I knew Anson Gonzales only marginally although we were both in the same trade.  

The first time I met Anson was at an award ceremony  emanating from one of those long forgotten literary competitions run by the Ministry of Culture (or was it Education and Culture?) in the 1980s. I’d won a prize; two, in fact. In those days you could win a prize, partly because there were so few entrants.  That year I’d won prizes in two categories: in short fiction for a story entitled “Pet Thief” and in poetry for a carnivalesque long poem entitled “The Tribute.”

The person who came to speak about the poetry prize said in not so many words that the judges felt they could not give a first prize. Nevertheless, they had decided to give a 2^nd and a 3^rd prize. Mine was the 2^nd prize. In their preamble, however, the three officials delivering the good news (the chief judges?) bemoaned the lack of exposure to reading evident in the entries. In the mingling in the reception hall later on, one of these stalwarts asked me pointedly, “Do you read?”

By the way, this prize-giving used to take place in a rococo white Victorian building at the top of Frederick Street. The top floor used to house a collection of austere local paintings and Carnival costumes in higgledy-piggledy fashion, and the bottom was a large dark hall which I remember visiting as a child in my Sunday best, on an outing from my village. Please remind me: Was this building called The Museum?

In Trinidad of the 80s, writers didn’t really meet. As for me, I had many fish frying at the same time. Therefore, although Anson and I could not help but be in the same room by accident at some writing events, I never really knew him. I never did submit work to his journal, New Voices, so I am one of the few people that he never published.

The older I got, though, our paths crossed periodically; plus I didn’t feel so intimidated in his presence anymore. My day was full enough with challenges, including making ends meet. When I moved closer to town, a poetry associate of his was a neighbour of mine, so he would come to my street, but our contact remained minimal.

So how did I come to write an article on his work that is published in the Canadian journal, Postcolonial Text? Of course, I’d read his work. He was very highly lauded and respected, both for his writing and for his efforts in the cause of writing.  

“We all come out from Gogol’s ‘Overcoat,’” is said internationally of short story writers. The equivalent for the Trinidadian writer may very well be “We all arise from the enigma that is Naipaul’s ‘B. Wordsworth’.”

Anson passed this September in Wales among other wise men, the druids. As immigrants in the wilderness, he and I had established email contact briefly. Two years ago during one of his illnesses, I received a photo of him which prompted the following poem entitled “1000 words” that I sent to him and subsequently published in Watermarked. I place it below in this blog as my farewell tribute:

A 1000 Words
for Anson

when you sent from Wales those thousand words, in three unlit cupcakes, all the way,

three candles, a bedside monitor, white sheets, a loving wife and you in dark shades,

was it a challenge from the poet master? What were you really trying to say?

I smelt hops bread, saw Boboy on Sapphire Drive eating a cheese soufflé,

St. George’s, Royal Victoria, 6^th Form, You-We,  New Voices –  light and dark charades,

when you sent from Wales those thousand words, in three unlit cupcakes, all the way;

Sadhu of Couva in a cloud of light and sound, mouth rounded in an ॐ, pray

tell, O Chela, the vanity of counting age reduced to symbol across decades,

was it a challenge from the poet master? What were you really trying to say?

a plastic container’s just a tray; the one behind the camera and the one in front display

the gap between the fleeting and the lasting – love lived and practised never fades;

when you sent from Wales these thousand words, three unlit  cupcakes, all the way

I understand the why of Chepstow, your visit with the Normans, the proseleelas, Hey

Alfie! the distant Lovesong of Boysie B.; but the nansi of that emailed photo yet evades;

was it a challenge from the poet master? What were you really trying to say?

Poet Laureate, no offence intended, just two meagre heartfelt words  – Happy Birthday!

and yes! Rage. Play your ace of spades! Be not gentle with the horseman. Send him back to Hades!

When you sent from Wales those thousand words, in three unlit  cupcakes, all the way,

was it a challenge from the poet master? What were you really trying to say?

© Cynthia James, September 2015