Theory on the Bida Dushi 2.0
In Curaçao, “e sukú”
merely signifies the darkness.
But shift one tiny accent,
“súku”, sugar
And voilà, behold
how everything changes.
Your mouth becomes much sweeter,
tenderer, after having drunk tears.
Do not go fishing under the waning moon.
Wise fishermen counsel thusly.
The fishes’ mouths turn much too tender
for the hook to stay.
It will unlatch, sliding out
as the prey mourn Luna’s departure.
If you want to catch an earthly mourner, a yorona
better you go visiting the funerals for people.
Sages counsel thusly.
At the washing of hands, at a wake,
you just might find
the lay of your life.
Just make sure you
go there dolled-up and
donning fine scented water.
Teoria dI Dushi 2.0
Pa Rommelinda
Na Corsou, “e sukú”
nifica scuridad.
Move un accent chikito
y tur cos a cambia.
Bo boca ta bira hopi mas dushi,
moli, despues di a bebe lagrima.
No pisca bou di luna menguante,
piscado sabi sa bisa,
nan boca ta bira mucho moli
pa hangua gara, ora presa ta yorando
e luna cu a bay. Si bo ke pisca
un yorona, miho bo bishita
biloria di hende.
Sabionan sabi sa bisa,
or’i laba man, na un biloria
bo por haya e frey di bo bida.
Djis corda di bay bon perfuma,
bisti un awa di hole.
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Nostalgia
Bogota: flushed and frigid city, ambushed by mountains
that resemble a throng of men doing a stickup,
or doing penance under vast Passion Sunday robes
under the pointy dunce-hats, and flamelets blade-like
in their hands.
And here I am, sharing a glass of merlot with you
by the hi-tech fireplace.
In the scarlet swirl, buoyant, battering the crystal shield
as its dark wave rises and is dispelled,
I see the lighted buoy bobbing up and down
in the dark roiling sea, as the tall but horizontal-laid towers
of ships, like a plantation boss’
white and grey giantesses, reclined as odalisques
glide off mooing in their motile sleep,
as the ships sound their parting peal
like the night-cries of a little moocow
in the dreams of the big ladies dormant on their divans
under the chimneys, and past causeways cobbled together
from ancient rocks that forgot they were once vulcan,
before they forgot they were once human.
Boter cu Nostalgia aden
Bogota t’un ciudad friu
cu no tin costa.
Encera memey di sero
cu ta rondona un hende
mescos cu e maskernan
cu por rondonabo
den un atraco.
E montañanan di Bogota
parce un grupo di penitenciario,
bisti na klechi cora-oraño
di djadomigo di pashon,
masker bou capuchon di punta punta
candel’i macamba briyando na man.
Riba dianan miho, podise e seronan parce
e pikonan di parha chikito
pidiendo cuminda di mama warawara ariba.
Ma, Bogota no ta ningun neishi
salbo akinan, na banda di bo sinta
paden, riba futon
nos ta comparti dos beker di biña
akiden, sala kenta pa chemene.
Biña ta balia den beker,
campana di cristal marino ta zona.
Balumbra di lama bou di bo pecho
Ola di biña scur ta subi, baha,
copia di anochi di lama
memey dje glas.
Wak, weita
linterna di metal
flotante na cant’i waf,
subi baha draai
den awa scur,
su luz ta kinipi, guia
barco: e torennan horizontal, drumi,
toren gemelo
ta lombra, ta drenta, sali haf
E bramamento di crucero ta zona
Un baca, yorando henter anochi
Drumi rib’e scuma
den e toren di soño mobil,
soño ta priminti
bola di luz entre e wampanarianan
cu parce waaier di señoranan memorioso
E crucero ta colma cu un infinidad di lampi
Mask’e tin miles di balcon
mane’ e wowonan di un Argos sperta,
E drumidornan den e crucero
nan lo bay,
nan lo bin, nan lo bay-bin
sin habri wowo nunca.
Semper bay, aboso lo keda bonbini,
sin bisa ayo nunca
na e brugnan di piedra di coral,
di diabaas y calichi muha,
piedra cu ta corda ainda
su concebimento di simakan
su nacemento di un volcan lubida.
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The Protector of the Grand Sephardic Synagogue of Curaçao: Portrait of a Sentinel
Outside the sprawling yellow grand synagogue of Punda,
There he stands vigil: the security guard.
He’s the watchman: he’s watching you—sentinel.
He swings his fists
as he stands whistling, he fidgets
with his walkie-talkie.
His revolver, dormant
leans against the key-rings
on his waist-band, a light sleeper.
He smokes a cigarette
on watch.
He defends the Znoa, the Synagogue.
He looks Aruban
with his sun-faded light green eyes,
some fisherman’s son,
or some fisher’s sibling.
He’s a Goy, alright. Of that, little doubt.
Observed from up close, he rather resembles a Roman,
a little less confused than governor Pilate.
Perhaps the watchman
is becoming, by and by
more of a Jew the longer he stands there,
in the vast yellow archway of the gate
of the Znoa, the Grand Synagogue of Punda.
He washes his hands
before he smokes, after he throws a punch,
or before dialing certain numbers.
Upon his arm: a small faint tattoo,
inscription from way back when.
The fresh ink of the anchor
wetted too soon, a wave-fist
of seawater struck and dragged the sigil
down his burnt skin, to efface
what was written there.
His gaze—how effortlessly he scolds you
with his eyes. Clock him: he seems a Roman centurion,
a Greek koiné soldier of the colony,
whom the authorities assigned to guard duty,
a postilion, or even
Golem, crafted by the Cabalists.
At the very least, weigh his value
in marbles and in crystals.
He is the son of some fisherman
from another desert island
that once bred riderless horses.
He was fed on crustaceans
they call “little gnome soldiers”
until he grew into
a soldier most wakeful.
Serving on another colony
infested with scorpions lacking venom,
and the poor reading their sacred tabloids
as if local schmattahs were Sinai’s tablets,
an island of Latin jews
those who read a different script
every now and then,
and so many children of slaves.
The afternoon sky shuts its red paper fan,
sunfall does not clang like the heavy
metallic curtains that unroll at six o clock
sharp in the main shopping street, one by one
they fall winning their race against
the sundown.
Now the song of the hazzan, a Cantor of the Znoa,
oreole-throated man, exclaims: his dark
afternoon chant sends the electric candle-flames atremble,
flickering in the myriad modern Menorahs.
The song-tide hits, sloshing against the sentinel’s
eardrums, the way saltwater often intrudes
The way the ocean says things
in the ears of islanders every night,
in violation of all laws of the watch.
________________________________________________________________________
E Defensor di Snoa
(Portret djun guardia na e Sinagoga Grandi na Corsou)
Pafo di e Snoa grandi geel na Punda,
eyfo e ta para: e homber di security.
Watchman ta wak bo: vigilado,
zoya e ta zoya su moketenan
despues e ta para fluit, mishi
cu su radio,
su pistola ta drumi band’i yabi
na su faha mara,
e ta huma sigariya
na warda,
e ta defende Snoa.
E parce un Rubiano
di wowo berde cla,
yiu di algun piscado,
of ta su ruman e ta.
E t’un Goy: di esey
ta tiki duda tin.
Bon mira, e parce mas un Romano,
tiki menos bruha cu gobernado Pilato.
Por ta cu e watchman
ta birando, pocopoco mas
manera Hudiu, mientras cu e ta para eyfo,
dilanti dje porta grandi geel
di Snoa na Punda.
E ta laba man,
prome cu e huma,
y despues cu e dal,
prome cu e yama
cierto numbernan.
Riba su brasa: un tatuahe chikito,
inscripcion dje temponan aya.
Inkt fresco
dje anker a muha muchu lihe, un mokete di aw’i lama a lastra core riba su cuero kima, pa cambia
tur loke a wordo skirbi.
Con cu e wak: e ta zundra bo keto
cu su wowonan.
Weit’e: e parce un centurion Romano,
un solda Griego dje colonia,
cu e autoridadnan a pone na warda,
un postiyon, of hasta
e Golem di e Cabala.
A lo minimo, midi su balor
den marmer y den cristal.
E t’un yiu di piscado,
di otro isla di desierto sin cabay,
cu a dun’e come soldachi di lama p’e bira un solda atento.
Riba otro colonia pata pata
di lacrana sin veneno, colma cu redo, redashi
y negoshi scur,
y e pobernan lesando nan corant
nan cantica manera ta Koran e ta,
y Hudiunan Latino,
esnan cu sa lesa algo otro
de bes en cuando
y asina hopi yiu
di catibo.
Shelo di atardi ta dal cera su waaier cora, e caida no ta zona mane
heki di pacus den caya grandi
ora nan lora cay, na ora,
ganando nan concurso
contra bahad’i solo.
Awor e cantica dje Chazzan,
e Cantante di Snoa, un homber trupial, ta sclama: su canto scur di atardi ta tembla e belanan electrico
di tanto menorah moderno,
ta dal drenta su horea, manera awa salo.
Mane’ loke lama ta bisa,
den horea di isleño tur anochi,
ta kibra tur ley di e holoshi.
Arturo Desimone (Bushiri, 1984) was born and raised on the island Aruba. His articles, poetry and fiction pieces in English previously appeared in New Orleans Review, Drunken Boat, Berfrois, the Sydney Review of Books, Latino Review of Books, and South Florida Poetry Journal. He has performed at international poetry festivals in Nicaragua, in Kairouan, in Havana and Buenos Aires, and most recently at the international poetry festivals of Medellín and of Cali, Colombia. He spent a year in Tunisia studying classical Arabic during the period of the thawra and has continued his study of Arabic, his sixth language, ever since. He wrote his most recent book of poems, "Kibocacion Entre Luz y Boca" (Errors of a Twilight-Mouth) in the Papiamento language of Aruba and Curaçao, and the first bilingual edition, featuring translation into Spanish, was published in Argentina in 2025. Among other current projects, he is working on a multilingual play set between the Netherlands and the Dutch Caribbean.