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Daily Musings

I Chose to Give on My Earth Day

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Earth days are special, and I tribute this feeling to my mother who made my birthdays magical when I as a child..  Since I turned forty, I’ve made it a rule never to work on my birthday. As an academic, I had the freedom to arrange my schedule, so if my birthday happened to fall on a teaching day, I’d send my students on a field trip or give them a research project.

Birthdays, for me, have always been sacred and wherever I am in the world, I find a body of water, sea, river, or a lake to visit and spend some time meditating. After that reflective time, I treat myself to an elegant meal and usually end the day with some kind of body work, a massage or facial. My birthdays have been about reflection, indulgence, and gratitude.

But this year was different. After Hurricane Melissa, celebration felt out of place. Watching the devastation across Jamaica, I knew the best way to honour my life was to give. I’m privileged in many ways, and have more than enough. But so many in the rural areas had lost everything. While relief efforts were underway, many communities were still untouched, cut-off, unseen.

So first, I went through my closet and unloaded 40 dresses, most of which have not been worn more than six times; people needed clothes.  Also, I knew people  needed towels and wash cloths so packed up ten of those. Next I went shopping and spent $35,000 on the basics: rice, flour, sugar, cornmeal, bread, crackers, tinned mackerel and sausage, wipes, bottled water, soap, shampoo. I loaded everything, and accompanied by a community male, I drove to Anchovy, a community a distant cousin told me had been devastated and overlooked.

There, by the river, I met nine women washing clothes with their children nearby. Their words came like a chorus: “We have lost everything. No one has come.” I distributed what I had, and they showered me with blessings and gratitude for my modest donation. I thought about taking photos of the distribution but in the moment, the need of the women and children did not leave space for such documentation. And because the story isn’t about what I gave, but rather what lesson Melissa gave me: a new way to see my birthday not as a day of self-luxury, but of active service.

Returning from Anchovy I went into my closet, and it did not look empty. It was still full, with more dresses than I need. That’s when I affirmed that I am rich. I had never used that word for myself before. I used to say “comfortable,” but no, “I am rich.”  Yet I realized I am rich enough to give and not experience loss. This is what many of my fellow Jamaicans must reckon with: the illusion of scarcity. We have more than we think.

But my heart and body felt pained as I grieved for those people and the land that have been so severely impacted. The countryside looks like images I have seen of Beirut and Iraq in ruins. Thousands of trees gone. Animals lost. Land stripped bare.

And while it is true, we’re a resilient people, a phrase repeat like a mantra, I want to invite all of us to pause. It’s time to admit that resilience alone isn’t enough. We must allow space for grief, for weakness, for mourning so we can rebuild stronger and better.  Strength means nothing if we cannot first acknowledge our pain and what we lost.

I believe rich and middle-class Jamaicans have a moral  and social responsibility to adopt the forgotten villages, those not on the radar, cut off from aid and internet, invisible to the government. These are poor Black communities that have been neglected for centuries, before and after independence. They need more than charity; they need solidarity, and a plan that will secure their respective places, but also take them into the future. They need their stories recorded, their voices amplified, and their needs and wants acknowledged and respected.

This is an opportunity for the Ministry of Culture and Gender to send young artists, writers, and students into these communities to document the traumatic experiences of these people. Let us create a living archive of their voices, a testament to what Hurricane Melissa has done to our land and our people. We owe them that dignity.

And so I’ve made a decision that every year on my Earth Day, I will give. I will continue to celebrate my awesome life but by serving. I invite my friends, colleagues, and fellow Jamaicans to do the same. Let’s adopt a village. Let’s help ensure that by next August, 2026, the families in these rural communities will have sturdy homes and sustainable livelihoods. Food relief is temporary, but empowerment is lasting.

We are resilient, yes, but we are also humans who have suffered great loss, who are in pain, and are therefore in need of not only food and shelter, but comfort, and  permission to grieve.  Yes, we are tallawah and will rebuild, but let us give those impacted a moment to just be still, to reflect and decide what they want their future to look like. On this Earth Day, I learned that true abundance lies not in what we have, but in what we give away.

Daily Musings

Ode to Hurricane Melissa: A Conversation, A Plea

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Dear Melissa, my sister Hurricane,

So you’ve been dilly-dallying, eh? Sauntering across the sea like you going to a party, hips swaying, your skirts of cloud dragging across the horizon. We see you, girl. We’ve been seeing you. Watching your slow, deliberate stride. Listening to the whisper of your name in the wind. They say you’re coming with anger, with force, but maybe it’s not rage at all. Maybe it’s hurt. Maybe it’s vexation, vex because of how we’ve treated you, treated the earth, treated ourselves.

All the bottles and plastics that were banned but still float like dons in the gullies. The trash we burn without care, the smoke rising like confessions. Maybe you just tired of us, tired of our stubbornness, our refusal to change our carless ways, our greed and consumption.

But I see you, Melissa. This morning I went outside to greet your first shy showers. I splashed in them, as I love to do; told you “Howdy. Welcome!” Whispered, “Please, keep my house safe.” Don’t come huffing and puffing like some big bad wolf, I beg you. Take it easy ‘round here.

I picked a few bird of paradise which I love and in your haste you might not see them and just blow them away.  I said thanks to my banana and plantain trees, my lime and cane and my pear; poor ting fell down already and Delroy, the gardener help me kotch her up;  so please, tek time with her, nuh, have mercy pan this old limping girl.. My coconut tree standing tall still, and all my pretty flowers: hibiscus, buttercups, bread-and-basket, crotons, ferns. Jason helped me tuck them safe in the corner this morning, so when you pass by showing off your power, you might spare them your mercy.

And truth be told, I’m not innocent either. I try me best.  I pick up, I recycle, I talk about protecting the earth , but maybe I too am part of the problem. None of us are exempt, are we?

So Melissa, darling, come now. Come if you must, but come gentle. Don’t make us wait no more.  It’s one of the hardest things, this waiting. My anxiety level is high, You’ve been teasing us since last Wednesday and it’s now Monday. My classes canceled, my mind wandering. I can’t focus, can’t work. So come now, in your yellow dress or your navy one, with your hair flying wild or pressed neat — I don’t mind. Just come, do what you must, and then go on your way.

And when you reach the sea, before you touch land, just exhale your breath out there, let your rage disperse over the deep. We are a loving people here, truly. Sometimes we quarrel, sometimes we act up, but deep down, we’re kind. It breaks my heart, though, to see the way we treat our own, the cane cutters, the fishermen, our people living in conditions too close to slavery. It shames me, it wounds me.

So I pray for them, for all of Jamaica. I’m lucky to be in a solid house, but anything can happen. Still, my ancestors, my Orishas, my divine guardians, they walk with me. I trust their protection, their grace.

And to all those who’ve called, emailed, sent love and prayers, thank you. It’s for all of us.

So Melissa, my tempest sister, we’re waiting. Come if you must, say what you have to say. Trace us, scold us, dash a little saltwater in our faces, and then please, leave us in peace. Let our trees rise again, our flowers bloom again, our lives go on.

Take it easy, my child. Take it easy.

Walk good, my girl. Walk good.
And don’t let no bad duppy follow you for you’ve been carrying on like one wild spirit, and we don’t like bad duppy in Jamaica, no sah.

Daily Musings

Home in the Diasporic / Home at Home

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I have never been exiled from Jamaica, though I have lived most of my life away from her shores. Jamaica has always been my root, my anchor, the marrow of who I am. I never felt cut off, never felt she was beyond my reach. Jamaica is not a distant place I visit; it is the pulse that shapes me, the rhythm in my walk, the breath in my speech. My Jamaicanness is not a badge nor a flag — it is seamless, both my imagined self and my lived reality.

Paul Gilroy speaks of “the dialectics of diasporic identification,” reminding us that it is never the same for everyone, yet always returns to the dialogue of homeland and home. Can home be carried with you? Is it in the yellow, green, and black, in the taste of ackee and saltfish — even from a can — in the cane you bite into, juice running down your chin, in the childhood lessons of duppies so that when a shadow looms, you wonder if it is this or more?

Perhaps it is as Gilroy insists: “It ain’t where you’re from, it’s where you’re at.” The “where” being body and mind, geography and imagination. Home becomes memory you carry like a favorite dress, a figurine, a faded photo of first love, the friends whose lives moved on without you as yours moved on without them. Yet it always circles back to origin. Like the time I walked into the faculty parking lot in California and found a note on my windshield: Go back to where you come from. Perhaps because I demanded a place for Black people and people of color. Perhaps because I was a woman. Perhaps simply because it was known that I was not from there — not California, not Oakland, not America. To them, I was Africa, a presence they never wished to claim except for her resources. Go back where you come from.

But it is never that easy when you live where you are not “from.” They remind you constantly, even if you wanted to forget, even if you could. It is always: Where are your people from? Where was your navel string buried? What soil stains your soles, veins your blood, whispers your names?

Gilroy says, “It ain’t where you’re from, it’s where you’re at,” but the deportee knows better. For those who fled poverty or were exiled into unfamiliar streets, home is neither here nor there. Stories told of home were mostly lies meant to soothe — to suggest a place that would welcome us — but home did not. Could not. Not for the deportees. Not for those who built new nations out of necessity. For them, home became nowhere: not in the Diaspora, not in the unfamiliar land of exile.

And yet, sometimes home is that uncanny space — familiar and foreign all at once. Like Half-Way Tree in Marcia Douglas’s Marvelous Equations of the Dread, where Marley returns disguised as a madman searching for himself. Home is recognition denied, a hostile space where you may be chased, ridiculed, shunned. It does not always yield answers. At times it feels strange, unfamiliar, as if you are experiencing the Diaspora within home itself. Still, even when hostile, home holds memory, bloodlines, visceral connections. Home teaches, as it teaches Duppy Marley before he drifts into the other realm.

But not so for the madman in Jennifer Rahim’s Curfew Chronicles. He wanted only to speak truth to power, to explain the injustice he witnessed. He was home, known — and yet not recognized. Recognition would mean being heard, and being heard would demand change. It would unravel the order, blur color and class boundaries, disrupt the hierarchy. So he was silenced, thrown down, his words trampled, his identity erased. At times, home itself robs you of belonging, of dignity, of safety. Home, too, imposes curfews.

James Clifford asks: “How do diaspora discourses represent experiences of displacement and replacement of homes away from home?” A valid question. Yet it must also be asked of home itself. How does the twelve-year-old boy who fails common entrance confront displacement at home? His identity hinges on a single act. For my Danny in Love’s Promise, the shame of home propels him outward, to anonymity in the Diaspora, to find voice and self where he is not known. Sometimes the weight of home stifles growth.

And sometimes, being away is the very condition for growth. Absence shifts the gaze from lamenting displacement to embracing the fertile ground of possibility. The Diaspora becomes a field where seeds of reinvention take root, allowing home to be reframed — not as loss, not as exile, but as promise. Between Gilroy and Clifford, home becomes a moving force, fashioned and refashioned, alive in memory, radiant in imagination — at once paradise, at once euphoria.

Daily Musings

You Have to Harden Your Heart in Times like These: Stories of Kingston

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By Kim Robinson-Walcott

Kim Robinson-Walcott’s latest collection features Kingston the city as the setting. Speaking about the collection, Kim says, “It’s a collection of different voices and different people from various strata of Kingston society. Only a couple stories are not actually based in Kingston, and even there Kingston is the backdrop or starting point.”

The title, the authors states is fitting, and she elaborates: “I really think we have to harden our hearts to survive in Kingston (and Jamaica overall, but in Kingston everything seems more intense), to make it from day to day without being overwhelmed. Life is hard here. On the other hand my aim as a writer is to soften those hearts – to offer insights about different lives and perspectives that will hopefully at least in some cases result in more understanding or empathy on the part of the reader.”

Perhaps this excerpt from “Spreeing in the SUV,” one of the stories in the collection published by Blouse and Skirt Books,  2024 shed more insights:

“I always wanted to be rich. People with money had cars. When I was a

little girl I used to ask God to give my daddy a car so I wouldn’t have to

get up at four in the morning to go to school. I wanted to reach school

not tired but clean and fresh like some of the children in my class.

            God didn’t listen. My daddy never got a car, and then after a while I didn’t

have a daddy because he left us to look work in foreign and never came back,

and when I was twelve I had to stop from school anyway because there was no money.

            I still had to get up at four, though, because I had to get my younger brothers

 and sisters ready for school and then I had to mind the baby while my mother

went out to work. And then when I was a little older I had another baby to mind,

my own this time, and then when I turned seventeen I started work myself so I

still had to get up at four.

            Now my job is with some rich people up at the top of Cherry Gardens and no

bus run there, so if I don’t leave Portmore at minutes after four, then by the time

 I get    the bus to Half Way Tree and the taxi to Barbican and then walk up the hill

 I will reach work late, and the mistress warn me already that if I get there after seven again I won’t have a job. When I get there I’m tired. Sometimes when I’m walking up that hill I try to beg a ride, but the people who drive up that way act like they don’t see you, they just flash past in their big Bimmers and Benzes and SUVs.”

Kim has been working on this collection for a while and describes its evolution.

“In a sense I’ve been working on this collection for decades: a story I wrote for Wayne Brown’s writing workshop in circa 2000 was my first piece of what I later came to recognise was flash fiction. That story won the regional Commonwealth Short Story prize in 2005, and I enjoyed writing it so much, having to condense a story into a tight space of a few hundred words, that it inspired me to write more in that genre. But I was still writing mainly longer pieces. Then in 2018 Millicent Graham invited me to teach a flash fiction workshop for her Drawing Room Project and that was a refresher course for me.  I was also writing other longer short stories, but I liked the compressed energy of a shorter piece. That same year I went on a year’s sabbatical from my job as editor of Caribbean Quarterly at UWI, and although my plan had been to finalise a manuscript of those longer stories during that year, instead one after the other a series of new short pieces started popping into my brain.

      Then in early 2022 Tanya Batson Savage, publisher of Blouse and Skirt Books, approached me with a proposal to publish a collection of these newer, shorter pieces. I said to her, actually I was planning to get that other collection published first. She said, no, let’s do this one. I said, I don’t think I have enough of these newer shorter stories to make a collection. She said, I think you do.

     Not all the stories in this collection are flash fiction pieces but I think the energy core resides there.  I signed the contract with Blouse and Skirt Books in March 2022 and in September 2022, on September 23rd to be exact, Tanya sent me her editorial suggestions. I remember that day well, because it was the same day I had a colonoscopy and I was given the news that a mass had been found that looked cancerous. A couple weeks later that diagnosis was confirmed and I started chemo immediately. It took a year before I could even think about my stories, and it was only last year that I felt I could manage revising the stories in between rounds of chemo.

    So yes, completing the revisions and getting the book published – with book cover art painted by me – was a huge triumph for me.”

An editor for decades, Kim has helped many writers realize their dreams of publishing, so she understands readership appeal and audience. She speaks to the importance of this collection.

“I think it’s important because many of the stories give voice to the voiceless, the disenfranchised. Some stories give perspectives which may be new to my readers. And the stories are very short – which makes them easy to read and therefore, I hope, appealing even to those who don’t love reading!

     My specific audience is primarily Jamaican or Caribbean – as the pieces written in the Jamaican language demonstrate (although I did try to write a version of patois that would be accessible). That said, I’ve been pleasantly surprised by the response of some non-Jamaicans who told me they understood and enjoyed the patois pieces. And note that only eight of the twenty-six pieces are written mainly in patois. I hope that the Standard English pieces will attract those who can’t manage the patois.”

During the writing of this collection, Covid 19 and the Black Lives Matter movement occurred, and Kim speaks to the impact they had on her and her writing.

“The Covid experience in Jamaica was much less traumatic and horrific than in other countries such as the US, Canada, the UK – we had far fewer deaths, there was no one in my inner or even outer circle who died – but it did cause me, and probably the entire world, to realise how fragile our world is, to appreciate life more, to see more clearly what matters, and that inevitably impacted my writing.

“And the imposed quiet time and solitude actually gave me space to write.

   “The Black Lives Matter movement: The horrors of racism in the US and the continuing struggles of black Americans for civil rights have always been extremely disturbing – I would never have wanted to raise my children in the US. But then Jamaica is no bed of roses either – we have a problem of police brutality and a shocking number of police killings here too – the difference is that here the victims, the disenfranchised, are poor black Jamaicans.”  

Here is a glimpse of her upcoming project

“I’ve been doing some memoir pieces over the years, and I want to develop, expand and consolidate them. Also I want to publish the older collection of stories that I mentioned earlier – many of them were previously published but I would like to combine them in a new collection.”

Kim’s writing process is simple yet profound.  What’s important is that it works for her.

  1. “Listen, observe and absorb.
  2. Process – play with the subject in the imagination.
  3. Put it down on paper (or onscreen); then leave it to gel for a while.
  4. Rewrite, revise, refine; then leave it to gel for a while; then rewrite, revise, refine.

Kim aspires to:

  1. To write simply and clearly.
  2. To give voice to the voiceless.
  3. To move people.
  4. To show them new perspectives.

And now you know her secret,  “I was/am a Trinidad Carnival addict – I missed only a handful of Carnivals between 1981 and 2021, when Covid interfered. Fête, fête, more fête – that was me. Soca makes me happy. Illness prevented me from joining in the joyful resumption of Trinidad Carnival in 2023. But I’m still hoping to go at least one more time!”

And we are affirming that Kim will get to fête,  and enjoy more fêtes!!!

Daily Musings

The Power of Nature: Judith Falloon-Reid

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Filleting fish with 

a sharp machete, the master

bad as yaas! Fiyah! 

Poet, Filmmaker and Media Personality,  Falloon-Ried is also an adventurer, and is credited as the first Jamaican woman to visit Antarctica and has written, Antarctic Adventures with a Jamaican on Ice, 2020, that chronicles her trip. Here she talks about her new collection:

Jaiku, is a collection of Haikus and photos. In 2022, my husband and I moved to a small town called Puerto Armuelles on the Pacific Coast of Panama. The shift awakened my creativity in a new way. I had always been an amateur photographer and a nature lover, but living steps away from the untamed Pacific Ocean, having a yard filled with fresh fruits and flowers that grow and free from the stresses of America, I started writing haikus to accompany my photos and posting them on social media. The response was overwhelming. For me, this collection is a testament to the power of nature on our mental, spiritual, emotional and physical state.

Mango blooms in heat

A promise of things to come

Summer tun up high. 

While many authors sometimes find it challenging to come up with a title, Falloon-Reid’s focus was clear

Jaiku is a combination of Jamaican and haikus. I have used that hashtag for the past three years on social media to describe my combination of photos and haikus that often include Jamaican language.

It’s been three years in the making although, the idea of creating a book to house the photos and haikus didn’t materialize until early 2024 when friends and social media followers suggested that I create a book.

While the world cries blood

my garden blooms love and peace

man could learn something. 

Responding to the importance of this collection now, Falloon-Reid reflects on the technological impact:

In a world where AI seems to be taking over, it is important that live photography continues to have a space on bookshelves and in people’s consciousness. AI can never replace a photographer’s eye. AI has no emotion, empathy or ability to see beyond the natural. It simply mimics what already exists. I also live to inspire others to see their creative work, whatever it is, as valuable and I hope this collection will inspire photographers and writers to think outside the box.

A single red stone

defies the waves. I shall not

be moved. Be the stone.

While a writer’s process is often an indication of her productivity, Falloon-Reid keeps it simple but her ambitions are not:

I simply write as it comes. I know my main characters and storyline and how it begins then let it surprise me as it unfolds. I follow my characters as they tell me their story.

I aspire to be a famous author. I just want to write everything that is within me until my mind stops giving me words and my inkwell runs dry.

Writers, like the general public, are impacted by the social factors that arise. Here is what Falloon-Reid has to say about living under Covid 19, the Black Lives Matter movement, and the present US President:

I have always been considered a poet who speaks to issues of the day. I continue to write on the black experience, living in Amerikka and social justice in poetry. Jaiku is a little different. It has a mixture of observations, inspirations and social themes that accompany the photos and although most are haikus, there are a few poems as well. For example, the poem No Trees Aloud accompanies an image of machinery deforesting an area and speaks to the problems of gentrification and cutting down forests to build concrete jungles and the impact on nature. I also try to inspire hope in poems such as the one below that accompanies an image of a sprawling tee with massive roots.

With strong roots spreading

your leaves will shake, branches bend

but you will survive.

And like many writers who complete one project then go on to the next, Falloon-Reid might be doing some back-pedaling:

I am working on a relaunch of my novel The Silent Stones as well as filming season two of Mirrors in Paradise, a six-part series I wrote for PBC Jamaica, based on my book Are Mirrors Cleaner in Paradise?

The Silent Stones was first released 10 years ago but my mother passed away shortly after its release. I am updating it and doing a new cover before rereleasing it later this year.

Finally, the quirky thing about Falloon-Reid that you might not know is:

I don’t like structure, capital letters or punctuation. I use a lot of fragments. And, I like to start sentences with “with” and  “and”.

Website: jfalloon-Reid.com

YouTube: youtube.com/@Judithfalloonreid

Facebook: facebook.com/jfalloonreid

Instagram: instagram.com/barefootislandgirlja

Daily Musings

The Power of Poetry: Bridging Gaps in European Voices

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The life of a writer is to share her work and trust that it finds its audience. I’ve just returned from a three-week European tour—unexpected, yet affirming. While I’ve long known my work is taught in Europe, I had not been invited to share it in over a decade. So, when the Serendipity Institute for Black Arts in Leicester, UK, invited me to present my documentary Conversation –Jean Binta Breeze, I felt an immense joy. Jean was the first female dub poet, a dear friend, and a voice I refuse to let fade.

That invitation opened new doors. Casa della Poesia, a thirty year literary organization committed to amplifying diverse voices, invited me to share my work. To my surprise, they informed me that they were translating a selection of my poems and that I had been awarded the Regina Coppola International Literary Prize. I had worked with Casa della Poesia before, years ago, as part of the Bosnia Peace Festival, but I didn’t realize they had planned visits to three schools and a bookstore event to launch my translated collection, La lingua è un tamburo.

People often assume a writer’s life is glamorous—and, at times, it is. I travel, share my work, and connect with audiences in places I never imagined visiting. Yet, writing is also solitary. You create in isolation, unsure if your words reach anyone, let alone touch them. Without awards or royalties to reassure you, doubt can creep in. But these invitations reminded me that my work still carries weight in places I had never even considered.

At a bookstore just outside Naples, I read to an overflowing audience—one of their largest. That night, they sold more books than at any previous launch. Yet, the true highlight wasn’t the accolades or sales; it was the engagement with students. In three different high schools, we had deep discussions—about the Middle Passage, colonialism, gender, and history. In Salerno, a predominantly European, middle-class city, I found young people eager to engage with Caribbean history and black identity. Their depth and insight moved me to tears. Clearly, their teachers had prepared them, translating my poems and guiding discussions. My work had become a permanent feature in Italy, a country with a small black population and even fewer Caribbean voices.

Fifteen or twenty years ago, when I visited Europe, everyone associated Jamaica with Bob Marley. Today, I encounter a new generation, one less familiar with our icons but still eager to learn. My poems—whether about No Woman, No Cry or Emmett Till—remain teaching tools, bridging gaps in knowledge and fostering dialogue. Creative writing, poetry in particular, has the power to break barriers, to create understanding where there was none before.

From Italy, I traveled to Spain. Elisa Senario, who once wrote her dissertation on my work, is now a professor. She and her students have been translating my short stories from Love’s Promise, and last year, we held a Zoom lecture. When she learned I would be in Europe, she invited me to the University of Granada for a symposium. Meeting her students in person reinforced an unexpected lesson: translation is more than words—it is history, context, and culture.

To my fellow Caribbean writers who feel unseen: seek audiences in Europe. This journey reminded me that my work is not only read but also embraced. There is an eager readership willing to engage with the complexities of our histories and experiences. Our stories matter. We must share them—fully, honestly—without assuming they will be ignored. The students and audiences in London, Italy, and Spain have reaffirmed what I had nearly forgotten: my work remains relevant and has currency. I am profoundly grateful for the opportunity to continue sharing it.

Watch:
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Caribbean Literature, poetry, Teaching Youth Poetry

fabian thomas: a 30+ year journey

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JAMROCK

Wi laugh loud

go hard

dweet sweet

ramp rough

lick hot

dance wid screw face

a nation in trauma

acting as if there are

no problems.

fabian m thomas is a writer, poet, artistic director, spoken word performer, Performing Arts Specialist, and a Calabash Writers Workshop Fellow, and the above poem is from his new colletion , the solace of sound. Thomas says, “the title came from a section of words, which I consider the anchoring poem in the collection.”

Often the question is asked how does a poet put  a collection together, and this is thomas’ response to this  volume, which he describes as “A pot pourri, offering varying flavours for the palette of readers: sweet, tart, spicy, and even bitter, as I explore matters related to the heart, the head and the soul.”

Reading the poems in this collection, you will fully appreciate thomas’ poetry voyage, which he says “is the culmination of a 30+ year journey of writing, learning, dreaming, affirming, living, evolving and persevering.”

Fortunate to have had some seasoned mentors, Thomas credits  one such person, who also edited the collection. “It was my editor Prof Mervyn Morris, who suggested that I add spoken word to the description of the collection, because he said I “..write for the voice.” The audience I claim is those who love and are curious about the powerful allure of the spoken and written word.”

Responding to the impact on his writing and his life living under Covid 19, the Black Lives Matter movement, and the present US President,  these very different social realities, Thomas  offers: “I am present to the reality of people, forces and cabals that are determined to set us (black/people of colour) in particular, and the world in general, back, like resetting a clock to a time when we had no rights, value and free will. My response is “We will NOT go quietly into the night, disappear, shrink, but instead stand firm, take space, draw ranks, resist, rebel and overcome (again!). As in life, so in art, di livity muss ketch pon di page an di stage!”

His reponse  is in keeping with how he describes his writing process: “Live. Observe. Listen. Bear witness. Be witnessed. (Re)imagine. Ideate. Give form. Share (or not 😊).” Like many writers, thomas  aspires to “share my work as widely as possible…and meck money fram it too!!”

Active as a presenter, theatre consultant, Thomas  also makes time for his writing and has many plans:

“Having had the blessing of being published (by Independent Voyces Literary Works) I am now fully engaged in marketing and promoting the solace of sound, along with my previous works: Djembe (illustrated children’s book) and New Thought, New Words: a collection of affirmations, gratitude verses, spoken work and a bit of prose). I also plan to complete two books (a memoir and an exploration of my parents’ meeting and sojourn in the UK), and a collection of essays.”

We still are…

We were

kings & queens

before we were

enslaved

We

still are

In 2018, fabian m thomas self-published a collection of writings entitled New Thought, New Words. His first children’s book Djembe was released, February 2022 and Tribal Elements (A Tribe Ting, Volume 1), a chapbook of original writings by members of his performing arts collective Tribe Sankofa was launched in April 2022. He has two pieces in 100+ Voices for Miss Lou: Poetry, Tributes, Interviews, Essays (UWI Press, 2021).

Contact info:

i.am.fabianmthomas_writer_poet:  https://www.instagram.com/i.am.fabianmthomas_writer_poet?igsh=Z2NhOTZnbGV4a3Bt

coaching4creativeswithfmt: https://www.instagram.com/coaching4creativeswithfmt?igsh=MWg5M25lc201NW1kYg==