[squattaz]

The first ting you will notice about,
My Sydney,
Is his smile.
Not a pya-pya smile,
But heart felt and heart warming.
Him smile warmer dan a hot cup of cocoa tea,
'Pon a chilly early morning.
From his smile you could tell dat granny,
Not a chance of escaping the fate of having,
Nine pickney by him,
After just a chance encounter at di animal market.
Yes,
The same chance encounter dat led to love at fus sight,
Or better yet, proposal at first light.
Dat early, early fateful morning...
And tank God she seh yes.

The second ting you will notice about,
My Sydney,
Is his handsomeness.
A strong chin to wid di charming grin.
A smooth cut close shave, always neat,
With a small tuft left unda the little gully of di bottom lip.
Warm brown eyes surrounded by light blue outline,
Dat him neglected to had down to me...
Him lucky charm mole above him top lip,
To the right of him perfect nose.
Di lips full but not excessive.
Him hair not completely white,
But you might not notice dat well at first,
Him brown old time hat, wid purple band,
Likely adorn him head, kotch slightly forward left.
On a Sunday him matching brown 3 piece suit,
And very clean boot.
Mr. Smooth, Mr. Suave, Mr. Debonair.

The next ting you will notice about,
My Sydney,
Is his great mannaz.
If a woman like you meet him,
Quick time him tek off him hat,
And greet you in di nicest way.
I wonder if granny eva give him an earful.
When him greet di church sista's so sugary?
Too much spice, him too nice.
Him not French,
But likkle bit more him woulda all kiss dem hand.
Actually him mek anyone feel comfortable,
Stranger and foe alike, quickly tun friend.
And when-a dinner time round table, hat ‘pon knee,
Mannaz!

Just to let you know,
Seeing dat you is a stranger, when,
My Sydney,
Open him mout to speak,
Is so-so Queen's English come out.
Not twang, not speakie-spokie,
Just class and intelligence.
Di years him spent in Hinglant,
Working doing I'm not sure what,
Mi never did find out,
Those years come out in him voice.
Another thing church ladies swoon ova.
Dem trying to follow or keep up wid him lingua,
But dem fail miserably.
Ole Sydney just humming along the queen's highway,
Trus mi, di man is just pure class!

If it’s on a work day,
My Sydney,
Usually have him donkey.
Good ole, trusty, dark grey Dulcemenia.
With the bare patch on her inner right front knee.
Dats Sydney's benz, dats him bimma.
Ducle's 2 front knee match Sydney's.
Both knock and criss cross,
Every time mi see di two a dem a stand side by side,
Mi haffi wonda,
Who gwine ride who...? Neida betta dan di odda.
Poor Sydney... arthrithis in him "leembs"
Him knuckles too,
Dem often slightly swollen and usually paining him,
Him palms rough from years of di hoe and fork,
Him hands big and crude from gripping di pick axe and machete.
My likkle hands lost inna fi-him.
But him nails always clean at di end of the work day.
Ask him how him knees doing fi mi.

Although mi bias, I think,
My Sydney's joy,
Is his grand kids.
Him love us as much as Matty him wife.
Early morning you go a him yard,
Mama send you fi borrow some suga,
Granny nuh expect it so she neva prepare extra breakfast,
She ongle mek enough fi she and Sydney,
Sydney tell har, "give me jewel 1/2 a mi kawfi",
Dem him give you one half a hunk slice a harddough bread,
And tell you, "butta it, mi grandchile",
Nuttin taste betta!
Di days him tek you go grung,
To pick coffee a coffee walk.
And tell stories of di ole times...
You laugh till u belly bun you,
Mek you weak,
And him tell you fi pick up rat-cut and mek sure,
Carry di smoke pan so date maskita nuh bite you baxside.
And afta him sell di likkle coffee to man ‘pon truck,
Dem carry it off fi export,
Him pay you good likkle wages fi you likkle work.
Every now and again you get a ride off-a ole dulce.
Nuttin sweeta.

What me have fi seh about,
My Sydney,
Too much, and no page, book or library can hold di volumes.
NOt to mention mi tears,
Mi nuh have enough waata inna mi body fi continue telling you about,
My Sydney.
So mek mi stop ya-soh.
Just memba wah mi seh,
My Sydney,
Was di BEST!
So Ms. Angel, when you find him inna heaven,
Tek good care of him fi mi.
Tell him mi love and appreciate him still.
Farewell.

-For My Sydney.
Missing you terribly,
Love you even more...
-J



*written in an english dialect/ patois you may not be familiar with, wish you luck making sense of it*

[Syrah]

I have to admit, I didn't understand everything in here myself, although I think I got about 97% of it. I liked the flow and the alternative style you are bringing here. This kinda reminds me of a Jill Scott type of musical poetry, if you don't know her I strongly recommend you looking at her website. She's fabulous. Love her. Anywho, Without the full understanding of your work I'm not going to really critique it. The different style of language can be a really good use here but without the full knowledge I fear my opinions and critiques would be seriously lacking.

A suggestion-- maybe doing a little glossary type deal at the end so more people can fully appreciate and critique this piece.