Black Wadsworth

  Every day, three crickets came to the door of the hospitable house of Miguel Street on time to beg. Around ten o’clock, an Indian man in white and wrapped around his waist first came, and we poured a small pot of rice into a pocket on his back. At twelve o’clock, the old woman who was carrying a mud pipe came, and we gave her a penny. At two o’clock in the afternoon, a blind man leads a road to ask for his penny.

  Sometimes we also give tramps. A man came here one day and said that he was hungry. We had a good meal for him. Then he asked for a cigarette until we ignited the cigarette for him. The man has never been there in the future.

  At about four o’clock in the afternoon, one of the most strange tramps came. I have already returned home from school, just changed my clothes. I heard him calling me: “Little brother, can I enter your yard?”

  He is small, well-dressed, wearing a hat, wearing a white shirt and a pair of black pants.

  I asked: “What do you want to do?”

  He said: “I want to see your bees.”

  There are four saplings of palm trees in my home, and uninvited bees are gathered on them.

  I ran up the steps and shouted: “Mom, there is a man in the yard. He said he wants to see the bees.”

  Mother came out, looked up and down him, and asked very kindly, “What do you want to do?”

  The man said, “I want to see your bees.”

  He speaks English very well, and it’s almost a little artificial. I saw that my mother was not at ease.

  She said to me: “Stay here, he stares at him when he looks at the bees.”

  The man said, “Thank you, madam. You have done a good thing today.”

  He spoke very slowly and accurately, as if every word he spoke had to spend his money.

  We watched the bees together, he and I, kneeling under the palm trees, about an hour.

  The man said: “I like to watch the bee. Little brother, do you like to watch bees?”

  I said, “I don’t have this time.”

  He shook his head in frustration. He said: “I will do this, just look. I can watch it for a few days, have you seen ants? There are also scorpions, scorpions and amphibians. Have you seen them?”

  I shook my head.

  I said, “What are you doing. Sir?”

  He stood up and said, “I am a poet.”

  “Is it a good poet?” I asked.

  ”The great poet in the world,” he said.

  ”Your name is nickname, sir?”

  ”B. Wadsworth.”

  ”B is Bill’s meaning?”

  ”It’s Black. Black Wadsworth. White Wadsworth is my brother, we all have the same heart. I just saw a little flower like a morning glory, I want to cry.”

  I asked: “Are you crying?”

  ”Why, boy? Why? When you grow up, you will understand. You know, you are also a poet. After you become a poet, anything will make you cry.”

  I can’t smile.

  He asked: “Do you like mom?”

  ”She doesn’t beat me when she likes it.”

  He took a piece of paper with lead printed from his back pocket and said, “The above is the greatest poem describing the mother. I am going to sell it to you for only four cents.”

  I ran into the house and said, “Mom, do you want to spend four cents to buy a poem?”

  Mom said: “Let’s listen, tell the damn guy, hurry up and roll me out.”

  I said to B. Wadsworth: “Mom said that she doesn’t have four cents.”

  B. Wadsworth said: “This is the poet’s experience.”

  He put the piece of paper in his trouser pocket, as if he didn’t mind.

  I said, “It’s very interesting to go around and sell poetry like you. Only those who sing Klipso’s minor do this. Is there a lot of people to buy?”

  He said: “No one has ever bought it.”

  ”Then why are you still going around?”

  He said: “So I can see a lot of things, I still hope to meet other poets.”

  I said, “Do you really think that I am a poet?”

  ”You are as talented as I am,” he said.

  Later, B. Wadsworth left, and I secretly prayed, I hope I can see him again.

  One afternoon a week later, on the way to school, I saw him again at the corner of Miguel Street.

  He said: “I have been waiting for you for a long time.”

  I asked: “Have you bought the poem?”

  He shook his head.

  He said: “There is a nice mango tree in my yard. It is the best one in Port of Spain. Now the mango is ripe, red, and the juice is sweet and sweet. I am waiting for you here. Come tell you, second, please also go to eat mango.”

  He lives in a small shack on Alberto Street, right in the middle of the street. The courtyard is green, with a tall mango tree and a cocoa tree and a plum tree. This place looks desolate, as if it is not in town. There was no place to see the tall concrete buildings on the street.

  He spoke well, and the mango juice was sweet and sweet. I have eaten six in a row. The orange mango juice flows down my arms to my elbows, from the corners of my mouth to the chin, and my shirt is also stained with juice.

  After returning home, my mother asked me: “Where are you going? You think you have grown up, can you go crazy everywhere? Go to the fold whip and bring it to me!”

  She played hard enough, I escaped from home and vowed never to go back. I came to the B. Wadsworth home. I am very angry, my nose is bleeding.

  B. Wadsworth said: “Don’t cry, let’s go for a walk!”

  I stopped crying, but I was still pumping. We walked through St. Clair Street, to the “Prairie” and walked along the runway.

  B. Wadsworth said: “Hey, let’s lie down on the lawn for a while, look at the sky, I want you to guess how far those stars are from us.”

  I did what he said and understood what he meant. I forgot everything and felt so proud and happy for the first time in my life. My anger was swept away, I forgot my tears and forgot the old punch that I had just tasted.

  When I told him that I felt better, he began to tell me the name of the star. I can’t figure out why I remember especially the Orion constellation. Until today, I can still point it out at once, but the others have long forgotten.

  Suddenly, a beam of light hit my face and a policeman appeared in front of me. We quickly got up from the grass.

  ”What are you doing here?” the police asked.

  B. Wadsworth said: “I have been thinking about this for forty years.”

  Since then, we have become good friends, B. Wadsworth and me. He said to me: “When I have mango trees, cocoa trees and plum trees, don’t tell anyone, be sure to keep secrets. If you tell others, I will know, because I am a poet.”

  I took an oath and kept my promise.

  I like his small room very much. The furniture inside is not as much as the one in the house where George is on the street, but it looks cleaner and more comfortable; however, it looks very deserted.

  One day I asked him: “Mr. Wadsworth, why are you leaving so many bushes in the yard? Will it make it too wet?”

  He said: “Listen, I will tell you a story. A long time ago, a boy met a girl who quickly fell in love. They fell in love with each other and later got married. Both of them are poets. Teenagers like beautiful literature, girls love flowers and trees. They lived happily in a small house. One day, the poetess told the young poet: ‘We have to add a poet to our house!’ But the little poet Not born, because the girl died, he also went with her, died in the girl’s belly. The girl’s husband was very sad, decided to never move the grass and trees in the garden again. So, the garden stayed, Trees, flowers and plants are not managed, the longer they grow.”

  I looked at B. Wadsworth, and when he told this moving story, he looked even older. I understand his story.

  We always go for a long walk together. We went to the botanical garden and the rock garden. At dusk, boarded the “Principal” hill, watching the port of Spain gradually enveloped by the night, and the ships in the city and on the pier gradually became brilliant.

  Everything he does is like the first time in his life, just like taking a holy book.

  Sometimes he would ask me: “Hey, how about going to eat ice cream?”

  When I agreed, he became very serious and said, “So, which cold restaurant do we go to?” It seems that this is also an extremely important thing. He often used this for a long time, and finally said: “In my opinion, I should go to this house to inquire about the price.”

  This world is really an exciting place!

  One day in his yard, he said to me: “I am going to tell you an important secret.”

  I said, “Is it really a secret?”

  ”It’s still a secret.”

  I looked at him and he looked at me too. He said: “Remember, only you and I know. I am writing a poem.”

  ”Oh,” I was disappointed.

  He said: “This is not an ordinary poem, it is the greatest poem in the world.”

  I snorted.

  He said: “I have been writing for five years now. It will be completed in twenty-two years, that is, if I can maintain the current speed.”

  ”So, do you write a lot every day now?”

  He said: “Not as much as before. I only write one line a month, but it is definitely a very good line.”

  I asked: “What was the line written last month?”

  He looked up at the sky and said, “It’s far-reaching and mysterious.”

  I said, “It is a beautiful poem.”

  B. Wadsworth said: “I hope that I can pour all my feelings of a month into this verse. After twenty-two years, I will write a poem that shocks all mankind.”

  I am full of wonder.

  We have been going for a walk as usual. One day, we walked along the breakwater of the port. I said, “Mr. Wadsworth, if I throw this nail into the sea, do you say it can float?”

  He said: “The world is wonderful. Throw the nails down, let’s see what happens?”

  The nail sank.

  I asked again: “Is this poem written this month?”

  However, he never said a poem again, just said: “Hey, it’s okay, you know, it’s okay.”

  Sometimes we sit on the breakwater and watch the ship entering the port silently.

  Since then, I have never heard the greatest poem in the world.

  I think he is getting old every day.

  ”How did you live, Mr. Wadsworth?” I asked him once.

  He said: “You are asking me where is the money?”

  I nodded. He laughed slyly.

  He said: “When you sing the season of Klipso’s minor tune, you can sing a minor tune.”

  “Is this enough for you to live in a year?”


  ”When you finish writing the greatest poem, you will become the richest person in the world?”

  He did not answer my question.

  One day, I went to see him in his small house and found him lying on his small bed. He looks so weak and old, I really want to cry.

  He said: “The poems are not written very well.”

  He didn’t look at me, but looked at the cocoa tree through the window, as if I didn’t exist at all, muttered: “At the age of twenty, I seem to have endless efforts.” At this time, as if it happened to me, his face became older and tired. “But that… that was a long time ago.”

  Just as I changed, I seemed to be slapped by my mother. Suddenly, I was keenly aware of something. I saw this clearly on his face. Everyone will see that Death has climbed the wrinkled face.

  He looked at me and saw that I was full of tears, and I was so strong that I sat up.

  He said, “Come here.” I walked over and sat down on his knees.

  He looked into my eyes and said, “Well, you see it too. I always said that you have the vision of a poet.”

  It seems that he is not upset, which makes me unable to control again, crying out loud.

  He took me to his thin chest and said, “Do you want to hear me tell you a funny story?” He smiled encouragingly.

  But I can’t say anything.

  He said: “After I have told you this story, you have to promise me to go home immediately, and never come to see me again, okay?”

  I nodded.

  He said: “Very good. Listen now to me. I told you about the story of the young poet and the poetess. Do you remember it? It is not a real thing, it was made up by me. What else? Poetry and the greatest poem in the world are also fake. Do you say this is the most interesting thing you have ever heard?”

  His voice was interrupted.

  I left the small house, ran home, and burst into tears. Like a poet, I want to cry when I see anything.

  A year later, I came to Alberto Street again, but I couldn’t see the little house anymore. It wasn’t that it suddenly disappeared, but it was almost like disappearing. It was smashed by people. A two-story building replaced it. Mango trees, cocoa trees and plum trees were also cut down by people, leaving only a piece of cement brick paved ground.

  Everything seems to indicate that Black Wadsworth has never been to this world.