Poems by Derek Walcott
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After that hot gospeller has levelled all but the churched sky,
A wind is ruffling the tawny pelt
There are so many islands!
Those five or six young guys
Schizophrenic, wrenched by two styles,
This coral's hape ecohes the hand
So much rain, so much life like the swollen sky
There is a shattered palm
The last leaves fell like notes from a piano
You can't put in the ground swell of the organ
Koening knew now there was no one on the river.
The time will come
Broad sun-stoned beaches.
Man, I suck me tooth when I hear
Better a jungle in the head
As for that other thing
Those villages stricken with the melancholia of Sunday,
When sunset, a brass gong,
1 Adios, Carenage
Where are your monuments, your battles, martyrs?
There were still shards of an ancient pastoral