mournful occasion.
Reunion
(for Gilbert Elliot Romeo 12.09 -17.04.2009)
Death brought us here.
Papa's travelling home
set off the talking drum.
It's voice reaching ears
near and far.
We come together in
this place of snactity,
wear solemn faces,
lower our voices as not
to offend God and Papa
who rest temporarily in
his heavenly father's abode.
At the entrance
we carry out death rituals,
hand out gray armbands
and pin purple ribbons
on those come to say
their last goodbye.
Faces, we have for long not seen,
appear, their hand outstretched.
They plant a kiss, we hug, embrace
loved ones and friends.
A chorus of joy banishes sorrow.
We feel papa's memories in
their words that tell kind tales,
hear his voice of hope speaking to our hearts.
We sing him home, send him off
to a better place at this gathering
in his honor.
(c) Althea Romeo-Mark 30.04.2009
I am going to Melide in Tessin on Sunday. (See the map of Switzerland on this site.) It is a four hour train ride from Basel where I live. Basel is located in the northwest part of Switzerland and is bordered by France and Germany. German is the official language in Basel. Melide, on the other hand, is located in the southern part of Switzerland. My husband and I are going to see the Swissminiature . Swissminiatur shows you the most picturesque features of Switzerland - towns, villages, monuments, transportation, all at a scale of 1:25. On the way we will see many postcard picture-perfect views of Switzerland's mountainous terrain and many of its snow capped mountains. Tessin is the Italian part of Switzerland, so we are looking forward to a good pizza dinner. The pizza is fantastic there.
This weekend represents treasured days as I have just completed my manuscript and have just resent my poetry collection, If Only The Dust Would Settle: Selected poems, to the publisher after proofreading it. The most dificult was editing the German translations. The poems are written in English and German. German grammar is most difficult :(. I had several Swiss friends oversee that part of it. When my book is out, I am looking forward to doing some public readings to promote my book. Susy Greuter, my Swiss anthrolopologist friend, will read the German as she always does. It will be very exciting. The poetry collection is about my journey from the Caribbean to the USA (1968-69,1972-74), then Liberia (West Africa 1976-1990) from which we fled because of the civil war that started in 1989, to London, England (1990-1991) where we were temporary "refugees" to Basel,Switzerland where we have lived since 1991. We includes my husband and three children.
My oldest daughter is now married and lives in Tallahasse, Florida and is about to start her MA in Public Administration at Florida State University. Before that, she taught German and English in Miami, Florida. My second daughter is now a doctoral student at Oxford Univerisity in England and my son, the youngest, is a studying economics at the University of Basel, Basel, Switzerland.
I am now going to read a novel written by a friend. Reading novels is something that I don't have much time to do. I read novels during the summer break. I teach and most often use short stories in my lessons because of time limitations. It is a long weekend and I can put my feet up and relax.
Die 'Vertrautheit' von Fremden
Wir treffen aufeinander am Busstop,
wie Blätter zusammengetrieben
durch die Launen des Winds:
ein alter Mann mit Wanderstöcken,
die üppige Latina Friseuse,
der strohdünne Helfer in der Not,
der sich gerade so durchschlägt.
Ein paar Junge, Kopfhörer auf dem Schädel,
blenden die Welt aus.
Die Gesichter, zwar vertraut, sind unbekannt.
Grüsse bleiben stecken im Hals,
wir nicken einander in Stille zu,
entschlüsseln Rasse, Nationalität
und Muttersprache.
Alle sind wir Zusammengewürfelte im Quartier,
wo Schlagzeilen wie Gerüche haften bleiben,
wohin wir auch gehen.
Brachte der Mann gegenüber seine Tochter
wirklich mit zwanzig Stichen um?
Starb der Flüchtling von nebenan,
der vom fünften Stock stürzte,
unter dubiosen Umständen?
Sommers Strassenfeste locken
Nationen hinaus zum Essen von Falafel,
Frühlingsrollen und Curry.
Nach einigen Bieren
bersten die Leute aus ihrem Kokon,
werden zu Schmetterlingen,
beschwingt in der Eintracht
des Ausgeschlossenseins.
English translation below
The Familiarity of Strangers
We gather at the bus stop
like leaves herded by the wind’s whim –
an old man on walking sticks,
the curvaceous, Latina hairdresser,
the reed thin handy-man who scrapes by.
Some youngsters, earphones clamped
on their skulls, shut the world out.
Faces are familiar yet unknown.
Greetings stuck in throats,
we acknowledge each other in silence,
decode race, nationality, and mother tongue.
We are thrown together in this quarter
where news headlines hang like an odor
wherever we go. Did the man across the street
really stab his daughter twenty times?
Did the refugee next door plunge from
the fifth floor under suspicious circumstances?
Street festivals, in summer, bring out nations
to eat falafel, spring rolls and curry.
People burst out of cocoons after a few beers,
turn into butterflies, take wing in the unity of exclusion.
©2009 Althea Mark-Romeo
Cracked Demijohn
Every day
he is there,
a lone coconut
sinking into the ground
amid scattered shells
and stranded seaweed.
He doesn’t gaze
at sun soakers,
sailboats and surfers,
doesn’t hear seagulls
and shrieks of
frolicking children.
He pours sand
into a broken demijohn,
does not ponder
why it is never full.
©2004 Althea Romeo-Mark
Yard Boy
Tattered hat
in scraggy hands,
he sizes up the house
slips into the gate
and asks, “Ma there?”
Eyes lock onto ours,
he weeps a tale.
“No work. No house.
No food ma.”
He kneels, begs,
quotes verses from the Bible.
Rooted, we stare--
ma, cook, wash-boy, nurse.
He asks about the yard-boy.
Ma hands him a scythe.
Grasping ma’s knees,
he weeps “Ga bless, Ga Bless.”
© 1989 Althea Romeo-Mark
Revised 2009
The Familiarity of Strangers
We gather at the bus stop
like leaves herded by the wind’s whim –
an old man on crutches,
the hairdresser from Coiffeur Latino
who dishes out gossip and hands out
café con leche as she washes, blows and dries,
the reed thin man who does “this and that”
to scrape by. A few youngsters, earphones clamped
on their skulls, shut the world out.
The faces are familiar yet unknown.
We acknowledge each other in silence.
Greetings are stuck in our throats.
We size each other up, decode dress,
skin color, gesture and mother tongue.
We are thrown together in this quarter
of cheap flats where news headlines hang
like an odor wherever we go.
Defensive of our turf, we wonder if the man
across the street really did stab his daughter
twenty times? Did the refugee next door
plunge from the fifth floor
under suspicious circumstances?
Street festivals, in summer,
bring out nations to eat falafel,
spring rolls and curry.
People burst out of their cocoons
after a few beers,
turn into butterflies,
take wing in the unity of exclusion.
©2005 Althea Mark-Romeo
Revised 2009
