Author: Derek Walcott

Those five or six young guys Lunched on the stoop That oven-hot summer night Whistled me over. Nice And friendly. […]

There were still shards of an ancient pastoral In those shires of the island where the cattle drank Their pools […]

Those villages stricken with the melancholia of Sunday, In all of whose ocher streets one dog is sleeping Those volcanoes […]

There is a shattered palm On this fierce shore, Its plumes the rusting helm- Et of a dead warrior. Numb […]

Man, I suck me tooth when I hear How dem croptime fiddlers lie, And de wailing, kiss-me-arse flutes That bring […]

When sunset, a brass gong, Vibrate through Couva, Is then I see my soul, swiftly unsheathed, Like a white cattle […]