Bahamian Journal
by Timotha Doane
Cover photo by the author
16 pages, 2005
Dream: I dreamt I was winding up a class I had been teaching. It was a class of my peers, and we had been coming together weekly to discuss a strange, eclectic bunch of writers. They weren't
poets necessarily. In the dream Mary did something I really don't like. Because
this was the wrap up class, she knew I was going to ask folks for an evaluation. At
the beginning she told me to not be defensive. This time I ignored her. One of the
students began talking about Burroughs in such a way that reality shifted and
there we were, in it. Only this became a gangster story a la Law and
Order or Third Watch. But then each we studied
became our three dimensional space.
I had the feeling when I woke up that I have been dreaming this class for a long time in installments.
2/15/04
It's strange to be here without my mother, here in the Bahamas where I resisted coming for a long time. This is, however, my fifth time here. I feel out of place, but Dad and I had a good time this evening.
six of disks Hermit six of cups Ace of cups
three of swords Death Sun nine of cups
It works.
It is very hard to find a surface to write on. They favor benches too high for tables. My mind is dull. Tomorrow, I must exercise more. Later, here in the Bahamas , I read Denise Levertov, opening to The Jacob's Ladder,
To the Reader
As you read, a white bear leisurely
pees, dyeing the snow
saffron.
and as you read, many gods
lie among lianas eyes of obsidian
are watching the generations of leaves,
And as you read
the sea is turning its dark pages,
turning
its dark pages.
As I lie in the dark
of the ocean's turning
waiting to fall asleep
listening to the sea
to the wind
to the clatter of the sea grape and wild
mamee leaves
I read this in the Bahamas
I listen to my father shuffle
to the bathroom
I listen to the sea
I don't know why
I am spooked at night afraid of the dark.
My father is quietly talking to my mother
dead these four months
my father pulls his soft blanket up to his cheek
like a child
he weeps
the sea is turning its dark pages
in the daylight
this sea is a miracle of color
but strangely the magic sea
doesn't change the people walking
on its shore they
are the same fearful judges
as those stomping city streets
sauntering country lanes
or navigating deserts as I write
the sea
there are certain things
I'm afraid to do alone at night
I miss my mother
which is strange
because she wouldn't understand
my questioning our worlds were very
different
still I wish I'd talked to her
when she asked if I had read
A Room of Her Own
She silenced herself—why?
Did she think she wasn't as intellectual as her sister Vicki or me? That she would embarrass herself.
I regret not asking her. The book had obviously stirred something in her that she wanted to share or question. I feel bad that I hadn't taken that moment to connect with her. Maybe help her. Some spark
toward liberation momentarily blazed.
But it got lost.
No one paid attention and the one
holding the spark painfully but
only a glimmer
aware it dies out.
Now
at last
with this breath
I am connected by my
self I am less afraid of this night
my father picks me hibiscus
large red and yellow blossoms
five large petals with
yellow stamen coming out
where the color is deeper
flowers so secret
to be worn in
every woman's hair
sex so secret
I find a valentine cut from
Bahamian wrapping paper
exotic fish aqua
colors will you be my
valentine a hundred dollars
clipped to the card
for the clothes and the VO
and sweet vermouth I
brought him
this sweet, romantic man
misses his wife
he wants to