CANAL #2 POLDER
My umbilical cord is buried
Alongside a waterway long and straight,
Through which to Stabroek is ferried
Coffee, orange, pineapple, pomegranate.

The bones of my great grandmother
Are preserved forever
Near the stretch of sparkling water
That flows towards the old river.

My umbilical cord and great grandmother's bones
Are guarded by the spirits of African slaves
Who dug the canal with shovel and hand,
Who made a polder of clay and sand.

Under command from Paulus van Schuylenburg,
By whiplash and the smell of grog, slaves got urge
To carve a clean artery
From Demerara to Boeraserie.

Indian cord and bones, African slaves, Dutchman
The land grew rich from such a mix.
The waterway held the steady course it ran
Since 1776.

I HOPE
I hope for an era
a Golden Age
real El Dorado
a great Guyana.

Maybe, an opera house
and a big museum
in Essequibo.
Scientists, too.

I hope Berbice grows
heavy industries
profound philosophers
winning stadiums.

Surely wise rulers
and noble opponents
in Demerara, with
practical poets to guide them all.

I hope for peace
progress
prosperity
other possibilities.

I hope
Yes, there is hope
for my courageous country.

COLD COMFORT
A cold north wind
rushes past
me at my window
and invades
my Toronto flat.
The full
September moon
looks on
indifferently
from her high horse.
It's hard
to believe
the same moon
smiled at me
and my girl
many seasons past
in Georgetown
as we strolled
along Robb Street
inhaling
the alluring
aroma
of fried chicken
and French fries
from the Oasis
watering-hole.
Is she
the same moon
who shone
like a big
ripe mango
above Freedom House
that other
September night?

WINTER IN TORONTO
Cold sunshine on dazzling snow,
Icy winds gnaw at my coat,
Squirrels mock me below
Skeletons of maple and oak.

I hurry home for warm welcome:
A glassful Demerara Rum.
One sip and memories fly:
Cold Arctic to cool Atlantic sky.

Memory birds get wave from coconut tree
And handshake from sugar cane ­
Father of Demerara Rum ­
Passing through blue sackie lane.

More sip of amber drink
Heats blood and skin and wink,
And belly calls for hassar curry
That coconut milk makes merry.

"Hemraj Muniram is a former Guyanese journalist. He is living in Canada temporarily and learning to write poems. He plans to return to Guyana, build a troolie-roofed hut in the rainforest, make peace with labaria snakes, contemplate the constellations, and strive to write one good sentence in the English language. Meanwhile, he is privately studying the works of the Roman poet Ovid, the Russian Alexander Pushkin, the American William Carlos Williams, and the Guyanese A.J. Seymour."