IRA MATH­UR

Cel­e­brat­ed po­et, artist, and film­mak­er Sarah Beck­ett, “Eng­lish by birth and Trinida­di­an by long res­i­dence,” will launch her lat­est work, “IERE Liv­ing in the Land of the Hum­ming­bird”, in Trinidad on Ju­ly 8.

Beck­ett, a glob­al­ly laud­ed artist has ex­hib­it­ed across the Caribbean, Eu­rope, and the Far East.

Her in­clu­sion in the 2020 edi­tion of The Great En­cy­clopae­dia of In­ter­na­tion­al Art places her along­side leg­ends like Pi­cas­so and Warhol. Much of Beck­ett’s work is root­ed in Trinidad.

The po­et and artist has de­signed car­ni­val bands for the Not­ting Hill Car­ni­val, lec­tured at the Uni­ver­si­ty of The West In­dies, and her doc­u­men­tary “Al­abaster Moon”, cel­e­brat­ing the cross-fer­til­i­sa­tion of the arts in T&T, pre­miered at the Trinidad and To­ba­go Film Fes­ti­val in 2008.

In 2006, Beck­ett re­ceived the BP So­ca Award for The Cot­ton Tree Cre­ative Out­reach Pro­gramme in Trinidad.

“Trinidad has cra­dled me as both po­et and artist, and it is here on this is­land that I found my voice. This col­lec­tion, culled from my po­ems, paint­ings, and draw­ings over 30 years or more, is my love song for Trinidad—its jun­gles, coast­lines, rack­ety cities, and dreamy rivers. IERE Liv­ing in the Land of the Hum­ming­bird cel­e­brates this is­land’s beau­ty, its con­tra­dic­tions, its callaloo of cul­tures in all their com­plex­i­ty, and grieves for the suf­fer­ing that is part of the hu­man con­di­tion.”

Like many artists, Beck­ett writes from a space of un­be­long­ing, of wa­ver­ing be­tween worlds. 

“I was born in ex­ile—with all the di­alec­tics of soli­tude that im­plies—stand­ing on a thresh­old poised be­tween the seen and un­seen, love and de­spair, the phe­nom­e­nal world and mythopo­et­ic truth, hop­ing that in the next po­em and the next paint­ing all will be rec­on­ciled. It’s ex­act­ly where I live.”

Beck­ett, who be­lieves in the trans­for­ma­tive, time­less na­ture of art, finds a world with­out art unimag­in­able.

“A world with­out art would be thin and sad. Would we even be hu­man? We’d have no sense of past or fu­ture nor a medi­um to cel­e­brate, con­demn, or de­fine our present. One of the great con­tra­dic­tions of art is that it is cre­at­ed in the ab­solute present tense and yet is not of time. If we are graced with the abil­i­ty to write, paint, or make mu­sic, it is our du­ty to nur­ture the soul of the world, re­gard­less of how mod­est our ef­forts may be.

“I write and paint to clothe or un­dress our com­mon hu­man ex­pe­ri­ence, aim­ing to make the or­di­nary ex­tra­or­di­nary and re­veal the in­tu­it­ed un­der­stand­ing that what’s hid­den is as im­por­tant as what’s re­vealed.

“Each artist in­ter­prets the world through their unique win­dow. Mine is to bring beau­ty in­to peo­ple’s lives, es­pe­cial­ly now amidst a dark, dystopi­an era. My work cel­e­brates life and ad­dress­es in­jus­tice, loss, fear, and death.”

On suc­cess, Beck­ett says, “In­spi­ra­tion is over­rat­ed. What mat­ters is the work, the hours put in. Most days, it’s about start­ing over and per­fect­ing the craft. On­ly then might in­spi­ra­tion guide your hand. Artists must take their work se­ri­ous­ly but nev­er them­selves, keep­ing laugh­ter and a sense of the ab­surd close.

“There’s a dream-mem­o­ry place just out of sight, glimpsed in every­day mo­ments—a cup of cof­fee, bird­song, rain on the gal­vanise. An­chored on earth with clay feet, I’ve spent my life fly­ing my kite to­wards this imag­ined place, send­ing mes­sages from the im­me­di­a­cy of where I am and what I know.”

Ex­cerpts from “Iere: Liv­ing in the Land of the Hum­ming­bird”

Cres­cent Har­bour

Years ago I spent a month

with Wal­cott’s res­ur­rec­tion odyssey,

Philoctete and Achilles - the walk­ing wound­ed

of the an­cient world made new - snared

in the seines of his iambic pen­tame­ters.

Daz­zled with lines from Omeros

I’m swept on­to An­til­lean shores,

still as­ton­ished how a po­em

could re­cal­i­brate my life.

Cloud Coun­try Can­tos

Ode to Trinidad

‘You have sailed with a fu­ri­ous soul far from your fa­ther’s house

across the dou­ble rocks of the sea and you live in a for­eign land.’

Eu­ri­pedes -Medea

i

I think of the wa­ter,

how I left my fa­ther’s house

across the dou­ble rocks of the sea,

sailed west

to­wards the equa­tor,

three peaks com­ing to­wards me.

Ever since, the wa­ter be­tween us

goes on heav­ing to­wards me,

and leav­ing.

ii

I live in a green ex­cla­ma­tion be­tween sea and sky,

trav­el the deep-sided wells of his­to­ry

to­wards the lan­guage of bam­boo and Im­mortelle.

iii

Four sea­sons, snow and leaves in au­tumn

formed my ear­ly know­ing of the world un­til

Trinidad’s rough cra­dle –

home to all our frac­tured his­to­ries - be­came my own

on this laven­der road to San­ta Cruz. I shrug off

the bac­cha­nal of Port of Spain - its back to the sea,

hori­zons shred­ded by im­port­ed ar­chi­tec­ture flung down

like in­sults on­to land re­claimed from man­grove swamps.

Of­fice blocks - steeled against sea-breeze

loom over gin­ger-bread homes and crum­bling con­crete,

Mac­Don­ald’s blight of yel­low arch­es

and Colonel Saun­der’s face ru­in­ing our ap­petites.

Past the space where once an arch of rock

stood sen­try to the val­ley I es­cape

in­to a dawn the size of heav­en,

moun­tains veiled in mist, Green Mar­ket

tucked in­to a cor­ner of the present tense

where farm­ers bring their boun­ty.

I stroll be­tween cas­tles of ed­does, dasheen

limes and me­l­on­gene, soft morn­ing voic­es

and bird­song. No trol­ley clat­ter here

just air - un­leashed from caste or creed

scent­ed with fresh herbs, cof­fee and arepas

be­neath a mer­cy rain.

iv

Clouds are walk­ing over the hills,

in­vis­i­ble birds palaver in the Banyan tree.

At dawn we are the on­ly trav­ellers climb­ing

round ghost-moun­tains em­broi­dered with Love Vines.

Ferns fan out like po­ems but can’t quite hide

the blight of Co­ca Co­la signs jammed be­tween

the Poui and Bois Can­ot on the road to Blan­chisseuse,

rain try­ing out a tune like pan men play­ing for love

in an emp­ty room. Light slaps us awake

sap­phire be­tween black leaves. Clouds close in again

con­fus­ing the trees. The road runs for cov­er

blurs blue up the hill to a door open to the sky

a tree bend­ing in­to the wind, rain com­ing in like a lover.

Quiet­ness folds around us at this point of ar­rival

cir­cling the past. Bird­song un-seams the si­lence

fringed by the surf’s gruff un­der­tow. Clouds si­dle in,2

steal the hori­zons of our his­to­ries. Para­chutes of fog

full-bel­lied with past griefs col­lapse over bound­aries

shroud the trees, re­duce ge­og­ra­phy to the space

be­tween us, calm as a paint­ing in shades of grey

at our ta­ble with two mugs of tea.

v

Seek­ing con­so­la­tion on this is­land

teth­ered to its past we trav­el east to­wards

Ma­yaro’s epic po­et­ry of de­par­ture and re­turn.

Waves splin­ter over sand and Sea-grape trees.

We fol­low fire­flies dart­ing be­twin­hale salt-wind like new­borns tak­ing their first breath.

The foot­prints of our sep­a­rate his­to­ries mark the shore

but leave no trace on night’s dark ta­pes­try, deaf

to the thun­der in our veins, the Tas­sa beat of the sea..

em­brace.

vi­ii

Every­where I turn I’m breath­ing rain, drink­ing light.

I walk bare­foot on drenched earth, think of my life

cov­ered with dawn, built with the stones of mem­o­ry

I car­ry in my hands, here, where the sun backs slow­ly

in­to the shad­ows of El Tu­cuche

and dark­ness does not fall, but ris­es up­wards

from Pa­pa Bois’ black-emer­ald jun­gle

and leg­ends of the night.

Nev­er be­fore have I trav­elled so far

to find my source. Here on this coast

cra­dled in blue, face-to-face with salt-wind,

shad­ed with qui­et leaves

I en­ter a house that stands in my heart,

per­fumed with si­lence and the psalms of the earth

–End of Ex­cerpt

In 2022, Sarah Beck­ett re­ceived an EA Ef­fE­TO ARTE nom­i­na­tion for the Paris In­ter­na­tion­al Prize. In 2019, she won the In­ter­na­tion­al Am­bas­sador of Art Prize by So­cio Cul­tur­al de Arte in Italy and was named Artist of the Year with the In­ter­na­tion­al Prize in Man­tua, Spain. In 2018, she won the Guilio Cezare Prize, Raf­fael­lo Prize, and In­ter­na­tion­al Prize of Na­tions. In 2017, she won both the In­ter­na­tion­al Leonar­do da Vin­ci-Uni­ver­sal Artist Prize and the In­ter­na­tion­al Bot­ti­cel­li Prize.

Ira Math­ur is a Guardian Me­dia jour­nal­ist and the win­ner of the 2023 Bo­cas Prize for Non-Fic­tion for her mem­oir, Love The Dark Days.

Web­site: www.iras­room.org

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