Derek Walcott Poems
|2.||The Season of Phantasmal Peace||12/31/2015|
|3.||Ruins Of A Great House||3/30/2015|
|6.||In the Village||6/16/2015|
|7.||A Lesson for This Sunday||2/15/2016|
|8.||The Star-Apple Kingdom||4/12/2010|
|14.||Koening Of The River||1/13/2003|
|15.||The Saddhu Of Couva||1/13/2003|
|16.||In The Virgins||1/13/2003|
|19.||The Glory Trumpeter||11/7/2005|
|20.||Forest Of Europe||1/13/2003|
|22.||Night In The Gardens Of Port Of Spain||11/7/2005|
|24.||After The Storm||1/13/2003|
|25.||The Sea Is History||1/13/2003|
|26.||A Far Cry From Africa||1/13/2003|
|27.||A City's Death By Fire||1/13/2003|
|29.||Love After Love||1/13/2003|
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.
By the smoking sea, where Christ walked, I asked, why
Should a man wax tears, when his wooden world fails?
This coral's hape ecohes the hand
It hollowed. Its
Immediate absence is heavy. As pumice,
As your breast in my cupped palm.
Sea-cold, its nipple rasps like sand,
Its pores, like yours, shone with salt sweat.