In The Virgins (Derek Walcott Poems)
You can't put in the ground swell of the organ from the Christiansted, St.Croix, Anglican Church behind the paratrooper's voice: ...
You can't put in the ground swell of the organ from the Christiansted, St.Croix, Anglican Church behind the paratrooper's voice: ...
There are so many islands! As many islands as the stars at night on that branched tree from which meteors ...
Those five or six young guys lunched on the stoop that oven-hot summer night whistled me over. Nice and friendly. ...
Broad sun-stoned beaches. White heat. A green river. A bridge, scorched yellow palms from the summer-sleeping house drowsing through August. ...
So much rain, so much life like the swollen sky of this black August. My sister, the sun, broods in ...
There were still shards of an ancient pastoral in those shires of the island where the cattle drank their pools ...
The last leaves fell like notes from a piano and left their ovals echoing in the ear; with gawky music ...
Better a jungle in the head than rootless concrete. Better to stand bewildered by the fireflies' crooked street; winter lamps ...
Schizophrenic, wrenched by two styles, one a hack's hired prose, I earn me exile. I trudge this sickle, moonlit beach ...
This coral's hape ecohes the hand It hollowed. Its Immediate absence is heavy. As pumice, As your breast in my ...
There is a shattered palm on this fierce shore, its plumes the rusting helm- et of a dead warrior. Numb ...
The time will come when, with elation you will greet yourself arriving at your own door, in your own mirror ...
When sunset, a brass gong, vibrate through Couva, is then I see my soul, swiftly unsheathed, like a white cattle ...
A wind is ruffling the tawny pelt Of Africa, Kikuyu, quick as flies, Batten upon the bloodstreams of the veldt. ...
Man, I suck me tooth when I hear How dem croptime fiddlers lie, And de wailing, kiss-me-arse flutes That bring ...
1 Adios, Carenage In idle August, while the sea soft, and leaves of brown islands stick to the rim of ...
Koening knew now there was no one on the river. Entering its brown mouth choking with lilies and curtained with ...
After that hot gospeller has levelled all but the churched sky, I wrote the tale by tallow of a city's ...
As for that other thing which comes when the eyelid is glazed and the wax gleam from the unwrinkled forehead ...
The Sea Is History (Derek Walcott)
Those villages stricken with the melancholia of Sunday, in all of whose ocher streets one dog is sleeping those volcanoes ...
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