Echoes

By Steffan Williams

Messages screamed from the past, and whispered into the future. 

 

Steffan's debut collection follows a life's journey through poetry. Written from the voice of a Canadian born son, of Caribbean parents. Echoes revels in childhood blissful ignorance. It faces issues of adolescent alienation. The monotony of day-to-day struggle through adulthood, and finding the tiny moments of joy to hold onto.  Music acts as a paintbrush that colours these memories and experiences with a scattered playlist soundtrack. Punk, Soca, Ska, Jazz, and Soul are just some of the genres that are held sacred by Steffan and flows through his stanzas.  This first entry in Steffan's career was crafted over years of personal writing as a creative outlet. Shaped and refined over time, these verses demonstrate a love of the flow of language. Especially, how it can explore deeply personal feelings, but connect to his audience in a universal and relatable fashion. Echoes is a call to all that grapple with similar thoughts, and hold onto a tune while they do so.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Steffan Williams
• Release date: May 3, 2021
• ISBN: 9781777641818

Book preview

ECHOES

I’ve always been taken with echoes.

Messages yelled from the past, whispered,

into the future. The space between repeated,

words may grow long with time, but finds,

the receiver when they are meant to.

Backyard explorer, too consumed pushing boundaries.

Not knowing those fences are silent monuments,

of parent’s struggle, and immigrant triumph.

Now as I walk my own path,

they persist even more impressively.

The map expands, calm water turn violent,

and frustration moves like menacing clouds,

shrouding the way forward.

Elder’s words become beacons of mirrored tales,

and experienced wisdom. They guide us –

If we are willing to be led.

After you have scaled mountains,

and wrapped your ankles from your falls.

A new pathfinder will come calling,

as you once did.

Your lungs will fill with guidance,

and yell into the future.

I

SATURDAY MORNING

For most, Saturday morning was sacred.

Filled with cereals and cartoons.

That wasn’t the case for me, I was tasked,

to help with the roti and the rest of breakfast.

I remember the scraping sound the cast iron tawa made,

as it protested loudly, when I dragged it onto the stove.

I did it out of revenge for having been dragged out of bed myself.

Ingredients measured with the scales of experience, no cup needed.

I listened to my mother work the dough using the knowing, hands of her mother,

who taught her long ago, in their kitchen, in Trinidad.

Transformed balls sat glistening,

oil tiptoed from the top to the bottom.

Next was the bilnah, or rolling pin to you,

she pressed and stretched as previously trained.

Her home, job, whole world had changed, but that, action forever remained.

As it was placed to cook, I was called into action.

Replacing, aunts as a student in this transposed foreign classroom.

I spread the oil as directed, outside edges working back to middle,

and mimicked the motion of