Andre Bagoo: “I am the Archipelago”: Eric Roach and Black Identity

View from South America up through the Caribbean Sea and its Archipelago...and beyond to North America...
“I am the Archipelago”: Eric Roach and Black Identity
By Andre Bagoo
THOSE who know Eric Roach, know how the story ends. This year marks the centenary of the Trinidadian poet who was born in 1915 at Mount Pleasant, Tobago. He worked as a schoolteacher, civil servant and journalist, among other things. Along the way, he published in periodicals regularly. But in 1974, he wrote the poem ‘Finis’, drank insecticide, then swam out to sea at Quinam Bay. The first-ever collected edition of his poetry only appeared two decades after his death. In it, Ian McDonald describes Roach as, “one of the major West Indian poets”. He places Roach alongside Claude McKay, Derek Walcott, Louise Bennett, Martin Carter and Edward Kamau Brathwaite.
Too often is the discourse on Roach coloured by his story’s ending. We cannot ignore the facts of what occurred at Quinam Bay, yes, but sometimes they distract from the poet’s genuine achievements. Notwithstanding the emerging consensus on his stature, he is still best known for his ill-fated death. Yet the journey is sometimes more important than the destination.
In an introduction to the same collected edition of Roach’s poems published by Peepal Tree Press in 1992, critic Kenneth Ramchand states: “in the English-speaking Caribbean, is there anyone who had written as passionately about slavery and its devastations before ‘I am the Archipelago’ (1957) hit our colonised eardrums?” Ramchand notes that Roach was, “committed, as selflessly and as passionately as one can be, to the idea of a unique Caribbean civilisation taking shape out of the implosion of cultures and peoples in the region.” For Ramchand, “the ultimate justification of [Roach’s] art would be that it contributed to the making and understanding of this new, cross-cultural civilisation.” That cross-cultural civilisation is the one Walcott speaks of when he remarks:
Break a vase, and the love which reassembles the fragments is stronger than the love which took its symmetry for granted when it was whole….This gathering of broken pieces is the care and pain of the Antilles….Antillean art is this restoration of our shattered histories, our shards of vocabulary, our archipelago becoming a synonym for pieces broken off from the original continent.
This is really a call for the new breed of Caribbean poets, the breed that reverses colonialisation’s history of plunder. Just as our colonial overlords of the past have done, poets, now, are free to pillage from whichever continent they choose. This is not a process of retribution, but rather the restoration of the resilience of the human spirit itself amid the sea of history. It also asserts the reality of the fact that we are as much a part of world culture as anyone else and cannot be marginalised from it.
Roach – sometimes called the “Black Yeats”– was one in a long line of poets for whom imitation and allusion are, in fact, blatant acts of rebellion. He also saw himself as key to the process of forming a West Indian Federation, a political union which he felt required a new poetry. Though that union never came to pass, Roach’s work still serves to engage key aspects of Caribbean identity.
The narrative of Black identity, whatever that may be, has to some extent played on the idea of separate black and white races. It has also called for a rejection of “white” ideas and a return to African ideas. But these are uneasy dichotomies which paper over the realities of history over time, the mixing of races and the idea that race itself is an invention. At the same time, these categories ignore the complexity of colonisation. That process of colonisation saw states and peoples being exploited for economic resources and then, in the mid-20th century, abandoned by colonial motherlands under the pretence of liberation – even as strong economic subservience remains in place to this very day.
And this is why Roach remains relevant: he not only asserts that the English language is as much ours as theirs, but also sings of the true implications of history, a history sometimes obscured by neat narratives of “independence” and “emancipation”. This is why Roach is still alive.
. . .
I am the archipelago hope
Would mould into dominion; each hot green island
Buffeted, broken by the press of tides
And all the tales come mocking me
Out of the slave plantations where I grubbed
Yam and cane; where heat and hate sprawled down
Among the cane – my sister sired without
Love or law. In that gross bed was bred
The third estate of colour. And now
My language, history and my names are dead
And buried with my tribal soul. And now
I drown in the groundswell of poverty
No love will quell. I am the shanty town,
Banana, sugarcane and cotton man;
Economies are soldered with my sweat
Here, everywhere; in hate’s dominion;
In Congo, Kenya, in free, unfree America.
I herd in my divided skin
Under a monomaniac sullen sun
Disnomia deep in artery and marrow.
I burn the tropic texture from my hair;
Marry the mongrel woman or the white;
Let my black spinster sisters tend the church,
Earn meagre wages, mate illegally,
Breed secret bastards, murder them in womb;
Their fate is written in unwritten law,
The vogue of colour hardened into custom
In the tradition of the slave plantation.
The cock, the totem of his craft, his luck,
The obeahman infects me to my heart
Although I wear my Jesus on my breast
And burn a holy candle for my saint.
I am a shaker and a shouter and a myal man;
My voodoo passion swings sweet chariots low.
My manhood died on the imperial wheels
That bound and ground too many generations;
From pain and terror and ignominy
I cower in the island of my skin,
The hot unhappy jungle of my spirit
Broken by my haunting foe my fear,
The jackal after centuries of subjection.
But now the intellect must outrun time
Out of my lost, through all man’s future years,
Challenging Atalanta for my life,
To die or live a man in history,
My totem also on the human earth.
O drummers, fall to silence in my blood
You thrum against the moon; break up the rhetoric
Of these poems I must speak. O seas,
O Trades, drive wrath from destinations.
. . .
Andre Bagoo is a Trinidadian poet and journalist, born in 1983. His second book of poems, BURN, is published by Shearsman Books.  To read more ZP features by Andre Bagoo, click on his name under “Guest Editors” in the right-hand column.
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Black History Month: Love Poems for the Belovéd; for God; for a Child

 Paper hearts in the snow_February 2015_Toronto Canada
Eric Merton Roach (1915-1974, Trinidad and Tobago)
A Lover Speaks (1948)
Climb up a rainbow’s arch
And be arrayed in all that loveliness;
Be gilded as a sunset cloud
Or take the moon’s soft radiance for gown
And the great stars for diamonds,
Be costumed like a queen in cloth of gold
And all the earth’s rare and famous finery,
Be what you will for I am fancy free.
Become all legend beauty,
The glorious goddess from Olympus leaping,
Contested Helen or the Pharaoh queen,
Isolde or Deidre,
All that fair company that pass
In love and sorrow down the corridors
Of rhyme and story.
Be what you will for I am fancy free.
But, when your bright imaginings shall end
And you are your black hair,
Black eyes, deep lips and dark complexion;
When you are native to this time and island,
Attractive in the streets and gay and graceful,
Your beauty maddening in the moment’s dusk,
Your Naiad nakedness in the clean sea;
When you are you
Then shall my fancy not be free
But slave and bound to what I love to see.
. . .
Eric Merton Roach
Buy her wine and roses,
gladden her laughter,
tell her she’s legend
like Ledas daughter,
a boldly made beauty
aching the eye, Isis, Astarte.
But never ask her
of hearts that keep honour,
puritan modes,
ethics and codes.
Cords that should bind her
to one bed
crumble in
her passionate blood.
To the body only
that ripe beauty,
golden as honey
hum your canzone.
. . .
R. L. C. McFarlane (born 1925, Jamaica)
O Girl, How Should I Tell You
O girl, how should I tell you how
You shatter all philosophy,
And melt the hardened theory,
And lay the walls of reason low?
For so I yield within an hour
The strength that I had wrought with pain,
And am become a fool again,
Colonial to an alien power,
Seeking the furtherance of my being
Within another’s happiness;
Enwombed in utter helplessness
– Blank days that jump the time for freeing.
No, stand apart and keep your state
Free of my tribute, lest we prove
How in the curious knot of love
The mind conceals a knife of hate.
. . .
Mervyn Morris (born 1937, Jamaica)
Love gave her eyes:
the tough man snatched,
locked them up tight.
Love gave her hand:
the tough man tickled it
early one night.
Love gave her tongue:
the tough man found
it tasted right.
Love gave her body:
the tough man smiled,
switched off the light.
Love gave her heart:
the tough man fled,
flaccid with fright.
. . .
Esther Phillips (born 1950, Barbados)
Between the silent Seraphim,
Wings overarching me,
I kneel before Your Mercy Seat.
Oh, do not speak, I fear
Your anger; I cannot bear
The censure in Your voice.
Commune with me,
Your great Heart to
My trembling heart.
Feel my love torn,
The greater portion Yours
And still shall always be.
The rest is his, and he
And I are flesh – eyes, lips,
Hands and thighs, and sweetness.
Do not forsake me,
Oh, do not cast me off!
Was it for love You died
That I might live
– And love?
. . .
Esther Phillips
Night Errant
You hate the ignoble
thing, the unworthy.
You believe man is
the measure (despite
your brilliance.)
So when the wolf rips
the night open,
the night you had so drawn
with soft colours,
you deny, you deny,
you deny.
And the creature,
on cue, disappears;
the air, snarled, lies
heavy between us.
I’ve not much use
for a cerebral-shaped heart
nurtured on some one-eyed
Love me with your own
heart hoarding the traitor,
the rough rage, your un-
certain compassion.
. . .
Kendel Hippolyte (born 1952, Saint Lucia)
The child is sleeping,
folded in among the brown boughs of my arms,
and a promise, formed beyond language, drawn upward
like sap through a pith, stirs through me.
In its slow course, I feel a vow so deep
it does not reach the flower and fade of word
but leaves me steeped, resined, in its truth.
Because I wish this child, awake, a man,
to know that he can keep, lifelong,
the trust, the self-astonishing joy that he has now
and he can draw from them the strength to make
his true path from the place I am
to where he will become, for his own child, a tree,
I vow: these boughs will never break.
. . .
Margaret D. Gill (born 1953, Barbados)
I want to make you cry tonight
I want to make you
cry tonight
I want to shake you
and break you
and take you apart and then –
want to create you
To begin you
And sing you
And bring you
(if you care to)
They say heaven is
heaven is
heaven is.
I want to make you
cry tonight
Like a big ole man child.
Shall I liberate you from all that holding in and
holding on and
self sufficient?
I may not succeed now! But
I shall certainly try –
cry, cry
cry (it’s good for you).
. . .
Gladys Waterberg (born 1959, Surinam)
Never before
the past
has been
such a
great future dream
when I met you
the first time
and wished
that the future
would never
become part
of the past.

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More Love Poems at ZP:
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