Ghosts of Saint-Pierre

Ghosts of Saint-Pierre is a fictional biography based upon the real life of a man who left Saint-Pierre, Martinique a few short years before Mont Pelée buried the city in fire and ash, taking the lives of 30,000 souls, including all of his loved ones. It is the story of Duane’s own grandfather, Paul Poncy, who as a young man in Saint-Pierre was related to some of the richest and most powerful families of Martinique, families who built their fortunes off of the back of slavery and exploitation. Paul was a man who, in the face of tremendous personal loss, was never able to speak of his birthplace or the mixed race family he left behind. The novel, part historical biography, part ghost story, part love story, is told from the perspective of a forty year old father about to bury another son, a victim of the Spanish flu pandemic…

On the Jolly boat

Thought I’d share an illustration I made for Adventures of Yvonne, which a children’s story inside of our novel, Ghosts of Saint Pierre. Yvonne is the little girl seated in the center of the boat, between her mother and her brother, Andre. They are on their way to board the Liberté, a pirate ship on which Maman has hired on as a galley cook with the captain, Marie Le Méchant.

The Rose Room, 1973

All the nameless men, the Jims and Joes and Davids, at the rail on this training ground. From our vantage point we can not see their eyes, the other girls and I. Light shines against us, but it flows around them leaving their faces blank. It is not for us to see them, not for us to choose.…

Tsalagi Poems

I have posted a few of my Cherokee poems. I may post some short stories and excerpts later. the long man grandfather, the Long Man, came down from the hills to the green valleys of the Smokey Mountains, where grandmother sent her love in the four directions, giving life to our mother Selu, and our father Kanati, and the cedar tree and the strawberry, the swiftly running deer, the hare in the underbrush, the tiny thrush with throbbing heart. beside the river I married the white-skinned stranger, and he lived with me in my mother’s house, and we bathed each morning in the icy waters and said our prayers to the spirit of creation, counting our sorrows on dogwood blossoms until the soldiers came with their guns, and forced us to leave the old man behind. I no longer say my prayers to the Long Man. my children speak the…