Resolved Question: Analysis of Saint Lucia's
A poem by Derek Walcott. What does it mean? Are there any significant literary devices used? I need simply a line by line analysis of the poem.
Thanks Clarification of the theme of the poem would be fantastic too
Posted on 20 October 2013 | 9:51 am
Resolved Question: The Schooner Flight by
Christ have mercy on all sleeping things!
From that dog rotting down Wrightson Road
to when I was a dog on these streets;
if loving these islands must be my load,
out of corruption my soul takes wings,
But they had started to poison my soul
with their big house, big car, big-time bohbohl,
coolie, ******, Syrian, and French Creole,
so I leave it for them and their carnival --
I taking a sea-bath, I gone down the road.
I know these islands from Monos to Nassau,
a rusty head sailor with sea-green eyes
that they nickname Shabine, the patois for
any red ******, and I, Shabine, saw
when these slums of empire was paradise.
I'm just a red ****** who love the sea,
I had a sound colonial education,
I have Dutch, ******, and English in me,
and either I'm nobody, or I'm a nation.
1. What is your initial impression of the poem?
2. What do you think the poem is about?
3. what is the tone of the poem?
4. Choose one line from the poem that you liked and explain why?
Posted on 23 September 2013 | 2:11 pm
Resolved Question: What does this poem mean?
I once gave my daughters, separately, two conch shells
that were dived from the reef, or sold on the beach, I forget.
They use them as doorstops or bookends, but their wet
pink palates are the soundless singing of angels.
I once wrote a poem called “The Yellow Cemetery,”
when I was nineteen. Lizzie’s age. I’m fifty-three.
These poems I heaved aren’t linked to any tradition
like a mossed cairn; each goes down like a stone
to the seabed, settling, but let them, with luck, lie
where stones are deep, in the sea’s memory.
Let them be, in water, as my father, who did watercolors,
entered his work. He became one of his shadows,
wavering and faint in the midsummer sunlight.
His name was Warwick Walcott. I sometimes believe
that his father, in love or bitter benediction,
named him for Warwickshire. Ironies
are moving. Now when I rewrite a line,
or sketch on the fast-drying paper the coconut fronds
that he did so faintly, my daughters’ hands move in mine.
Conches move over the sea floor. I used to move
my father’s grave from the blackened Anglican headstones
in Castries to where I could love both at once—
the sea and his absence. Youth is stronger than fiction.
Posted on 2 June 2011 | 5:12 am
Resolved Question: What piece of literature
I just need to know which of his writings caused him to get the award :)
Posted on 19 February 2011 | 3:15 am
Resolved Question: Analysis of After the
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.
Posted on 23 January 2011 | 2:25 am