"walcott" poems
He wrote of the light of the world,
a testament, a lamp to illuminate
the place from which he came —
I saw his lighthouse coalesce
out of the cloaking mist, its blade
shearing the sheath of darkness.
I inhaled the dusk bloom scent
- Four O’Clock Flower, Poinsettia, Frangipani -
beguiled by a road, undeterred
by calls in the night, the rain, the unknown way.
I sang with one thousand night-drunk tree frogs
proclaiming an equatorial cycle to the stars,
choristers intoning a chant of existence.
I rode balanced between
the cycling engine's torque and the
reflective cast of my foreign skin.
I felt the grip of ignominy constrict the stir
of my drink, amongst hands toasting
the crush of entitlement’s bearing.
I walked where people dwell, and stop
to greet and tell news of the market
or of their nets, bearing the sea’s returns.
I savored the song in his speech,
a seasoned stew, unshackling the tongue
to ring like the steel of a drum —
a tapestry unfurled: a world
paced by sirens of wind and wave,
embroidered on the earthbound side
of heaven's abiding blanket.
Copyright © 2017 Gary Brocks
Aug 26, 2018
Aug 26, 2018 at 4:46 AM UTC
To : Derek Walcott
La mujer , el amor , la revolucion .
El Tridente , Poseidon , el mar .
Esto ve el poeta
dentro de las estrellas conchas asirenadas
y la matriz de los versos :
soles femeninos y lunas masculinas
dioses blancos y negros
y a la bandera de Barbados
con el Tridente de sus ojos
sobre la brisa marina
y dentro de la profundidad de la historia
saludar
Caribbe Estoy Aqui
19 . 10 . 2000
Sep 27, 2011
Sep 27, 2011 at 6:30 AM UTC
I grew into my youth without fearing dinosaurs,
Because I watched too many re-programmings of Jurassic Park.
I wasn't aware that my basketball skills could take me places.
I was born here, I ran through cornfields and tall shades of grass,
playing hooky with ******* hopscotch with ******
yet still averaging 24.6ppg while playing only 20 minutes a game.
It seemed so easy and simple at first, doing these things.
My neighbor Craig down the street,
used to work at the children's hospital so he always had access to needles;
all he wanted from me was a stack of metal spoons
that I could steal from my grandmother's house so we could dissolve the ******
“This shit'll make you feel like you could never die”, he would always say.
It was the 3rd quarter of our high school opening game against Fullerton.
We played at the redeveloped convocation 20 miles south of town,
because our high school received a bomb threat earlier that week.
The court constructed with cheers and boos due to my low field goal percentage.
I stashed my lucky line inside of my practice shorts in the locker room,
so I could lie to my coaches about needing some air.
My nostrils captured the effects of this white powdery substance,
as my body started to fail and deteriorate.
I think I felt my heart stop beating when I came to the free throw line.
First shot...air ball.
Second shot...no shot, body falls to the hardwood.
My shoes squeaked like rabid mice without control,
my right leg became convulsive and spastic, my left moved none.
The floor below my body drenched in a bilinear merging of crimson red and **** yellow.
The last image that I witnessed before my eyes left this world
Were the faces of the opposing cheerleaders,
Their young eyes bleeding blue and yellow,
mascara and grief running down their pretty cheeks.
They knew this from the beginning, my parents did.
They thought I had changed and found a new sport to love.
As my body laid on the floor, my parents laid in the belly of the audience,
Incapable of shedding tears,
because their suffering overtook their ability to cry.
May 10, 2013
May 10, 2013 at 10:43 PM UTC
by Derek Walcott (1930- )
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.
Aug 24, 2014
Aug 24, 2014 at 10:40 AM UTC
by Derek Walcott (1930-2017 ) / Nat Lipstadt (1950- )
The time will come
Cruel messenger, bastardized time, come back! unwelcome visitor
when, with elation
bringing only dreaded D-words, despair, disgust...deflation
you will greet yourself arriving
departing or returning, matters not...there is no greeting
at your own door, in your own mirror
visible in either cracked devices, where lies and truths indifferent*
and each will smile at the other's welcome,
*welcome smile, wry smile, each an artifice alien smile,
and say, sit here. Eat.
speechless, floored, consuming flesh. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Love the étranger, estranged parts, how
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
Give whine. Give mold. The transplant rejected
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you,
by the stranger, now an it, who cannot recall himself,
all your life, whom you ignored,
all your life, ignored your choices's ever-mounting losses,
for another, who knows you by heart.
the split, the other knows not how to grant forgiveness.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,
Take down the historical despair poems, for fresh decomposition,
the photographs, the desperate notes,
notes that never age, born desperate yellowed,*
peel your own image from the mirror.
peel the skin, undress the delusionary, expose the interior accurate.
Sit. Feast on your life.
Sit. Life has feasted on you
Aug 31, 2014
Aug 31, 2014 at 12:15 PM UTC
With nothing to do
I went exploring.
The James house is stately, old- I think of it
when I read Walcott.
Disjecta membra.
There is nothing so sinister
as Mr. Tumnus behind any of its doors
(what is literature for if not allusions?),
but there are enough doors
to keep a stranger busy for hours.
Days, even.
And that is what I had been doing during my midyear cool mornings and stifling afternoons.
Mar 16, 2010
Mar 16, 2010 at 3:44 PM UTC
There is a beauty
in summer
in the warm winds
caressing your hair
There is a beauty
in sunshine
In endless days
slumbering by
reading Derek Walcott
and Charles Baudelaire.
There is a happiness
in summer
of bright skies
and ice cream parlors.
of fond memories
and fonder friends
For the joys of summer
are never truly forgotten.
Apr 27, 2025
Apr 27, 2025 at 2:59 AM UTC
Sometimes I forget that I want to get better
It's harder to scream when you don't remember what happened to you
When your thoughts are only pictures
Not the chair, the couch, the carpet, the walls
It's everywhere, even with the best intentions
Like ****** Assault Awareness Month posters plastered all over my college
Even though we read epic poems by Derek Walcott
The man convicted of sexually harassing multiple women
And still teaches at Harvard
But my professor didn't feel it was pertinent information
Until my friend asked about it in class
Both he and Google claim it was a smear campaign
Even though he most likely touched every woman who testified.
They say we burn our own houses down
But we're left behind in the rubble
Senior year of high school
I get into an argument with my lunch table
They tell me how some women like to accuse high profile people of ****
When they are on top
See: Bill Cosby
My face is hot by this point in the conversation
I try to spit words out, but they sizzle up in midair
My friend asks
"If this happened, why are they all coming forward now?"
They say we burn our own houses down
But we're left behind in the rubble
A year earlier
When a boy with rogue hands and boiling breath
Caused my body and my words to freeze into my skin
I tried to scrub the dirt from myself
More times than I care to remember
I tell a friend
He tells me I should have reported it
No proof, next in line please
I tell another friend
She says I probably just regret it
I will get over it soon enough
They say we burn our own houses down
But we're left behind in the rubble
This world has built the home of my attacker up around me
I know that recovery is the price I pay for living in this body
When seeing his face is no longer wanting to **** myself
When purging will not control the places my shriveled up corpse was dragged to
But how can I want to get better
When I see how we are blamed for our own imprisonment?
When songs about **** are in every commercial
Every grocery store aisle
Every radio station that comes on repeat?
Recovery is the price I pay for living in this body
But sometimes it would be easier
To stop paying rent.
Apr 5, 2016
Apr 5, 2016 at 12:17 AM UTC
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.
---
By.
Derek Walcott
Apr 26, 2015
Apr 26, 2015 at 6:41 PM UTC