Jean ‘Binta’ Breeze died on August 4, 2021. Her work as a dub poet and great performer is legendary. Less so (though no less deserving) is her turn in her later writing to a number of narrative, lyrical poems that celebrated what she called “the simple things of life.” Unabashedly sentimental, loyal to a tee to Jamaican life, Jean had a party and happy-go-lucky side that meant when she walked into a room things brightened by several notches.
I’ve known her since the late ’80s. Her life and poetry enriched the scene of the arts and added immeasurably to the quality of what counts for poetry. My poem enacts some of her phonic and sonic tricks, and embodies a smidgeon of her biography, not to mention large dollops of her spirit (so I hope). You can read it from left to right, naturally, horizontally, and I encourage vertical readings down the various columns. To see the columns correctly, it’s best to view this work on a laptop or desktop.
~Fred D’Aguiar
I cannot in this life figure that middling day outside of the summer
South London basked in that made me squint up at your window blind
as I rang your bell three times
static waiting for you
you yawned as I glanced at my watch hands aimed way beyond twelve noon
I was on time for our lunch
you bowed and waved me in
as if dispensing rare Appleton rum) I forget what else
in that two-story terrace
in your upstairs rental back in the late eighties when poetry readings
called gigs in backrooms got you piss for pay if you attracted
less than a sad sack of drunks
all our roads forked for forked sake (no knives) both forks taken at the same time
drank pints warm fingered chips wrapped in yesterday talked mouths full
sorted Apartheid Pales-
-tine Greenham Common burned baby burned the proverbial candle
(that may/not have been a badly rolled pass- the-dutchie outsized
spliff) at both unfiltered ends
aid travels with a bomb you said a transistor
buried in your head my psychiatric training could defuse
how I could/should not refuse
you were just Breeze to us grabbed audiences by
whirled us to a swoon lyrical Binta verandah after-
noons graced your yard greetings Ma’am
Now Jean I take you up under the over of
Moment by moment pooled across decades fill us to the brim
our lives past pass passing quick
Fred D'Aguiar
Fred D'Aguiar was born in London in 1960 to Guyanese parents. He grew up in Guyana, returning to England in his teens. He trained as a psychiatric nurse before reading African and Caribbean Studies at the University of Kent, Canterbury. He was Judith E. Wilson Fellow at Cambridge University and has been shortlisted twice for the UK’s T.S. Eliot Prize. He is also the author of six novels, the first of which, The Longest Memory (Pantheon, 1994), won both the David Higham Prize for Fiction and the Whitbread First Novel Award. His plays include High Life (1987) and A Jamaican Airman Foresees His Death (1991), which was performed at the Royal Court Theatre, London. Mr. Reasonable was broadcast on BBC Radio 4 in 2015. Letters to America, his eighth book of poetry, appeared in 2020 and was a UK Poetry Book Society Choice. His memoir, Year of Plagues, was published by Harper Collins in 2021. Currently, he is a Professor of English at UCLA.