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Sea Grapes
Sea Grapes
Sea Grapes
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Sea Grapes

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Derek Walcott was aptly described by Laurence Liberman in The Yale Review as "one of the handful of brilliant historic mythologists of our day." Sea Grapes deepens with this major poet's search for true images of the post-Adamic "new world"--especially those of his native Caribbean culture. Walcott's rich and vital naming of the forms of island life is complemented by poems set in America and England, by inward-turning meditations, and by invocations of other poets--Osip Mandelstam, Walt Whitman, Frank O'Hara, James Wright, and Pablo Neruda.

On the publication of Selected Poems in 1963, Robert Graves wrote, "Derek Walcott handles English with a closer understanding of its inner magic than most (if not any) of his English-born contemporaries." This collection of new poems in every way confirms Walcott's mastery. He is also the author of The Gulf, Dream on Monkey Mountain and Other Plays, and Another Life.

LanguageEnglish
Release dateSep 9, 2014
ISBN9781466880443
Sea Grapes
Author

Derek Walcott

Derek Walcott nació en 1930 en Claistres, capital de la antigua colonia británica de Santa Lucía, una isla en las Pequeñas Antillas. Hijo de un pintor británico que murió cuando él contaba un año de edad y nieto de esclavos, a esta mezcla de culturas hay que añadir que su familia fuera protestante en una comunidad donde predominaba el catolicisimo. Estudió en el University College of the West Indies. Es fundador de Trinidad Theater Workshop, y autor de numerosas obras de teatro y libros de poesía. Entre sus obras traducidas al castellano figuran: Islas, El testamento de Arkansas, La voz del crepúsculo, La abundancia. En cuanto a Omeros, está considerada como su obra maestra y fue galardonada con el premio W. H. Smith. En 1992 le fue concedido el Premio Nobel. Foto © Lisbeth Salas

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    Book preview

    Sea Grapes - Derek Walcott

    Sea Grapes

    THAT SAIL WHICH LEANS ON LIGHT,

    tired of islands,

    a schooner beating up the Caribbean

    for home, could be Odysseus,

    home-bound on the Aegean;

    that father and husband’s

    longing, under gnarled sour grapes, is

    like the adulterer hearing Nausicaa’s name

    in every gull’s outcry.

    This brings nobody peace. The ancient war

    between obsession and responsibility

    will never finish and has been the same

    for the sea-wanderer or the one on shore

    now wriggling on his sandals to walk home,

    since Troy sighed its last flame,

    and the blind giant’s boulder heaved the trough

    from whose ground-swell the great hexameters come

    to the conclusions of exhausted surf.

    The classics can console. But not enough.

    The Virgins

    Down the dead streets of sun-stoned Frederiksted,

    the first free port to die for tourism,

    strolling at funeral pace, I am reminded

    of life not lost to the American dream;

    but my small-islander’s simplicities

    can’t better our new empire’s civilized

    exchange of cameras, watches, perfumes, brandies

    for the good life, so cheaply underpriced

    that only the crime rate is on the rise

    in streets blighted with sun, stone arches

    and plazas blown dry by the hysteria

    of rumour. A condominium drowns

    in vacancy; its bargains are dusted,

    but only a jewelled housefly drones

    over the bargains. The roulettes spin

    rustily to the wind—the vigorous trade

    that every morning would begin afresh

    by revving up green water round the pierhead

    heading for where the banks of silver thresh.

    Frederiksted Nights

    The goombay band or whatever

    combination of Chicano charge

    and black funk ignites the fish-fries

    by the sizzling pierhead

    with the sharks of submarines cruising

    like the Puerto Riquenan putas

    or lemon Dominican whores,

    the electric guitars

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