Author: Derek Walcott

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 […]