Derek Walcott: Всі вірші поета

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Forest Of Europe

The last leaves fell like notes from a piano

and left their ovals echoing in the ear;

with gawky music stands, the winter forest

looks like an empty orchestra, its lines

ruled on these scattered manuscripts of snow.

The inlaid copper laurel of an oak

shines though the brown-bricked glass above your head

as bright as whiskey, while the wintry breath

Derek Walcott

The Sea Is History

Where are your monuments, your battles, martyrs?

Where is your tribal memory? Sirs,

in that gray vault. The sea. The sea

has locked them up. The sea is History.

First, there was the heaving oil,

heavy as chaos;

then, likea light at the end of a tunnel,

the lantern of a caravel,

Derek Walcott

Blues

Those five or six young guys

lunched on the stoop

that oven-hot summer night

whistled me over. Nice

and friendly. So, I stop.

MacDougal or Christopher

Street in chains of light.

A summer festival. Or some

Derek Walcott

Midsummer, Tobago

Broad sun-stoned beaches.

White heat.

A green river.

A bridge,

scorched yellow palms

from the summer-sleeping house

drowsing through August.

Days I have held,

Derek Walcott

A City's Death By Fire

After that hot gospeller has levelled all but the churched sky,

I wrote the tale by tallow of a city's death by fire;

Under a candle's eye, that smoked in tears, I

Wanted to tell, in more than wax, of faiths that were snapped like wire.

All day I walked abroad among the rubbled tales,

Shocked at each wall that stood on the street like a liar;

Loud was the bird-rocked sky, and all the clouds were bales

Torn open by looting, and white, in spite of the fire.

Derek Walcott

A Far Cry From Africa

A wind is ruffling the tawny pelt

Of Africa, Kikuyu, quick as flies,

Batten upon the bloodstreams of the veldt.

Corpses are scattered through a paradise.

Only the worm, colonel of carrion, cries:

"Waste no compassion on these separate dead!"

Statistics justify and scholars seize

The salients of colonial policy.

Derek Walcott

In The Virgins

You can't put in the ground swell of the organ

from the Christiansted, St.Croix, Anglican Church

behind the paratrooper's voice: "Turned cop

after Vietnam. I made thirty jumps."

Bells punish the dead street and pigeons lurch

from the stone belfry, opening their chutes,

circling until the rings of ringing stop.

"Salud!" The paratrooper's glass is raised.

Derek Walcott

Love After Love

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

Derek Walcott

The Schooner 'Flight'

1 Adios, Carenage

In idle August, while the sea soft,

and leaves of brown islands stick to the rim

of this Carribean, I blow out the light

by the dreamless face of Maria Concepcion

to ship as a seaman on the schooner Flight.

Out in the yard turning gray in the dawn,

I stood like a stone and nothing else move

Derek Walcott