John Tench
Participant in: WORRRD Up 2022,
Short Story Competition (2022), WORRRD Up 2023
Coached by: Mr. Adrian Augier

About John Tench

2nd Place Winner - WORRRD Up 2022
Librarian's Award Recipient

John Tench Bio

John loves both reading and writing poetry, and has been writing since secondary school. He takes inspiration from the Caribbean as well as other international writers. Apart from poetry, he's a second-year CAPE student studying Law, Literature and Sociology. He follows a philosophical saying which goes too far east is west.


John's Work

Real Pain by John Tench

It was supposed to be a run-of-the-mill Saturday night:
Netflix + comfort + the breeze of my fan = heaven.
A rush drives my fingers as I sign in,
Only to be rejected with "Incorrect Password"
A churning in my stomach: a truth too hard to swallow.
No, you couldn't do something like this
You're my brother. No, no!
But things change, and people lie.
Even now I lie to myself by thinking he's better than this.
The run-of-the-mill turns malignant
Ruining my Saturday night.

That breeze of my fan sends chills down my spine.
“He's better than this”, I whisper my tongue blisters
At this beautiful lie.
My ears pulse like creole drums strapped tightly and beaten with vengeful force.
Maybe once more could work. I try the keys;
see if maybe they'd open a door for me.
Because you wouldn't do that.
You're a brother, no!

I should have noticed it sooner
The signs were there. He stole our todays and tomorrows.
We shared her at first, my sweet netflix;
Then you whispered sweet nothings to her;
Your trademark seductive sweetness.

She would tell you about new shows that week
Or a new season here and there-
And then the silent transplant of her love to your phone.
Last week, I was almost shut out entirely.
“Four screen limit” She reproached me like a scorned lover.
“But enjoy your downloads”, she reassured;
The kind of reassurance that goes
“He's just a friend” or “you're jealous”.

But today she spurns me “Incorrect password.”
Not once, but thrice. Called her, no answer.
Called him, he insists he knows nothing.
There is no reassurance now.
What's done is done.
My keys no longer work for me,
But his work for him. He's won.
And this ménage à trois is two.

The Crucible by John Tench

Let me tell you
I had to fight
a war for us.
If you were
there to witness
your eyes would
roll back
in your skull
so you could watch
your mind implode.

Your very soul
would simmer
to a soundless boil
because of what she did:
her sin against
the communion
of koudmen:
a ritual she did not
bouyon right.

I lead her from
her four-square kitchen
back to the muddy green
that tragic front
where we fought;
bwaden tea for blood,
coconut water souring
our fear to bile.

That deadly front
where now hibiscus flourish
atop quiet carcasses.

I explain:
We no longer need
tablespoons or ounces here.
Our only measurement
is our measured silence…

I bid her:
Dig. Feel deep
for the raw, rank mud.

Knead. Do not ask
for water, flour
this or that
Muscle memory
must guide us now.

So, take what is created,
place into chodyè
atop coal pot,
into your own
timeless crucible
of ritual and coal
and clay.

Ensure it is hot
as lava
so your soul discerns
the screeching cries
of your great-grandmother,
burnt like bagasse
after her best harvest.

Allow her peeling hands
to burn in yours,
sin and sacrifice entwined
into ancestral light

revealing woman, breasts,
parched from suckling thin children;
her man, beating
ancestral battle cries
out of a drum
hunger
hunger
hunger.

Be brave.
Fix your eyes
on this bouyon
history serves you
even if your eyeballs melt
and your hair falls
to the muddied,
studied earth.

Taste this bouyon
history makes of you.
Let it scald
like bitter tea.
Let it reform and
recommit your tongue.
Taste and remember
our wars already won.