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The Poetry of Derek Walcott 1948–2013
The Poetry of Derek Walcott 1948-2013 draws from every stage of the poet's storied career. Here are examples of his very earliest work, like 'In My Eighteenth Year', published when the poet himself was still a teenager; his first widely celebrated verse, like 'A Far Cry from Africa', which speaks of violence, of loyalties divided in one's very blood; his mature work, like 'The Schooner Flight' from The Star-Apple Kingdom; and his late masterpieces, like the tender 'Sixty Years After', from the 2010 collection White Egrets.
Across sixty-five years, Walcott has grappled with the themes that have defined his work as they have defined his life: the unsolvable riddle of identity; the painful legacy of colonialism on his native Caribbean island of St Lucia; the mysteries of faith and love; the trauma of growing old, of losing friends, family, one's own memory. This collection, selected by Walcott's friend the poet Glyn Maxwell, will prove as enduring as the questions, the passions, that have driven Walcott to write for more than half a century.
Across sixty-five years, Walcott has grappled with the themes that have defined his work as they have defined his life: the unsolvable riddle of identity; the painful legacy of colonialism on his native Caribbean island of St Lucia; the mysteries of faith and love; the trauma of growing old, of losing friends, family, one's own memory. This collection, selected by Walcott's friend the poet Glyn Maxwell, will prove as enduring as the questions, the passions, that have driven Walcott to write for more than half a century.
640 pages, Paperback
First published January 21, 2014
About the author
Derek Walcott
186 books506 followersDerek Walcott was a Caribbean poet, playwright, writer and visual artist. Born in Castries, St. Lucia, he won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1992 "for a poetic oeuvre of great luminosity, sustained by a historical vision, the outcome of a multicultural commitment."
His work, which developed independently of the schools of magic realism emerging in both South America and Europe at around the time of his birth, is intensely related to the symbolism of myth and its relationship to culture. He was best known for his epic poem Omeros, a reworking of Homeric story and tradition into a journey around the Caribbean and beyond to the American West and London.
Walcott founded the Trinidad Theatre Workshop in 1959, which has produced his plays (and others) since that time, and remained active with its Board of Directors until his death. He also founded Boston Playwrights' Theatre at Boston University in 1981. In 2004, Walcott was awarded the Anisfield-Wolf Lifetime Achievement Award, and had retired from teaching poetry and drama in the Creative Writing Department at Boston University by 2007. He continued to give readings and lectures throughout the world after retiring. He divided his time between his home in the Caribbean and New York City.
His work, which developed independently of the schools of magic realism emerging in both South America and Europe at around the time of his birth, is intensely related to the symbolism of myth and its relationship to culture. He was best known for his epic poem Omeros, a reworking of Homeric story and tradition into a journey around the Caribbean and beyond to the American West and London.
Walcott founded the Trinidad Theatre Workshop in 1959, which has produced his plays (and others) since that time, and remained active with its Board of Directors until his death. He also founded Boston Playwrights' Theatre at Boston University in 1981. In 2004, Walcott was awarded the Anisfield-Wolf Lifetime Achievement Award, and had retired from teaching poetry and drama in the Creative Writing Department at Boston University by 2007. He continued to give readings and lectures throughout the world after retiring. He divided his time between his home in the Caribbean and New York City.
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September 27, 2020
The Sea Is History
Where are your monuments, your battles, martyrs?
Where is your tribal memory? Sirs,
in that grey vault. The sea. The sea
has locked them up. The sea is History.
First, there was the heaving oil,
heavy as chaos;
then, like a light at the end of a tunnel,
the lantern of a caravel,
and that was Genesis.
Then there were the packed cries,
the shit, the moaning:
Exodus.
Bone soldered by coral to bone,
mosaics
mantled by the benediction of the shark's shadow,
that was the Ark of the Covenant.
Then came from the plucked wires
of sunlight on the sea floor
the plangent harps of the Babylonian bondage,
as the white cowries clustered like manacles
on the drowned women,
and those were the ivory bracelets
of the Song of Solomon,
but the ocean kept turning blank pages
looking for History.
Then came the men with eyes heavy as anchors
who sank without tombs,
brigands who barbecued cattle,
leaving their charred ribs like palm leaves on the shore,
then the foaming, rabid maw
of the tidal wave swallowing Port Royal,
and that was Jonah,
but where is your Renaissance?
Sir, it is locked in them sea-sands
out there past the reef's moiling shelf,
where the men-o'-war floated down;
strop on these goggles, I'll guide you there myself.
It's all subtle and submarine,
through colonnades of coral,
past the gothic windows of sea-fans
to where the crusty grouper, onyx-eyed,
blinks, weighted by its jewels, like a bald queen;
and these groined caves with barnacles
pitted like stone
are our cathedrals,
and the furnace before the hurricanes:
Gomorrah. Bones ground by windmills
into marl and cornmeal,
and that was Lamentations—
that was just Lamentations,
it was not History;
then came, like scum on the river's drying lip,
the brown reeds of villages
mantling and congealing into towns,
and at evening, the midges' choirs,
and above them, the spires
lancing the side of God
as His son set, and that was the New Testament.
Then came the white sisters clapping
to the waves' progress,
and that was Emancipation—
jubilation, O jubilation—
vanishing swiftly
as the sea's lace dries in the sun,
but that was not History,
that was only faith,
and then each rock broke into its own nation;
then came the synod of flies,
then came the secretarial heron,
then came the bullfrog bellowing for a vote,
fireflies with bright ideas
and bats like jetting ambassadors
and the mantis, like khaki police,
and the furred caterpillars of judges
examining each case closely,
and then in the dark ears of ferns
and in the salt chuckle of rocks
with their sea pools, there was the sound
like a rumour without any echo
of History, really beginning.
Where are your monuments, your battles, martyrs?
Where is your tribal memory? Sirs,
in that grey vault. The sea. The sea
has locked them up. The sea is History.
First, there was the heaving oil,
heavy as chaos;
then, like a light at the end of a tunnel,
the lantern of a caravel,
and that was Genesis.
Then there were the packed cries,
the shit, the moaning:
Exodus.
Bone soldered by coral to bone,
mosaics
mantled by the benediction of the shark's shadow,
that was the Ark of the Covenant.
Then came from the plucked wires
of sunlight on the sea floor
the plangent harps of the Babylonian bondage,
as the white cowries clustered like manacles
on the drowned women,
and those were the ivory bracelets
of the Song of Solomon,
but the ocean kept turning blank pages
looking for History.
Then came the men with eyes heavy as anchors
who sank without tombs,
brigands who barbecued cattle,
leaving their charred ribs like palm leaves on the shore,
then the foaming, rabid maw
of the tidal wave swallowing Port Royal,
and that was Jonah,
but where is your Renaissance?
Sir, it is locked in them sea-sands
out there past the reef's moiling shelf,
where the men-o'-war floated down;
strop on these goggles, I'll guide you there myself.
It's all subtle and submarine,
through colonnades of coral,
past the gothic windows of sea-fans
to where the crusty grouper, onyx-eyed,
blinks, weighted by its jewels, like a bald queen;
and these groined caves with barnacles
pitted like stone
are our cathedrals,
and the furnace before the hurricanes:
Gomorrah. Bones ground by windmills
into marl and cornmeal,
and that was Lamentations—
that was just Lamentations,
it was not History;
then came, like scum on the river's drying lip,
the brown reeds of villages
mantling and congealing into towns,
and at evening, the midges' choirs,
and above them, the spires
lancing the side of God
as His son set, and that was the New Testament.
Then came the white sisters clapping
to the waves' progress,
and that was Emancipation—
jubilation, O jubilation—
vanishing swiftly
as the sea's lace dries in the sun,
but that was not History,
that was only faith,
and then each rock broke into its own nation;
then came the synod of flies,
then came the secretarial heron,
then came the bullfrog bellowing for a vote,
fireflies with bright ideas
and bats like jetting ambassadors
and the mantis, like khaki police,
and the furred caterpillars of judges
examining each case closely,
and then in the dark ears of ferns
and in the salt chuckle of rocks
with their sea pools, there was the sound
like a rumour without any echo
of History, really beginning.
January 18, 2015
The early work is too caught up in a colonial's effort to demonstrate mastery of the English canon. And the late poems are less radical than his best work, heavy on reminiscence and travel. (But if you had been born on a small island, got windfalls late in life from the MacArthur Foundation and the Nobel Prize Committee, and were fortunate enough to live into a ninth decade, wouldn't you spend your time globe-trotting and reminiscing? Of course you would, we all would.) But in between, and on the bookends as well, so much insight, so elegantly, poignantly rendered.
September 30, 2024
Walcott possesses a glorious athleticism of rhyme, and his meditations on the shadowed and cursed inheritance of colonialism carry a poignant gravitas. The whole, however, is undermined by an academic complacency that dulls poetic impact with a flood of references to anywhere and anything but the poem's own heart.
October 26, 2019
from “A Far Cry from Africa”
Derek Walcott
I who am poisoned with the blood of both,
Where shall I turn, divided to the vein?
I who have cursed
The drunken officer of British rule, how choose
Between this Africa and the English tongue I love?
Betray them both, or give back what they give?
How can I face such slaughter and be cool?
How can I turn from Africa and live?
The poem which is an outcry of colonialism describes the marginalized voices, as a commonwealth poet, he is speaking the voices of minorities, talking about racism and isolation. As Frantz Fanon in "Black Skin, White Masks" mentions this makes the narrator nervous and marginalized from the whole society. There is a question of identity here which has been left uncertain. The paradoxes we see in this poem are a collection of contraries.
The poem has a tone of anger and despair.
Derek Walcott
I who am poisoned with the blood of both,
Where shall I turn, divided to the vein?
I who have cursed
The drunken officer of British rule, how choose
Between this Africa and the English tongue I love?
Betray them both, or give back what they give?
How can I face such slaughter and be cool?
How can I turn from Africa and live?
The poem which is an outcry of colonialism describes the marginalized voices, as a commonwealth poet, he is speaking the voices of minorities, talking about racism and isolation. As Frantz Fanon in "Black Skin, White Masks" mentions this makes the narrator nervous and marginalized from the whole society. There is a question of identity here which has been left uncertain. The paradoxes we see in this poem are a collection of contraries.
The poem has a tone of anger and despair.
March 14, 2015
3½ stars. My biggest complaint is that this volume is overwhelming -- too large to be appreciated in a 2-week library loan. If I owned this and could read the poems more slowly I would probably be giving it a higher rating. As it is, I just read about 300 pages before it had to be returned. Luckily my strategy of reading from about 6 different locations gave me a chance to experience at least a taste of each of the major selections included.
I found that my favorite section was from "White Egrets" although the "Midsummer" section ran a close second. I didn't care for the early work nearly as much as the later poetry.
I found that my favorite section was from "White Egrets" although the "Midsummer" section ran a close second. I didn't care for the early work nearly as much as the later poetry.
September 28, 2024
I think that there are a lot of great poems in this books, and poems with great phrases and lyricism. Also there are a lot of confusing poems in this book and somewhat obscure poems with disorganized rhyme schemes. Mostly, this book is a lot of poems. Even a month was too fast to go through them, but ai can’t keep a library book forever. I’m glad I explored this body of work, but this book has almost too much going on. It’s 600 pages of retrospective poetry samples with very little info on the poet himself or the context of his work. It was easy to get lost. Beautiful scenery, but where the heck am I?
Want to Read
April 10, 2019The Time Traveler's Wife kitabının girişinde Love After Love şiirine düşmem sonucunda bu TBR’yi yapıyorum. ❤
August 9, 2018
'Reading' a book of poetry is a challenging concept - it's simply not appropiate. You don't go through poems like you're reading a novel. So the 'currently reading' status may be permanent.
That said, Derek Walcott has been my favourite poet for some years. His writing is often quite dense and it certainly requires effort, but it's immensely evocative and rich, even satisfying to me if I don't really grasp all he's saying. Quite deservedly, Walcott won the Nobel prize in 1992 .
That said, Derek Walcott has been my favourite poet for some years. His writing is often quite dense and it certainly requires effort, but it's immensely evocative and rich, even satisfying to me if I don't really grasp all he's saying. Quite deservedly, Walcott won the Nobel prize in 1992 .
January 2, 2017
My favourite poet.
January 29, 2026
"𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘮𝘦, 𝘤𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘴 𝘪𝘵 𝘫𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘢𝘴 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵,
𝘞𝘢𝘴 𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘥𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘥𝘦𝘦𝘱𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘢𝘧𝘧𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯,
𝘛𝘢𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘶𝘴 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘱𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘰𝘱𝘩𝘺 𝘥𝘪𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥
𝘍𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘰𝘮 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮, 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘰𝘧, 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵."
"𝘐 𝘤𝘳𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘢𝘹 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘺𝘳𝘥𝘰𝘮𝘴,
𝘐 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘯, 𝘧𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨
𝘛𝘰 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘬 𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴. 𝘈 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘤𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘺
𝘕𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘴.
𝘖 𝘸𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘳𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘳, 𝘴𝘢𝘭𝘵 𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴."
"𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘥 𝘭𝘶𝘴𝘩𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘢 𝘨𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘥
𝘉𝘦𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘯𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦 𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘪𝘮𝘢𝘨𝘦𝘴, 𝘢𝘮𝘣𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴,
𝘜𝘯𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘦𝘹𝘪𝘭𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘹𝘪𝘦𝘵𝘺.
𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘪𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘥, 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘨𝘯𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘴𝘰𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘶𝘥𝘦,
𝘚𝘦𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘤𝘳𝘰𝘸𝘥𝘴, 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘭𝘢𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨,
𝘛𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘴𝘧𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘩𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘵𝘰 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘰𝘣𝘫𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘴,
𝘌𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘺 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘯𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘺 𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘮𝘪𝘵𝘢𝘨𝘦,
𝘐𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘮𝘪𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴,
𝘕𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘯𝘦𝘶𝘳𝘰𝘴𝘪𝘴 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘢 𝘱𝘰𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘵.
𝘠𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳, 𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘩𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘶𝘴,
𝘚𝘦𝘹𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘢𝘴 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘵𝘶𝘦 𝘸𝘦 𝘧𝘦𝘭𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘱𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘩
𝘉𝘶𝘳𝘺 𝘶𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘳𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘧𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘰𝘮. 𝘙𝘦𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘰𝘯
𝘐𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩 𝘐 𝘴𝘶𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮; 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘰𝘱𝘦
𝘐 𝘧𝘪𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘴 𝘢𝘵 𝘯𝘰𝘰𝘯, 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘦𝘴 𝘮𝘦 𝘶𝘱
𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘮𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘮𝘢𝘭.
𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘦𝘹𝘤𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘴, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘴𝘧𝘪𝘦𝘥,
𝘞𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘢𝘯 𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘰𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘱𝘺𝘭𝘰𝘯 𝘣𝘺 𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘵
𝘚𝘩𝘰𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘭𝘰𝘶𝘥𝘴, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘰𝘺 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨.
𝘐 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘳 𝘐 𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘤𝘬 𝘢𝘵 𝘮𝘺 𝘳𝘰𝘰𝘵𝘴,
𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘦𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘺𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘸𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘴
𝘋𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘣𝘦𝘨𝘪𝘯 𝘢 𝘤𝘳𝘢𝘻𝘺 𝘤𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘢𝘭𝘵𝘻 𝘰𝘧 𝘳𝘶𝘪𝘯"
"𝘓𝘪𝘣𝘦𝘳𝘵𝘺 𝘰𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘎𝘰𝘥 𝘢 𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩."
"𝘍𝘢𝘪𝘵𝘩. 𝘈 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘯 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘱𝘦𝘵 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘯 𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘯𝘶𝘯’𝘴 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘵, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘱𝘳𝘢𝘺𝘦𝘳𝘴
𝘈 𝘯𝘰𝘷𝘪𝘤𝘦’𝘴 𝘤𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘭𝘦 𝘯𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘮𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘵𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯."
𝘞𝘢𝘴 𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘥𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘥𝘦𝘦𝘱𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘢𝘧𝘧𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯,
𝘛𝘢𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘶𝘴 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘱𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘰𝘱𝘩𝘺 𝘥𝘪𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥
𝘍𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘰𝘮 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮, 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘰𝘧, 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵."
"𝘐 𝘤𝘳𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘢𝘹 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘺𝘳𝘥𝘰𝘮𝘴,
𝘐 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘯, 𝘧𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨
𝘛𝘰 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘬 𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴. 𝘈 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘤𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘺
𝘕𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘴.
𝘖 𝘸𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘳𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘳, 𝘴𝘢𝘭𝘵 𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴."
"𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘥 𝘭𝘶𝘴𝘩𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘢 𝘨𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘥
𝘉𝘦𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘯𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦 𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘪𝘮𝘢𝘨𝘦𝘴, 𝘢𝘮𝘣𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴,
𝘜𝘯𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘦𝘹𝘪𝘭𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘹𝘪𝘦𝘵𝘺.
𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘪𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘥, 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘨𝘯𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘴𝘰𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘶𝘥𝘦,
𝘚𝘦𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘤𝘳𝘰𝘸𝘥𝘴, 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘭𝘢𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨,
𝘛𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘴𝘧𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘩𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘵𝘰 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘰𝘣𝘫𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘴,
𝘌𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘺 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘯𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘺 𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘮𝘪𝘵𝘢𝘨𝘦,
𝘐𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘮𝘪𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴,
𝘕𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘯𝘦𝘶𝘳𝘰𝘴𝘪𝘴 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘢 𝘱𝘰𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘵.
𝘠𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳, 𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘩𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘶𝘴,
𝘚𝘦𝘹𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘢𝘴 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘵𝘶𝘦 𝘸𝘦 𝘧𝘦𝘭𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘱𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘩
𝘉𝘶𝘳𝘺 𝘶𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘳𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘧𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘰𝘮. 𝘙𝘦𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘰𝘯
𝘐𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩 𝘐 𝘴𝘶𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮; 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘰𝘱𝘦
𝘐 𝘧𝘪𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘴 𝘢𝘵 𝘯𝘰𝘰𝘯, 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘦𝘴 𝘮𝘦 𝘶𝘱
𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘮𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘮𝘢𝘭.
𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘦𝘹𝘤𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘴, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘴𝘧𝘪𝘦𝘥,
𝘞𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘢𝘯 𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘰𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘱𝘺𝘭𝘰𝘯 𝘣𝘺 𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘵
𝘚𝘩𝘰𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘭𝘰𝘶𝘥𝘴, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘰𝘺 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨.
𝘐 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘳 𝘐 𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘤𝘬 𝘢𝘵 𝘮𝘺 𝘳𝘰𝘰𝘵𝘴,
𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘦𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘺𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘸𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘴
𝘋𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘣𝘦𝘨𝘪𝘯 𝘢 𝘤𝘳𝘢𝘻𝘺 𝘤𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘢𝘭𝘵𝘻 𝘰𝘧 𝘳𝘶𝘪𝘯"
"𝘓𝘪𝘣𝘦𝘳𝘵𝘺 𝘰𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘎𝘰𝘥 𝘢 𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩."
"𝘍𝘢𝘪𝘵𝘩. 𝘈 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘯 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘱𝘦𝘵 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘯 𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘯𝘶𝘯’𝘴 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘵, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘱𝘳𝘢𝘺𝘦𝘳𝘴
𝘈 𝘯𝘰𝘷𝘪𝘤𝘦’𝘴 𝘤𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘭𝘦 𝘯𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘮𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘵𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯."
August 8, 2023
This page is a cloud between whose fraying edges a headland with mountains appears brokenly then is hidden again until what emerges from the now cloudless blue is the grooved sea and the whole self-naming island, its ochre verges, its shadow-plunged valleys and a coiled road threading the fishing villages, the white, silent surges of combers along the coast, where a line of gulls has arrowed into the widening harbor of a town with no noise, its streets growing closer like print you can now read, two cruise ships, schooners, a tug, ancestral canoes, as a cloud slowly covers the page and it goes white again and the book comes to a close.
November 9, 2023
Stunningly written meditations on colonialism in the Caribbean and the conception of homeland, of leaving and returning.
I don’t think epic poems are for me - maybe if I took the time over them but in a 500 page collection that I need to return to the library, it’s too much. I’m sure they’d be brilliant if I read them properly.
I don’t think epic poems are for me - maybe if I took the time over them but in a 500 page collection that I need to return to the library, it’s too much. I’m sure they’d be brilliant if I read them properly.
June 20, 2024
In general, I like Walcott and his clever turns of phrase. That said, when I see, “Believably accused of sexual harassment in the 90’s” I read it, “Definitely guilty of sexual harassment in the 90’s.” Admittedly, I have a hard time separating people from their crimes, so take it as you will.
January 26, 2026
Walcott’s poetry spans decades with rich imagery, musical language, and reflections on identity, history, and the Caribbean experience. While the density and cultural specificity can challenge some readers, the collection’s lyrical power and emotional depth make it profoundly rewarding.
September 17, 2022
دائماً ما اواجه صعوبة في استساغة الشعر المترجم
ورغم محاولات شريف بقنه لتسهيل الوضع علي كقارئة إلا أنني واجهت صعوبة في تقبله
كل الشكر لجهود المترجم
ولقصيدة حب بعد حب فقط 💙
ورغم محاولات شريف بقنه لتسهيل الوضع علي كقارئة إلا أنني واجهت صعوبة في تقبله
كل الشكر لجهود المترجم
ولقصيدة حب بعد حب فقط 💙
October 3, 2022
Simply awesome. 10/10
January 9, 2023
"Resisting poetry I am becoming a poem."
May 11, 2023
partial reading
Read
March 8, 2024'be grateful that you wrote well in this place,
let the torn poems sail from you like a flock
of white egrets in a long last sigh of release.'
let the torn poems sail from you like a flock
of white egrets in a long last sigh of release.'
January 21, 2026
Probablement ma poésie contemporaine préférée. GOAT.
January 23, 2026
My second favorite poet. Excellent.
May 1, 2020
Absolutely incredible. I have never read poetry like this before - it is superb. I can't put it into words myself, but these two quotes explain it all:
- ‘His work is conceived on an oceanic scale and one of its fundamental concerns is to give an account of the simultaneous unity and division created by the ocean and by human dealings with it’ (Sean O’Brien)
- ‘The verse is constantly trembling with a sense of the body in time, the self slung across meter, whether meter is steps, or nights, or breath, whether lines are days, or years, or tides.’ (Glyn Maxwell)
- ‘His work is conceived on an oceanic scale and one of its fundamental concerns is to give an account of the simultaneous unity and division created by the ocean and by human dealings with it’ (Sean O’Brien)
- ‘The verse is constantly trembling with a sense of the body in time, the self slung across meter, whether meter is steps, or nights, or breath, whether lines are days, or years, or tides.’ (Glyn Maxwell)
February 24, 2015
I know nothing about poetry but I really enjoyed this.
Read
August 9, 2016After being introduced to Derek Walcott in Prof class, I've been a fan and was excited to find this volume.
November 21, 2016
As much as I hate Walcott (and I really do), it's hard to deny that his poetry is pretty damn good. Just try your hardest to look past the blatant misogyny and you might even enjoy it
July 29, 2016
Wonderful poetry.
Read
April 10, 2017Some fellow patron put a hold on this so I had to rush through, but with that in mind, parts of the early poems strongly recalled Auden (particularly for me, but among others). The experimentations in short form seemed uneven, and I was partly glad when he returned to his strengths later, but I also kind of wish he'd gone further with the island dialect he tried here and there. The humor in the later years really seemed to balance out the style. I wish he would've had more time to draw that out.
April 18, 2017
CHE
In this dark-grained news-photograph, whose glare
is rigidly composed as Caravaggio's,
the corpse glows candle-white on its cold altar--
its stone Bolivian Indian butcher's slab--
stare till its waxen flesh begins to harden
to marble, to veined, Andean iron;
fro your own fear, cabron, its pallor grows;
it stumbled from your doubt, and for your pardon
burnt in brown trash, far from the embalming snows.
In this dark-grained news-photograph, whose glare
is rigidly composed as Caravaggio's,
the corpse glows candle-white on its cold altar--
its stone Bolivian Indian butcher's slab--
stare till its waxen flesh begins to harden
to marble, to veined, Andean iron;
fro your own fear, cabron, its pallor grows;
it stumbled from your doubt, and for your pardon
burnt in brown trash, far from the embalming snows.
Read
November 16, 2017Enchanting
Displaying 1 - 29 of 29 reviews