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Best Famous Derek Walcott Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Derek Walcott poems. This is a select list of the best famous Derek Walcott poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Derek Walcott poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of derek walcott poems.

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by 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 to itself, to the stranger who has loved you all your life, whom you ignored for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf, the photographs, the desperate notes, peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit.
Feast on your life.


by Derek Walcott | |

A Citys 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? In town, leaves were paper, but the hills were a flock of faiths; To a boy who walked all day, each leaf was a green breath Rebuilding a love I thought was dead as nails, Blessing the death and the baptism by fire.


by Derek Walcott | |

The Sea Is History

 The Sea Is History


by Derek Walcott | |

Pentecost

 Better a jungle in the head
than rootless concrete.
Better to stand bewildered by the fireflies' crooked street; winter lamps do not show where the sidewalk is lost, nor can these tongues of snow speak for the Holy Ghost; the self-increasing silence of words dropped from a roof points along iron railings, direction, in not proof.
But best is this night surf with slow scriptures of sand, that sends, not quite a seraph, but a late cormorant, whose fading cry propels through phosphorescent shoal what, in my childhood gospels, used to be called the Soul.


by Derek Walcott | |

After The Storm

 There are so many islands! 
As many islands as the stars at night 
on that branched tree from which meteors are shaken 
like falling fruit around the schooner Flight.
But things must fall,and so it always was, on one hand Venus,on the other Mars; fall,and are one,just as this earth is one island in archipelagoes of stars.
My first friend was the sea.
Now,is my last.
I stop talking now.
I work,then I read, cotching under a lantern hooked to the mast.
I try to forget what happiness was, and when that don't work,I study the stars.
Sometimes is just me,and the soft-scissored foam as the deck turn white and the moon open a cloud like a door,and the light over me is a road in white moonlight taking me home.
Shabine sang to you from the depths of the sea.


by 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, days I have lost, days that outgrow, like daughters, my harbouring arms.


by Derek Walcott | |

Coral

 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.
Bodies in absence displace their weight, And your smooth body, like none other, Creates an exact absence like this stoneSet on a table with a whitening rack Of souvenirs.
It dares my hand To claim what lovers' hands have never known: The nature of the body of another.