Submitted by DAVID COMISSIONG
The late Derek Walcott
One of my absolute favourite poems is Derek Walcott’s “The Schooner Flight”– the opening poem in the Walcott collection entitled “The Star-Apple Kingdom”.
This classic Walcott poem is an extended meditation on the predicament and promise of our Caribbean Civilization as manifested in the tragic life story of “Shabine’– a “red nigger who love the sea”, and who out of desperation ships “as a seaman on the schooner Flight” for a defining sea voyage that takes him from Trinidad in the south of the Caribbean to the innumerable islands of the Bahamas in the north, and ultimately to his death.
In recent times, whenever I travel outside of my island home I somehow feel compelled to take the text of “The Schooner Flight” with me– perhaps for the purpose of reminding myself of the plight and beauty and potential of our Caribbean Civilization.
I can think of no better way to express a public “good-bye” to Derek Walcott than by quoting the following passage from “The Schooner Flight” :-
Fall gently, rain, on the sea’s upturned face
like a girl showering; make these islands fresh
as Shabine once knew them! Let every trace,
every hot road, smell like clothes she just press
and sprinkle with drizzle……………………
Though my Flight never pass the incoming tide
of this inland sea beyond the loud reefs
of the final Bahamas, I am satisfied
if my hand gave voice to one people’s grief.
Open the map. More islands there, man
than peas on a tin plate, all different size,
one thousand in the Bahamas alone,
from mountains to low scrub with coral keys,
and from this bowsprit, I bless every town,
the blue smoke in hills behind them,
and the one small road winding down them like twine
to the roofs below; I have only one theme:
The bowsprit, the arrow, the longing, the lunging heart—
the flight to a target whose aim we’ll never know,
vain search for one island that heals with its harbor
and a guiltless horizon………………
There are so many islands!
As many islands as the stars at night
on that branched tree from which meteors are shaken
like falling fruit around the schooner Flight.
But things must fall, and so it always was,
on one hand Venus, on the other Mars;
fall, and are one, just as this earth is one
island of archipelagoes of stars.
My first friend was the sea. Now is my last.
I stop talking now………..
……………and the moon open
a cloud like a door, and the light over me
is a road in white moonlight taking me home.
Thank you Derek Walcott. Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!
”I have been bitten, I must not get an infection, or else I will be dead like Naipaul Fiction” . Lol, Walcott and Naipaul had a frictional relationship.
RIP Shabine.
It is time like these some question the value of the literary arts to making the world we live a better place. Why do we position people like Walcott et al on pedestals?
@David. That’s a very philosophical question. I for one was never a fan of the non-prose style of expression.Too abstract for my liking. Anyway, I would rather put the artist on the pedestal any day over any sport stars. Brain over brawn.
@fortyacresandamule
Good one!
With sports there is the supporting argument of leisure, health,an avenue for men to channel bravado etc.
Members of the BU intelligentsia who lean to the esoteric will be upset with you.
David, surely that is an ‘odd’ question.
Why do we put ‘anyone’ on a pedestal other than we appreciate and recognize that in his/her persona that they are striving to give voice to the trials and tribulations of this thing we assiduously manage daily called life.
The poet, author, orator voices our trials in words; the scientist experiments and tests those trials in his lab. And on and on in the varied spheres of life.
As long as we can appreciate the intent of the (any) man then the question of why he is acclaimed should be crystal clear: it’s the voice within us all that he has tuned beautifully to the ears of many.
Frankly, exactly what trappings adorned his mortal soul or which city he called home or in fact what was his sphere of excellence are irrelevant… a good and propa voice resonates wherever it is heard.
Derek Walcott as wonderfully brilliant and humanely flawed as man can be …was such a propa voice.
@Dee Word
Why should we feel the need to put another human on a ‘pedestal’?
Why should we not David. I will interpret your comments vis “… another human on a ‘pedestal’?” as a reference to the exalted deity.
I do not perceive that people like Derek Walcott are being placed on a pedestal in that way…certainly not by clear thinking people,
They are exalted for their ability to express the aspirations of many.
I would offer that daily in Chimborazo or Market Hill or Selma or Flatbush that a really, really wonderful person who profoundly touched the lives of hundreds rather than millions like Walcott are sincerely placed on ‘pedestals’ at death.
Lots of ‘other humans’ who are worthy get bombastic praise based on their mortal toils, Mr Blogmaster.
Nothing sacrilegious about that.
@Dee Word
How do you respond to the point by fortyacresandamule that to use non prose is perhaps contrarian to your –
@ David
Walcott is a brilliant poet, but his true value to us is as a philosopher. No-one has given us a clearer vision of the catastrophe of British empire and the wreckage and flotsam it left behind.
Down the Conradian docks of the rusted port,
by gnarled sea grapes whose plates are caked with grime,
to a salvo of flame trees from the old English fort,
he waits, the white spectre of another time,
or stands, propping the entrance of some hovel
of a rumshop, to slip between the streets
like a bookmark in a nineteenth century novel,
as scuttering from contact as a crab retreats.
He strolls along the waterfront’s old stench
to the balcony shade of a store in Soufriere
for the vantage point of a municipal bench
in the volcanic furnace of its town square.
I just missed him as he darted the other way
in the bobbing crowd disgorging from the ferry
in blue Capri, just as he had fled the bay
of equally blue Campeche, and rose walled Cartagena,
his still elusive silence growing more scary
with every shouted question, because so many were
hurled at him fleeing last century’s crime.
Walking the drenched ramparts , tugging his hat brim,
maintaining his distance on the deaf page,
he can not hear the insults hurled at him ,
bracing for the spluttering bribe. An image
more than a man, this white-drill figure
he smoked from a candle or stick of incense
or a mosquito coil, his fame is bigger
than his empire’s now, it’s slow-burning conscience.
Smoke is the guilt of fire, so where he strolls,
in Soufriere, in Sumatra, by any clogged basin
where hulks have foundered and garbage scrolls
it’s flag, he travels with its sin,
it’s collapsed mines, its fortunes sieved through bets.
He crosses a cricket field, overrun with stubble
launching a fleet of white, immaculate egrets.
The docks are dark and hooded, the warehouses
locked, and his insomnia rages like the moon
above the zinc roofs and spindly palms; he rouses
himself and dresses slowly in his small room:
he walks to the beach, the hills are brooding whales
against them drift the flambeaux and the lanterns
of the crab fishermen , the yachts have furled their sails,
he goes for this long walk when guilt returns;
indifferent to the constellation’s Morse
his resignation no longer sends
out fleets of power, an echo of that force
like dissipating spume on the night sand.
To the revolving beam of the Cyclopic lighthouse
he hears the suction of his soul’s death rattle,
but his is a history without remorse.
He hears the mocking cannonade of battle
from the charging breakers and hears the pluming hordes
of tribesmen galloping down the hills of sand
and hears the old phrase ‘Peccavi, I have Sind ‘
Think of the treaties signed by his ringed hand,
think of the width its power could encompass
‘one seventh of the moonlit globe’, we learnt in class.
It’s promontories, docks, it’s towers and minarets
with the power that vanished as dew does from the grass
in the rising dawn of a sun that never sets.
His fingers sticky with rum around a glass,
he can see the scorched square where a saint presides,
and it’s dry fountain where lizards shoot through grass
and the cathedral’s candlelit insides.
In the sunlit bar the woman draws the blinds.
They look like the slitted lids of a lioness,
(the yellow sheaves she hides are in his mind’s)
the cafe is quiet, safe from the street’s noise,
what he likes now confirms the aftermath
of great events; a tilted sail, a heron
elaborately picking out its path,
a beetle on its back, such things wear on
his concentrated care since the old scale
has been reduced ( as are his circumstances)
on the croton bush by the window the tail
of the cat swishes as a dragonfly dances.
A vast moral idleness stretching before him,
the cafe’s demotic dialogues at peak hour.
The things he cherishes now are things that bore him,
and how powerlessness contains such power.
The costumes that he wore and the roles which wore him.
Derek Walcott
@Peter
You have reinforced BU’s point. If you were to take a poll of BU how many ‘ordinary’ BU family members comprehend would have to resort to the equivalent of a http://www.sparknotes.com to ‘translate’? lol
Incidentally David, excellence in sports or any physical activity cannot so easily be conflated as excellence for the real ‘pedestal’.
Absolutely a sportsperson can be acclaimed for their entire life’s work as well but not just what they did in their field of endeavor.
Sir Viv or Sir Garry were brilliant surely. But that Hall of Fame greatness is a completely different acclaim!
For arguments sake compare their life’s work on and off the field to that of a man like Roberto Clemente a great baseball star who then attempted to use his fame as a cause celebre to improve the lot of his countrymen in the Latin Amer & Caribbean region.
Just a different perspective on what is adoration and the real acclaim of life’s true intent!
Yes, David I can agree with the point by fortyacresandamule “that to use non prose is perhaps contrarian …”
I myself find the cadence of some poetry (school dazes, Chaucer) a bit off-putting but Walcott was not too bad in that regard .
If one is accustomed to a standard writing style of a period break for a sentence thought and so on then the ‘poetic style’ can indeed be quite contratrian but on the other hand it also offers an opportunity to move away from the normal and embrace a different way to engage.
We see it in life.
David Rudder with his different style was lambasted as a non-calypsonian as I recall…until be was accepted.
The style of Lil Rick grated many too. And then we had Adonija’s Rhythm Verse spoken word.
But did they all not evolve from what would be the old griots and their spoken-sung history…which too was dismissed as flawed and unacceptable by the colonial masters’ perception of a written word (world).
My point simply is that we evolve as a society and embrace the differences of how knowledge and how the word is expressed…the more we get comfortable with the multi-lane highways and the more we improve our driving skills, we grow, learn and see new vistas.
We can certainly stay in the single lane of our locales and be content and knowledgeable but why deny ourselves the vastness of those beautiful new vistas and new knowledge!
@DP Dribbler @ 9:58 AM
Eloquently put. If you continue in this vein I will build a pedestal for you. We eventually embrace our diversity of excellence. It is human nature and, dare I say, God’s nature.
PL Thompson @9:14 AM
“the catastrophe of British empire and wreckage …..”
Wow ! What a mouthful! Out of this evil came the beautiful Caribbean nations and a creative and brilliant people.
Too much abstraction can evoke a sense pretentiousness. Academia is guilty of this. None of much, like in the field of modern art.
WITH ALL DUE RESPECT TO MR WALCOTT AND KAMAU, THERE ARE MANY YOUNG/old POETS WHO HAVE BEEN HONING THEIR CRAFT AT HOME AND ABROAD. MANY FELL BY THE WAYSIDE due to neglect AFTER TRYING TO GO IT ALONE AND STILL FINDING TIME TO RAISE A FAMILY. SOME STOOD OT LIKE J R CHINAPEN, ROHOMAN, AGARD, MARTIN CARTER, CYRIL AND DAVID DABYDEEN,
MAHDAI DAS, S GRAVES, ABDUR RAHAMAN S. HOPKINSON, W. Mc ANDREW, IAN McDONALD, NICHOLAS, NILAND, NARMALA SHEWCHARAN, R SINGH, AND UP COMING NARAINE DATT WHO SO FAR HAS 5 POETRY BOOKS (OVER 250 POEMS) UNDER HIS BELT. His body of work is far too voluminous and profound to deal with in greater detail within the confines of this short essay, but there are a few I would like to mention. To my mind, these poems are the quintessential poem of the Caribbean independence era!
THE BOOKS OF NARAINE DATT
I WROTE MY FIRST BOOK OF 50 POEMS CALLED A LONELY VOICE IN 2007
THEN IN 2010 I DID DRINK FROM MY CALABASH;
I COLLABORATED WITH 5 OTHER POETS HERE IN CANADA AND WE PUBLISHED RORAIMA (72 POEMS);
IN 2014, I PUBLISHED A GARDEN OF HAPPINESS (50 POEMS OF LIFE, LOVE,
OUR DIASPORA AND THE ENVIRONMENT) I HAVE JUST FINISHED ANOTHER 50 POEMS CALLED MANKIND IS NOT VERY KIND AND HOPE TO PUBLISH IT SOON.
SO FAR I HAVE WRITTEN OVER 300 POEMS WHICH I HOPE TO INCLUDE IN MY ANTHOLOGY OF 1,000 POEMS SOMETIME BEFORE 2020. I HAVE INVITED POETS FROM GOODREADS AND I’VE RECEIVED SOME GOOD RESPONSE. I HOPE
to publish it in 2018
1) THE TEA YOU DRINK
As you take your sip of tea
Whether it be Liptons or Tetley
Have you ever wonder
The origin of its flavor
You may not be so alarmed
‘cause it came from Assam
Or shocked at this shameful horrible story
Of the Teas of P G Tips, Twinings or Tetley
Grown chiefly near the banks of the Brahmaputra
It’s the largest tea producing plantations of India
In an ideal of 96.8 º (F) temperature
Giving it its malty taste and bright colour

Often sold as sometimes Irish Breakfast Tea
Or Black, or White or Green tea variety
These teas, as shocking as was Slavery
Has oodles of baggages of chicanery
Your tea time may be your bliss
And you may reject tea after this
From whence it came
They showed no shame
If its from India behold
Its a horrible story untold
If its from the Assam estates of Assam
Where the living condition is a sham
The Giant Assam supply tea to the company
Of PG Tips, Liptons, Twinings and Tetley
The manager described conditions as a No No
And so did Lady Sarah Roberts the big CEO
She said workers conditions as not acceptable
But did nothing which is damn deplorable
What they meant was that the estate
Of 740 homes couldn’t accommodate
Workers to relieve themselves in 464 toilets
After filling millions of back breaking baskets
Many families when they get the rushes
Just defecate amongst the tea bushes
Sanitation amidst toilets blocked and broken
With over flowing cesspits more than a token
And on some estates even child labour are used.
For managements’ behaviour left workers obtused
So next time when its tea time around four pm
Remember the pickers and the plight of them
Think of where and why it tastes so refreshing
Write to those who are doing your legislating
It isn’t from the fresh air of Assam of the greedy plantation owners
But maybe its from the excreta from the abused wretched
workers.
2) India Came West
The 13th of January was an ordinary day in India
When in 1838, the Whitby sailed with 249 immigrants
After 112 days she reached Georgetown, Guyana
With her first batch trying to fulfill their needs and wants
Not long after another the Hesperus came
She sailed on the 19th January at much cost
With 165 Indians on board it wasn’t the same
For 13 died on board and at sea two were lost
On the 30th of May in 1845 came the Rozack
After 137 days she did not come to the main
For stormy weather caused her a serious set-back
With 225 souls she landed in Port of Spain
The last ship was the Ganges
Which sailed in 1917 on 17th January
Thus ended coming of the jahajis
Strong kinship made on the journey
In 1917, 239,756 Indians were in Guyana
Many died with flu epidemic and disease
After five years many went back to India
To their respective provinces and cities
These pioneers came from Bengal and Behar
The North West provinces of Oudh and Orissa
From pretty Punjab and Uttar Pradesh so far
From cities like Madras, Bombay and Calcutta
After five years they were freed from their massahs
With free passages back to Mother India
Many were lured with false promises by harkatiyas
Of easy jobs in the islands and Guyana
They made homes in Guyana, Trinidad, Jamaica
St.Vincent, St. Lucia, Honduras, Guadeloupe
Martinique, even Venezuela and tiny Grenada
French Cayenne and also in the Dutch group
Their hopes and aspirations were shattered
By the treatment and racial molestations
From the estate owners as they were scattered
On the cocoa, corn and sugar plantations
The massahs handled them like cattle
And they met worse humiliating fates
Living in long logies of mud and wattle
When they bad to face the magistrates
His rights were always met with denial
Any breach of indentureship contract
He was charged and dubbed a criminal
For the massah was mean and exact
They came to save the dilapidated economy
When the Negro slaves got their emancipation
In turn they were oppressed into slavery
The reward for saving the English plantation
On top of all their problems
The Negroes made life very uneasy
They ridiculed and molested them
Calling them Babu and coolie
They mocked their Hindu religion
Called them pagans treated them as foes
Molesting the youths were common
So was the ridicule and abuse by Negroes
The Indians suffered traumatic attacks
They couldn’t live in peace and couldn’t win
East Indians were forced to marry blacks
Dougala meant straighter hair and fairer skin
In many islands they lost their names and religion
And they were completely integrated
Only then they were more tolerated as kith and kin
And then they were readily accepted
No one was even in the Fast Indians’ niche
The plantation owners had the law on their side
For the magistrates were owned by the rich
And Indian field-workers were in for a long ride
The Negro later became a black Whiteman completely
They almost lost their religion and were culture dead
Were bent on forcing the Indians into their society
Like them, only to become Brown Whitemen instead
Now the Indians are the wealthiest in the Caribbean
In Guyana, Trinidad and Suriname they are the majority
The Coolie Baboos are educated, self-made and keen
And owned most of the businesses, land and property
These pioneers who came from Mother India
Had the stamina and guts to come West
Today the East Indians have a proud dharma
And still practised with vigour and zest.
2)”Luck is the residue of design.”
Branch Rickey – former owner of the Brooklyn Dodger Baseball Team
3) THE RIVER CALLED HIS NAME
His brother’s idea was sold
They were going for the gold
The trip was laborious and slow
And there he met his Waterloo
The mountains called his name
We make our beds and sow our seeds
We live our lives in good and bad deeds
We’re here for eternity forgetting we reap what we sow
Remember if your time comes up then you have to go
For St Peter has called your name
At war we know foes were detested
The Japanese abuse and molested
The courageous women survived with songs and music
And only hope comforted the wounded, lame and sick
Then the US marines raised the Stars and Stripes
He crossed the river many times
Fighting the mud and the slimes
It looked innocent like a sheet of glass
Then he lost it and down he went, alas!
The river called his name
4) NIGHTMARE
Imagine your worst nightmare
But imagine its real
Ever feel dark closing
Its like an angry fist
Every twitch and hoot
Every skittering leaf
Is a potential threat
When Nature switches off her lights
There’s nothing you can do
To turn it back on again
Imagine sleeping in a tree
To avoid a mountain lion
Or a gigantic grizzly bear
Then you fell out of the tree
Almost breaking your neck
Now you sleep on the ground
Jumping at the slightest sound
In the wild time moves slowly
A wind is just not a wind
Its the email system
Of the natural world
Bringing in information
About weather patterns
Behaviour of animals
Potential predators
Rain isn’t a nuisance
Its a respite from bugs
Fresh water for drinking
A snowfall isn’t a convenience
It shows tracks of animals
Could be potential meals
Your survival may depend
On the rustling of leaves
The song of a bird
Or the scrabble of a rodent
A flicker of movement
Through dense foliage
Can mean life or death
5) MANKIND IS NOT VERY KIND
Some of our nation’s leaders’ve set a bad example
For as they abuse, exploit, mow down and trample
The very good people who put them in power
Yet when rebuked or condemned they shower
Them with long bullets as in the Arab spring
Where the wrath of the people is still ringing
From Yemen to Morocco
The Arabs have gone loco
Finally coming to their senses
They’ve broken down defenses
Putting an end to autocracy
Replacing it with democracy
Be careful of what you wish for, hm! they say
Ensure you’re not caught in a political estray
In the West mankind is very unkind too
At times biting more than he can chew
Sometimes he is too proud to admit he’s wrong
Instead of waving and singing his patriotic song
As in the case of Uncle Sam
Camouflaged as a big scam
The most powerful country in the world
Running around with its flags unfurled
As millions of folks are without medicare
As the two parties jostle for votes in fear
Here the rich can get away with murder
Paving their way with a sly good lawyer
Some are caught quickly in quagmire
Plying their trade as a suicide bomber
Many innocent folk suffers and get hurt
As innocent by-standers lose their shirt
Some unkind men pillage the earth
Extracting and weakening its girth
From the oil, coal and iron mines
Aggravating so many fault lines
Then there are the vultures
Who disregard all cultures
They are below man’s feces
Killing endangered species
They prey upon the weak and poor
Thinking they are so darn cock-sure
Dispensing all their hard drugs to them
Luring them into an addiction problem
Just for the green backs
Using AK-47 in attacks
And so it goes even when caught
It always turned out to be naught
For the Drug-lords sold their soul
They know every law’s loophole
Then they are the real hypocrites who really pray
They’re the ones who go to church every Sunday
Their sole evil intention all hell-bent
Was to make Barak a one term President
And then go to the big white house arena
Debating issues to benefit the taxpayer
Using filibustering as their con
Eventually nothing is being done
Mankind has become very cruel
Behaving worst than a darn fool
Where men abuse women and children
Done solely by machismo egotistic men
Single mothers become the breadwinners
The grand-parents become the care-takers
And children without parents to love
Look for it in all places but not Above
Many fall in cracks by the wayside
Then they are in for long hard ride
Mankind who used to be your brother
Sadly today they’re killing one another
And there is fundamentally very absent
Respect for each of the commandment
We really have to back to the basics
Discard our hypocrisy and tricks
Respect the laws of nature
Do not be so darn cocksure
Stop texting learn to talk to one another
And go back being our brother’s keeper
6) THE TROUBLE WITH AMERICA
It was a huge dispute they came from
The Pilgrims came in 1620 to America to live
Away from folks across the pond i.e. England
And formed the United States of America
They wanted their religious freedom
They never tried the take and to give
That was something they never understand
They nearly grasped our good ol’ Canada
Slaves came from Africa to work their plantation
Then they eventually freed them in a kind of way
They reinforced their patriotism with segregation
Today blacks are still treated like second-class citizens
They’re still not getting the deserved representations
Dr. Martin King died saying it would come one day
He had a dream blacks would get full emancipation
And would become real Americans and not denizens
Before slavery so they had to do all the work
But they had much natural resources
And perseverance saw them through rough times
Yet they still crow about the Wild West man!
It wasn’t all play the work they couldn’t shirk
They used the Negroes like work horses
Black men used to fight the yellow man
After grabbing the land from the red man
Uncle Sam became very strong and mighty
Went around the world putting out fires
Those who lit the matches got burned
They forced others to embrace democracy
Their intentions were not based on honesty
Then you cannot fight City Hall squires
But from history they never learned
And they ended in a land of plutocracy
In the 21st century to the land of power spree
Money to throw away give to friends and even burn
They took until they emptied the coffers
The banks and the stock brokers fleeced the poor
They called it a financial collapse with glee
The rich getting richer with money they never earn
Dubbed just a bunch of thieves and pilfers
Storing it abroad off-shore after some sly detours
The kids are bombarded with social networks
Commercials trending with fashion and easy wealth
Music and games all trying to be the next star
Neglecting the three R’s and forgo their education
And most of the dumb members are real jerks
Although some conning it all under skillful stealth
And all want the blonde and the fast car
Eventually to be left with a deep loss of rejection
Many can’t count unless they get a calculator
Many can’t spell so they can’t write
Many can’t sing so they resort to that rap clap trap
These are fruits of the Baby Boomers who have failed
If they can’t be a teacher they’ll be the janitor
Raising a family would not be light
Should’ve listened to good music turn down the crap
And experts telling how easily anything can be nailed
But when its said and all is done
America is always first when there’s a disaster
She’s generous with the poor and downtrodden
Don’t fool around with their flag or freedom
Although the battle is never won
Her democracy makes her blue blood stir
Its indeed a land of the brave and the glutton
Its also a land of the good and some very dumb
7) NEVER KNEW
From times immemorial we hear this
As they embrace you with a big kiss
If only I knew what was going on
I would never have let them won
Germans said the same thing which wasn’t news
As death trains pulled up with loads of other Jews
Ready for the dirty concentration camps
As the wretched Jews so cold with cramps
Thought they were going for a shower
But death gas came down as they cower
The whites said the same thing about apartheid
But they turned their sly faces and went to hide
However, some of the culprits hawks later became doves
They testified they were ordered by those in white gloves
But faced with the truth and reconciliation commission
Some cried and begged for forgiveness and compassion
They never knew and cried so very hard
What was going on in their own back-yard
But they discussed it at their backyard picnics
And really had their laughs and their kicks
Many of the whites did the same with segregation
Maintained defiance stood by and took no action
Preventing the blacks from using their water fountain
Aided by the ku klux klan1 to date leaving a nasty stain
Their white toilets or sitting up front in the bus
Going to your own black school was a real fuss
They’re protecting others on every mother’s soil
Always their hidden agenda is grabbing all the oil
Today signs of it props up now and again in real animosity
For racial hatred is deeply embedded in the American psyche.
Thanks
ndatt@rogers.com
What a path blazing generation it was.Did the women outnumber the men,even in those bygone years?
@Bernard
And high brown!
A Caribbean Red Man who was under no delusion that he belonged to somewhere else. I liked that about him.
The time will come
when, with elation
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror
and each will smile at the other’s welcome,
and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you
all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,
the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life
“Love after Love” by Derek Walcott
Tonight I shall read “The Spoiler’s return” and wonder at it all.
Condolences to the family and friends of Sir Derek Walcott, thinker and poet extraordinaire. I have read several of his poems and was most impressed with this post-colonial thinker whose Nobel Laureate is testimony that he reached the apex of his stage of life.
In my MPhil thesis I used an extract from ‘The Estranging Sea’ to demonstrate a purposeful point. Walcott wrote in that poem: “They do not ask us, master, do you accept this? A nature reduced to the service of praising or humbling men, there is a yes without question, there is assent founded on ignorance … there are spaces wider than conscience,”
May Sir Derek Rest In Peace and Rise In Eternal Glory.
http://bit.ly/2mgE6wB
New York’s tribute to Walcott. ..he published his first poem at 14 years old, that is when natural skills and talents develop in young boys and girls, contrary to what the idiots for government ministers Blackett and Mara Thompson think, that is the age natural skills and talents in youngsters should be honed and can reach it’s peak….. ages 12 and up.
It was appropriate…where is Barbados? Where is Trinidad?
No man is perfect.
Derek Walcott’s sexual harassment problem, and ours