Afropan, Toronto’s longest-running steel orchestra, was founded in 1973. They have won the “Panorama”/Pan Alive competition more than two dozen times over the years. Currently under the leadership of Earl La Pierre, Jr., Afropan has mentored many young pannists and its player-membership includes a large number of female musicians.
Today – Simcoe Day Holiday Monday – is the “last lap lime” for Toronto Caribbean Carnival 2013 – more commonly known as Caribana – after two weeks of special events that included a Junior Carnival, King and Queen Competition, Calypso Monarch Finals, The Grand Parade or “Jump Up” – plus Pan Alive.
Pan Alive brings together, through the Ontario Steelpan Association, a dozen or more homegrown steel-pan orchestras from Toronto and elsewhere in Ontario. These perform original compositions or arrangements before pan aficionados and a table of judges. The 2013 winners were Pan Fantasy, under the leadership of Wendy Jones (with arranger Al “Allos” Foster), playing SuperBlue’s “Fantastic Friday”.
Other competing orchestras at Pan Alive 2013 were: Afropan, Pan Masters, Golden Harps, Panatics, Salah Steelpan Academy, Silhouettes, Hamilton Youth Steel Orchestra, New Dimension, Canadian Caribbean Association of Halton, St.Jamestown Youth Centre, JK Vibrations and Metrotones.
Our Guest Editor – Trinidadian poet, Andre Bagoo – here takes a look at poetry inspired by the steel-pan in the following selection he has put together for Zócalo Poets.
. . .
STEEL-PAN is everywhere in the Caribbean, so much so that some people cannot help but define us by it. We’ve produced Nobel laureates in the arts, economics and sciences; great athletes; contributed so much all over the planet – yet ask the average foreigner about the Caribbean and chances are the first thing they will talk about is steel-pan. But the region has a complex relationship with pan. For us, pan music is not just fun. It is a ritual: an invocation of the pulse of history within our veins; a defiant assertion of individuality against larger global forces; an example of how one man’s trash can become treasure – a sublime subversion of power, economics and art. Trinidad and Tobago, inventor of the pan, prides itself in being the race that created what is said to be the only acoustic instrument invented in the 20th century. Yet, Trinidadian poets, and Caribbean poets generally, have a sophisticated relationship with the instrument. Its hard, silver and lyrical contours are not mere tourist ornament, but loaded symbol. Often, as in my poem ‘Carnival’ (http://www.bostonreview.net/bagoo-carnival), instead of being a symbol of pleasure, the pan becomes a hollow, opposite thing – creating an irony because of our pleasurable expectations.
Roger Robinson’s ‘Texaco Oil Storage Tanks’ is ostensibly a poem about the materials used to make pans: oil barrels. But he finds the forces of history, power and economics inside them. While the oil storage tanks are large structures, the poem arguably evokes the images of smaller steel pans. Derek Walcott strikingly uses the image of the pan as a kind of psychogeographic tool in the opening of ‘Laventille’, whose first lines invite us to imagine that hill-top region as the arch of a pan. It’s also a device pregnant with meaning since Laventille is regarded as the birthplace of the instrument. In Kamau Brathwaithe’s great poem ‘Calypso’, pan makes an overt appearance but is, in fact, really all over the poem: its rhythm, its materials, its colour. I’ve included David Blackman’s poem ‘Bassman’ because of how far it veers from our romantic associations with that figure. And Lelawattee Manoo-Rahming’s ‘Steelpan in Miami’ is the final, fitting irony: pan exported, becoming a kind of prison of nostalgia, only made possible by migration away from the Caribbean basin.
– Andre Bagoo
. . .
Roger Robinson: “Texaco Oil Storage Tanks”
(Trinidad, Pointe-à-Pierre, 1978)
You silver gods, with viscous black innards,
skin of iron plates and bones of steel rivets,
your Cyclopean eye is a bright red star.
At each entrance stands an armed, khakied guard;
they check our passes, though we’ve known them for years,
for though we work here, we don’t belong.
A new shift begins, our brown workboots trudge
and the unemployed beg and plead out front
in full view, with burning sun on their shame,
but it’s not worse than their child’s hunger pains.
Our fingernails are full of tar and dust:
you came for the oil, and left with our blood.
. . .
Derek Walcott: From “Laventille”
[for V.S. Naipaul]
To find the Western Path
Through the Gates of Wrath
It huddled there
steel tinkling its blue painted metal air,
tempered in violence, like Rio’s Favelas,
with snaking, perilous streets whose edges fell as
its Episcopal turkey-buzzards fall
from its miraculous hilltop
down the impossible drop
to Belmont, Woodbrook, Maraval, St Clair
like peddlers’ tin trinkets in the sun.
From a harsh
shower, its gutters growled and gargled wash
past the Youth Centre, past the water catchment,
a rigid children’s carousel of cement;
We climbed where lank electric
lines and tension cables linked its raw brick
hovels like a complex feud,
where the inheritors of the middle passage stewed,
five to a room, still camped below their hatch,
breeding like felonies,
whose lived revolve round prison, graveyard, church.
Below bent breadfruit trees
in the flat, coloured city, class
escalated into structures still,
merchant, middleman, magistrate, knight. To go downhill
from here was to ascend.
. . .
Kamau Brathwaite: “Calypso”
from The Arrivants
The stone had skidded arc’d and bloomed into islands:
Cuba and San Domingo
Jamaica and Puerto Rico
Grenada Guadeloupe Bonaire
curved stone hissed into reef
wave teeth fanged into clay
white splash flashed into spray
Bathsheba Montego Bay
bloom of the arcing summers…
The islands roared into green plantations
ruled by silver sugar cane
sweat and profit
islands ruled by sugar cane
And of course it was a wonderful time
a profitable hospitable well-worth-you-time
when captains carried receipts for rices
letters spices wigs
opera glasses swaggering asses
debtors vices pigs
O it was a wonderful time
an elegant benevolent redolent time–
and young Mrs. P.’s quick irrelevant crine
at four o’clock in the morning…
But what of black Sam
with the big splayed toes
and the shoe black shiny skin?
He carries bucketfulls of water
’cause his Ma’s just had another daughter.
And what of John with the European name
who went to school and dreamt of fame
his boss one day called him a fool
and the boss hadn’t even been to school…
Steel drum steel drum
hit the hot calypso dancing
hot rum hot rum
who goin’ stop this bacchanalling?
For we glance the banjoy
dance the limbo
grow our crops by maljo
have loose morals
father out neighbour’s quarrels
perhaps when they come
with their cameras and straw
hats: sacred pink tourists from the frozen Nawth
we should get down to those
where if we don’t wear breeches
it becomes an island dance
Some people doin’ well
while others are catchin’ hell
o the boss gave our Johnny the sack
though we beg him please
please to take ‘im back
so now the boy nigratin’ overseas…
. . .
David Jackman: “Bassman”
Now yuh hearing a pain in yuh belly,
Who go provide now?
Who giving yuh room now?
After yuh throw way the costume and
Sleep in yuh vomit from pan fever
After yuh finish consume the liquor
Playing bass in mass
Playing ass in mass
You go shadow extravaganza
trying to stretch out the fever
making a las lap
trying to get back on the map.
But the year face yuh
all yuh have to go by
is Sparrow Miss Mary until
the bass man
in yuh head
Shadow bass man eh boss man nah.
Carnival sickness is the bossman.
Shadow eating good, Sparrow eating good,
CDC eating good.
But who go provide now
Who go provide for the bass pain
in the belly? Who man tell me who?
. . .
Lelawattee Manoo-Rahming: “Steelpan in Miami”
Last night I drove
over plain Miami
far in the Southwest
to Miami Pan Symphony
Panyard not under open skies
not bounded by mountain peaks
Cierro del Aripo and El Tucuche
but swallowed in the stomach
of a boxy warehouse
Steelpan music cornered
muffled by dense
con crete pre fab walls
not ringing out over
Queen’s Park Savannah
not jingling like running water
in East Dry River
Saw the girlchild beating
six bass pans
made one afternoon
not by Spree Simon the Hammer Man
but by Mike Kernahan
Trini in Miami
Listened to the boychild
strum the cello pan
heard the manchild
on the chrome tenor pans
carrying the calypso tune
Not to Maracas Bay
with coconut fronds
and six foot waves
but to Miami Beach
with sea oats and coco plums
And when the music died
a farewell so warm like Miami heat
a Trini voice bidding
“Drive safe eh”
an incantation from the streets of
a familiar song so strange
in this multilingual
Caribbean city in the frying pan
handle of North America.
. . . . .
Roger Robinson’s ‘Texaco Oil Storage Tanks’ appears in his forthcoming collection, The Butterfly Hotel (Peepal Tree Press); the extract from Derek Walcott’s ‘Laventille’ is taken from his Collected Poems (Faber and Faber, 1986); Kamau Brathwaite’s ‘Calypso’ is a poem from his The Arrivants; David Jackman’s ‘Bassman’ is scooped out of 100 Poems from Trinidad and Tobago (Edited by Ian Dieffenthaller & Anson Gonzalez); and Lelawattee Manoo-Rahming’s ‘Steelpan in Miami’ appears in her collection Curry Flavour (Peepal Tree Press, 2000).
Andre Bagoo is a poet and journalist, born in 1983, whose first book of poems, Trick Vessels, was published by Shearsman Books (UK) in 2012. His poetry has appeared in or is forthcoming at: Almost Island; Boston Review; Cincinnati Review; Caribbean Review of Books; Caribbean Writer; Draconian Switch; Exit Strata PRINT! Vol. 2; Landscapes Journal, St Petersburg Review, Word Riot and elsewhere. An e-chapbook, From the Undiscovered Country, a collaboration with the artist Luis Vasquez La Roche, was published at The Drunken Boat in 2013.
. . . . .
(born 1960, Trinidad and Tobago)
My Tanty used to sing/pray
evening ragas to the Earth Goddess
morning oblations to the Sun God
Now my Aunty prays
that I find salvation in the cross
in the church that has freed her
from indenture, from coolieness
Yet I seek freedom
in the indefinable
the puja breath that expands
my rib cage
with blessed pitchpine smoke
into an oval
large as the cosmic egg
The sea breath
In the conch shell
Blowing across the Caroni
Infinite like green plains
Or a milky river veiling
The face of the goddess
. . .
The Broken Key
Half left in the keyhole
Bright bronze blocking
Locking the door
Only a tiny drill
Can turn into powder
The hardened one
Reopen the door
Allow a human being
To become the way
For grace to come through
Half broken off
Round with jagged edge
As if the full moon
Had been gnawed by some
Gnawed like the ropes
That bind us together
One tug away from
The sound of a key breaking
In the keyhole of our door
How can we reopen the door?
How can we ever let grace
Come through again?
. . .
A quartet of ospreys calls
Kee-uk kee-uk cheep cheep
Kee-uk kee-uk cheep cheep
Riding on air currents
Beneath a periwinkle sky
Decibelled by steelpan carols
A sailboat chips along
Over cobalt blue near the horizon
As David Rudder’s voice solos
From the CD-player
A soulful Go Tell It on The Mountain
A white and orange tabby saunters
Along the boardwalk
Without stopping to marvel
At the ingenuity
Of Zanda and Hadeed’s
Playful panjazz fusion
The Mighty Shadow melodies
Greetings in a lover’s kaiso
While at the foot of the dune
Sixty feet down
The sea swashes in threes
A soft wetsandsmooth
Rake and Scrape response
Submerged voices of ghost Tainos
. . .
Beneath the Trees
These round roots encircle me
In a hospital bed but here there is no
No sterile handwashing
Here the earth smells like wet moss
And when I bite into these roots
They taste of peppery pine
And green fruit: sugar apple maybe
Beneath these trees
I need no clothes to feel clothed
These gnarled roots with their humus
Coating warm my nakedness
In a cocoon soft like corn silk
The phloem and xylem passages
That carry messages
Between the sun and these roots
Water and feed my muscles
Giving them a turgidity
Like the fullness of youth
These roots do not just encase me
They cradle me
Like a mother’s arms
My heartbeat echoes
Through these roots
And I know
I have become
Returning to her mother
Bhumi Devi: the great Earth Mother
Beneath these trees
. . .
Alphabet of Memory
I took with me seeds
Tiny dots of bhandhania
Flat, almost round disks of pimento pepper
And oval, plump legumes of seim
That I planted
With varying degrees of success
Wanting to feel at home
Where I have traveled to
Then I found
In a cobwebby closet
The alphabet of memory
I had brought with me
Some letters sharp as a tropical noonday
As a smoky dry season dusk
Letters which I shuffled
And then played a game of scrabble
Until I had used them all up
To create words
To make me feel at home
. . .
Coolieness: East Indian Indentured Labourers who were brought to the West Indies, and their descendents are sometimes called ‘coolie’, as an insult. In my poem, ‘Coolieness’ refers to the East Indian culture that still exists in Trinidad and Tobago.
Puja (Bhojpuri Hindi): A personal, familial, or public Hindu prayer service or worship.
Caroni: A river in Trinidad and Tobago. The river plains, called the Caroni Plains were once used for sugar cane farming.
David Rudder: A calypsonian from Trinidad and Tobago.
Zanda: Clive Alexander, aka Zanda, or Clive Zanda Alexander, is a jazz pianist from Trinidad and Tobago.
Hadeed: Annise Hadeed is a steel pan soloist and composer from Trinidad and Tobago.
The Mighty Shadow: A calypsonian from Trinidad and Tobago.
Kaiso (Trinidad and Tobago Creole): Calypso
phloem and xylem: The primary components of the vascular tissues in plants, which transport the fluid and nutrients throughout the plant.
Sita: (Sanskrit: meaning “furrow”) is the wife of Lord Rama and one of the principal figures of the Ramayana, the epic Hindu scripture. As the devoted wife of Lord Rama, Sita is regarded as the most esteemed exemplar of womanly elegance and wifely virtue in Hinduism.
Bhandhania: The Hindi name for the herb, used in cooking, otherwise known as wild coriander or culantro.
Seim: The Hindi name for the Hyacinth bean, the green pods of which are used as a vegetable.
. . . . .
Lelawattee Manoo-Rahming is an engineer, poet and fiction writer. She won the David Hough Literary Prize (2001) and the Canute A. Brodhurst Prize (2009) from The Caribbean Writer Literary Journal; and the Commonwealth Broadcasting Association 2001 Short Story Competition. She is the author of two poetry collections: Curry Flavour, published by Peepal Tree Press (2000) and Immortelle and Bhandaaraa Poems, published by Proverse Hong Kong (2011).
Zócalo Poets wishes to thank guest-editor Andre Bagoo
for introducing us to the poetry of Lelawattee Manoo-Rahming.