Awards and Movements

Nobel 1992

Some Poems

The Saddhu Of Couva

The Saddhu Of Couva

When sunset, a brass gong,
vibrate through Couva,
is then I see my soul, swiftly unsheathed,
like a white cattle bird growing more small
over the ocean of the evening canes,
and I sit quiet, waiting for it to return
like a hog-cattle blistered with mud,
because, for my spirit, India is too far.
And to that gong
sometimes bald clouds in saffron robes assemble
sacred to the evening,
sacred even to Ramlochan,
singing Indian hits from his jute hammock
while evening strokes the flanks
and silver horns of his maroon taxi,
as the mosquitoes whine their evening mantras,
my friend Anopheles, on the sitar,
and the fireflies making every dusk Divali.


I knot my head with a cloud,
my white mustache bristle like horns,
my hands are brittle as the pages of Ramayana.
Once the sacred monkeys multiplied like branches
in the ancient temples: I did not miss them,
because these fields sang of Bengal,
behind Ramlochan Repairs there was Uttar Pradesh;
but time roars in my ears like a river,
old age is a conflagration
as fierce as the cane fires of crop time.
I will pass through these people like a cloud,
they will see a white bird beating the evening sea
of the canes behind Couva,
and who will point it as my soul unsheathed?
Naither the bridegroom in beads,
nor the bride in her veils,
their sacred language on the cinema hoardings.


I talked too damn much on the Couva Village Council.
I talked too softly, I was always drowned
by the loudspeakers in front of the stores
or the loudspeakers with the greatest pictures.
I am best suited to stalk like a white cattle bird
on legs like sticks, with sticking to the Path
between the canes on a district road at dusk.
Playing the Elder. There are no more elders.
Is only old people.


My friends spit on the government.
I do not think is just the government.
Suppose all the gods too old,
Suppose they dead and they burning them,
supposing when some cane cutter



start chopping up snakes with a cutlass
he is severing the snake-armed god,
and suppose some hunter has caught
Hanuman in his mischief in a monkey cage.
Suppose all the gods were killed by electric light?
Sunset, a bonfire, roars in my ears;
embers of brown swallows dart and cry,
like women distracted,
around its cremation.
I ascend to my bed of sweet sandalwood.

The Star-Apple Kingdom

The Star-Apple Kingdom

There were still shards of an ancient pastoral
in those shires of the island where the cattle drank
their pools of shadow from an older sky,
surviving from when the landscape copied such objects as
'Herefords at Sunset in the valley of the Wye.'
The mountain water that fell white from the mill wheel
sprinkling like petals from the star-apple trees,
and all of the windmills and sugar mills moved by mules
on the treadmill of Monday to Monday, would repeat
in tongues of water and wind and fire, in tongues
of Mission School pickaninnies, like rivers remembering
their source, Parish Trelawny, Parish St David, Parish
St Andrew, the names afflicting the pastures,
the lime groves and fences of marl stone and the cattle
with a docile longing, an epochal content.
And there were, like old wedding lace in an attic,
among the boas and parasols and the tea-colored
daguerreotypes, hints of an epochal happiness
as ordered and infinite to the child
as the great house road to the Great House
down a perspective of casuarinas plunging green manes
in time to the horses, an orderly life
reduced by lorgnettes day and night, one disc the sun,
the other the moon, reduced into a pier glass:
nannies diminished to dolls, mahogany stairways
no larger than those of an album in which
the flash of cutlery yellows, as gamboge as
the piled cakes of teatime on that latticed
bougainvillea verandah that looked down toward
a prospect of Cuyp-like Herefords under a sky
lurid as a porcelain souvenir with these words:
'Herefords at Sunset in the Valley of the Wye.'


Strange, that the rancor of hatred hid in that dream
of slow rivers and lily-like parasols, in snaps
of fine old colonial families, curled at the edge
not from age of from fire or the chemicals, no, not at all,
but because, off at its edges, innocently excluded
stood the groom, the cattle boy, the housemaid, the gardeners,
the tenants, the good Negroes down in the village,
their mouth in the locked jaw of a silent scream.
A scream which would open the doors to swing wildly
all night, that was bringing in heavier clouds,
more black smoke than cloud, frightening the cattle
in whose bulging eyes the Great House diminished;
a scorching wind of a scream
that began to extinguish the fireflies,
that dried the water mill creaking to a stop
as it was about to pronounce Parish Trelawny
all over, in the ancient pastoral voice,
a wind that blew all without bending anything,
neither the leaves of the album nor the lime groves;



blew Nanny floating back in white from a feather
to a chimerical, chemical pin speck that shrank
the drinking Herefords to brown porcelain cows
on a mantelpiece, Trelawny trembling with dusk,
the scorched pastures of the old benign Custos; blew
far the decent servants and the lifelong cook,
and shriveled to a shard that ancient pastoral
of dusk in a gilt-edged frame now catching the evening sun
in Jamaica, making both epochs one.


He looked out from the Great House windows on
clouds that still held the fragrance of fire,
he saw the Botanical Gardens officially drown
in a formal dusk, where governors had strolled
and black gardeners had smiled over glinting shears
at the lilies of parasols on the floating lawns,
the flame trees obeyed his will and lowered their wicks,
the flowers tightened their fists in the name of thrift,
the porcelain lamps of ripe cocoa, the magnolia's jet
dimmed on the one circuit with the ginger lilies
and left a lonely bulb on the verandah,
and, had his mandate extended to that ceiling
of star-apple candelabra, he would have ordered
the sky to sleep, saying, I'm tired,
save the starlight for victories, we can't afford it,
leave the moon on for one more hour,and that's it.
But though his power, the given mandate, extended
from tangerine daybreaks to star-apple dusks,
his hand could not dam that ceaseless torrent of dust
that carried the shacks of the poor, to their root-rock music,
down the gullies of Yallahs and August Town,
to lodge them on thorns of maca, with their rags
crucified by cactus, tins, old tires, cartons;
from the black Warieka Hills the sky glowed fierce as
the dials of a million radios,
a throbbing sunset that glowed like a grid
where the dread beat rose from the jukebox of Kingston.
He saw the fountains dried of quadrilles, the water-music
of the country dancers, the fiddlers like fifes
put aside. He had to heal
this malarial island in its bath of bay leaves,
its forests tossing with fever, the dry cattle
groaning like winches, the grass that kept shaking
its head to remember its name. No vowels left
in the mill wheel, the river. Rock stone. Rock stone.


The mountains rolled like whales through phosphorous stars,
as he swayed like a stone down fathoms into sleep,
drawn by that magnet which pulls down half the world
between a star and a star, by that black power
that has the assassin dreaming of snow,
that poleaxes the tyrant to a sleeping child.



The house is rocking at anchor, but as he falls
his mind is a mill wheel in moonlight,
and he hears, in the sleep of his moonlight, the drowned
bell of Port Royal's cathedral, sees the copper pennies
of bubbles rising from the empty eye-pockets
of green buccaneers, the parrot fish floating
from the frayed shoulders of pirates, sea horses
drawing gowned ladies in their liquid promenade
across the moss-green meadows of the sea;
he heard the drowned choirs under Palisadoes,
a hymn ascending to earth from a heaven inverted
by water, a crab climbing the steeple,
and he climbed from that submarine kingdom
as the evening lights came on in the institute,
the scholars lamplit in their own aquarium,
he saw them mouthing like parrot fish, as he passed
upward from that baptism, their history lessons,
the bubbles like ideas which he could not break:
Jamaica was captured by Penn and Venables,
Port Royal perished in a cataclysmic earthquake.


Before the coruscating façades of cathedrals
from Santiago to Caracas, where penitential archbishops
washed the feet of paupers (a parenthetical moment
that made the Caribbean a baptismal font,
turned butterflies to stone, and whitened like doves
the buzzards circling municipal garbage),
the Caribbean was borne like an elliptical basin
in the hands of acolytes, and a people were absolved
of a history which they did not commit;
the slave pardoned his whip, and the dispossessed
said the rosary of islands for three hundred years,
a hymn that resounded like the hum of the sea
inside a sea cave, as their knees turned to stone,
while the bodies of patriots were melting down walls
still crusted with mute outcries of La Revolucion!
'San Salvador, pray for us,St. Thomas, San Domingo,
ora pro nobis, intercede for us, Sancta Lucia
of no eyes,' and when the circular chaplet
reached the last black bead of Sancta Trinidad
they began again, their knees drilled into stone,
where Colon had begun, with San Salvador's bead,
beads of black colonies round the necks of Indians.
And while they prayed for an economic miracle,
ulcers formed on the municipal portraits,
the hotels went up, and the casinos and brothels,
and the empires of tobacco, sugar, and bananas,
until a black woman, shawled like a buzzard,
climbed up the stairs and knocked at the door
of his dream, whispering in the ear of the keyhole:
'Let me in, I'm finished with praying, I'm the Revolution.
I am the darker, the older America.'



She was as beautiful as a stone in the sunrise,
her voice had the gutturals of machine guns
across khaki deserts where the cactus flower
detonates like grenades, her sex was the slit throat
of an Indian, her hair had the blue-black sheen of the crow.
She was a black umbrella blown inside out
by the wind of revolution, La Madre Dolorosa,
a black rose of sorrow, a black mine of silence,
raped wife, empty mother, Aztec virgin
transfixed by arrows from a thousand guitars,
a stone full of silence, which, if it gave tongue
to the tortures done in the name of the Father,
would curdle the blood of the marauding wolf,
the fountain of generals, poets, and cripples
who danced without moving over their graves
with each revolution; her Caesarean was stitched
by the teeth of machine guns,and every sunset
she carried the Caribbean's elliptical basin
as she had once carried the penitential napkins
to be the footbath of dictators, Trujillo, Machado,
and those whose faces had yellowed like posters
on municipal walls. Now she stroked his hair
until it turned white, but she would not understand
that he wanted no other power but peace,
that he wanted a revolution without any bloodshed,
he wanted a history without any memory,
streets without statues,
and a geography without myth. He wanted no armies
but those regiments of bananas, thick lances of cane,
and he sobbed,'I am powerless, except for love.'
She faded from him, because he could not kill;
she shrunk to a bat that hung day and night
in the back of his brain. He rose in his dream.

Egypt, Tobago

Egypt, Tobago

There is a shattered palm
on this fierce shore,
its plumes the rusting helmet
of a dead warrior.


Numb Antony, in the torpor
stretching her inert
sex near him like a sleeping cat,
knows his heart is the real desert.


Over the dunes
of her heaving,
to his heart's drumming
fades the mirage of the legions,


across love-tousled sheets,
the triremes fading.
Ar the carved door of her temple
a fly wrings its message.


He brushes a damp hair
away from an ear
as perfect as a sleeping child's.
He stares, inert, the fallen column.


He lies like a copper palm
tree at three in the afternoon
by a hot sea
and a river, in Egypt, Tobago


Her salt marsh dries in the heat
where he foundered
without armor.
He exchanged an empire for her beads of sweat,


the uproar of arenas,
the changing surf
of senators, for
this silent ceiling over silent sand


this grizzled bear, whose fur,
moulting, is silvered for
this quick fox with her
sweet stench. By sleep dismembered,


his head
is in Egypt, his feet
in Rome, his groin a desert
trench with its dead soldier.


He drifts a finger
through her stiff hair



crisp as a mare's fountaining tail.
Shadows creep up the palace tile.


He is too tired to move;
a groan would waken
trumpets, one more gesture
war. His glare,


a shield
reflecting fires,
a brass brow that cannot frown
at carnage, sweats the sun's force.


It is not the turmoil
of autumnal lust,
its treacheries, that drove
him, fired and grimed with dust,


this far, not even love,
but a great rage without
clamor, that grew great
because its depth is quiet;


it hears the river
of her young brown blood,
it feels the whole sky quiver
with her blue eyelid.


She sleeps with the soft engine of a child,


that sleep which scythes
the stalks of lances, fells the
harvest of legions
with nothing for its knives,
that makes Caesars,


sputtering at flies,
slapping their foreheads
with the laurel's imprint,
drunkards, comedians.


All-humbling sleep, whose peace
is sweet as death,
whose silence has
all the sea's weight and volubility,


who swings this globe by a hair's trembling breath.


Shattered and wild and
palm-crowned Antony,
rusting in Egypt,
ready to lose the world,



to Actium and sand,

everything else
is vanity, but this tenderness
for a woman not his mistress
but his sleeping child.

The sky is cloudless. The afternoon is mild.

In The Virgins

In The Virgins

You can't put in the ground swell of the organ
from the Christiansted, St.Croix, Anglican Church
behind the paratrooper's voice: 'Turned cop
after Vietnam. I made thirty jumps.'
Bells punish the dead street and pigeons lurch
from the stone belfry, opening their chutes,
circling until the rings of ringing stop.
'Salud!' The paratrooper's glass is raised.
The congregation rises to its feet
like a patrol, with scuffling shoes and boots,
repeating orders as the organ thumps:
'Praise Ye the Lord. The Lord's name be praised.'


You cannot hear, beyond the quiet harbor,
the breakers cannonading on the bruised
horizon, or the charter engines gunning for
Buck Island. The only war here is a war
of silence between blue sky and sea,
and just one voice, the marching choir's, is raised
to draft new conscripts with the ancient cry
of 'Onward, Christian Soldiers,' into pews
half-empty still, or like a glass, half-full.
Pinning itself to a cornice, a gull
hangs like a medal from the serge-blue sky.


Are these boats all? Is the blue water all?
The rocks surpliced with lace where they are moored,
dinghy, catamaran, and racing yawl,
nodding to the ground swell of 'Praise the Lord'?
Wesley and Watts, their evangelical light
lanced down the mine shafts to our chapel pew,
its beam gritted with motes of anthracite
that drifted on us in our chapel benches:
from God's slow-grinding mills in Lancashire,
ash on the dead mired in Flanders' trenches,
as a gray drizzle now defiles the view


of this blue harbor, framed in windows where
two yellow palm fronds, jerked by the wind's rain,
agree like horses' necks, and nodding bear,
slow as a hearse, a haze of tasseled rain,
and, as the weather changes in a child,
the paradisal day outside grows dark,
the yachts flutter like moths in a gray jar,
the martial voices fade in thunder, while
across the harbor, like a timid lure,
a rainbow casts its seven-colored arc.


Tonight, now Sunday has been put to rest.
Altar lights ride the black glass where the yachts
stiffly repeat themselves and phosphoresce
with every ripple - the wide parking-lots



of tidal affluence - and every mast
sways the night's dial as its needle veers
to find the station which is truly peace.
Like neon lasers shot across the bars
discos blast out the music of the spheres,
and, one by one, science infects the stars.
Derek Walcott (23 January 1930) Derek Walcott OBE OCC is a Saint Lucian poet, playwright, writer and visual artist who was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1992 and the T. S. Eliot Prize in 2011 for White Egrets. His works include the Homeric epic Omeros. Robert Graves wrote that Walcott "handles English with a closer understanding of its inner magic than most, if not any, of his contemporaries”. Life Early Life Walcott was born and raised in Castries, Saint Lucia, in the West Indies with a twin brother, the future playwright Roderick Walcott, and a sister. His mother, a teacher, had a love of the arts who would often recite poetry. His father, who painted and wrote poetry, died at 31 from mastoiditis. The family came from a minority Methodist community, which felt overshadowed by the dominant Catholic culture of the island. As a young man he trained as a painter, mentored by Harold Simmons whose life as a professional artist provided an inspiring example for Walcott. Walcott greatly admired Cézanne and Giorgione and sought to learn from them. Walcott then studied as a writer, becoming “an elated, exuberant poet madly in love with English” and strongly influenced by modernist poets such as T. S. Eliot and Ezra Pound. Walcott had an early sense of a vocation as a writer. In the Poem "Midsummer" (1984), he wrote Forty years gone, in my island childhood, I felt that the gift of poetry had made me one of the chosen, that all experience was kindling to the fire of the Muse. At 14, Walcott published his first poem in The Voice of St Lucia, a Miltonic, religious poem. In the newspaper, an English Catholic priest condemned the Methodist-inspired poem as blasphemous. By 19, Walcott had self-published his two first collections, 25 Poems (1948) and Epitaph for the Young: XII Cantos (1949), which he distributed himself. He commented "I went to my mother and said, 'I’d like to publish a book of poems, and I think it’s going to cost me two hundred dollars.' She was just a seamstress and a schoolteacher, and I remember her being very upset because she wanted to do it. Somehow she got it—a lot of money for a woman to have found on her salary. She gave it to me, and I sent off to Trinidad and had the book printed. When the books came back I would sell them to friends. I made the money back." Influential Barbadian poet Frank Collymore critically supported Walcott's early work. Career With a scholarship he studied at the University of the West Indies in Kingston, Jamaica then moved to Trinidad in 1953, becoming a critic, teacher and journalist. Walcott founded the Trinidad Theatre Workshop in 1959 and remains active with its Board of Directors. Exploring the Caribbean and its history in a colonialist and post-colonialist context, his collection In a Green Night: Poems 1948-1960 (1962) saw him gain an international public profile. He founded the Boston Playwrights' Theatre at Boston University in 1981. Walcott taught literature and writing at Boston University, retiring in 2007. His later collections include Tiepolo’s Hound (2000),The Prodigal (2004) and White Egrets (2010), which was the recipient of the T.S. Eliot Prize. Walcott was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1992, the first Caribbean writer to receive the honor. The Nobel committee described his work as “a poetic oeuvre of great luminosity, sustained by a historical vision, the outcome of a multicultural commitment.” In 2009, he began a three-year distinguished scholar-in-residence position at the University of Alberta. In 2010, he became Professor of Poetry at the University of Essex. Controversies In 1981 Walcott was accused of sexual harassment of a freshman student at Harvard University, and reached a settlement in 1996 over a sexual harassment allegation at Boston University. In 2009, Walcott was a leading candidate for the position of Oxford Professor of Poetry but withdrew his candidacy when earlier sexual harassment allegations were revived and the Sunday Times revealed that pages from a book describing the harassment cases had been sent anonymously to a number of Oxford academics. No new information about the well-publicised 1996 case came to light at this time. Some at the University had advised against his candidacy, on grounds of these past allegations but others argued that the cases were immaterial since the post does not require student contact. The other main candidate Ruth Padel criticized the sending of these pages and said she wished he had not withdrawn, but a number of articles appeared in the British press alleging her involvement. She was elected as Chair, however a journalist revealed an email in which she mentioned that some students were angry that the harassment issue had been ignored, and she resigned on the grounds that this could be misinterpreted as activity against Walcott. Padel was the first woman elected to the post and some commentators attributed press treatment of her to misogyny and a gender war. A letter of support for Walcott published in the Times Literary Supplement from a number of respected poets, including Seamus Heaney and Al Alvarez, criticized the press for raking up Walcott's past, and Padel for her perceived comportment. Others pointed out that both poets were casualties of media interest in a university affair. The story "had everything, from sex claims to allegations of character assassination". It allowed the press "simultaneously to pursue allegations in Walcott's past and criticize Padel for having mentioned these allegations as a source of voters' disquiet". Letters to The Guardian and The Times criticized unjust denigration of Padel. Other poets including Simon Armitage expressed regret at Padel's resignation and The Observer attributed the media storm to the "toxicity of the metropolitan media." Themes Methodism and spirituality have played a significant role from the beginning, in Walcott's work. He commented "I have never separated the writing of poetry from prayer. I have grown up believing it is a vocation, a religious vocation". He describes the experience of the poet: "the body feels it is melting into what it has seen… the “I” not being important. That is the ecstasy...Ultimately, it’s what Yeats says: 'Such a sweetness flows into the breast that we laugh at everything and everything we look upon is blessed.' That’s always there. It’s a benediction, a transference. It’s gratitude, really. The more of that a poet keeps, the more genuine his nature". He notes that "if one thinks a poem is coming on...you do make a retreat, a withdrawal into some kind of silence that cuts out everything around you. What you’re taking on is really not a renewal of your identity but actually a renewal of your anonymity". Walcott has published more than twenty plays, the majority of which have been produced by the Trinidad Theatre Workshop, and have also been widely staged elsewhere. Many of them deal, either directly or indirectly, with the liminal status of the West Indies in the postcolonial period. Much of his poetry also seeks to explore the paradoxes and complexities of this legacy. In his 1970 essay "What the Twilight Says: An Overture" discussing art and theatre in his native region (from Dream on Monkey Mountain and Other Plays) Walcott reflects on the West Indies as colonized space, and the problems presented by a region with little in the way of truly indigenous forms, and with little national or nationalist identity. He states: “We are all strangers here... Our bodies think in one language and move in another". Discussions of epistemological effects of colonization inform plays such as Ti-Jean and his Brothers. In the play, Mi-Jean, one of the eponymous brothers is shown to have much information, but to truly know nothing. Every line Mi-Jean recites is rote knowledge gained from the coloniser, and as such is unable to be synthesized and thus is inapplicable to his existence as colonised person. Yet Walcott notes of the Caribbean "what we were deprived of was also our privilege. There was a great joy in making a world that so far, up to then, had been undefined... My generation of West Indian writers has felt such a powerful elation at having the privilege of writing about places and people for the first time and, simultaneously, having behind them the tradition of knowing how well it can be done—by a Defoe, a Dickens, a Richardson." Walcott identifies as "absolutely a Carbibbean writer", a pioneer, helping to make sense of the legacy of deep colonial damage. In such poems as "The Castaway" (1965) and in the play Pantomime (1978), he works with the metaphors of shipwreck and Crusoe to describe the position of rebuilding after colonialism and slavery: the freedom to re-begin and the challenge of it. He writes "If we continue to sulk and say, Look at what the slave-owner did, and so forth, we will never mature. While we sit moping or writing morose poems and novels that glorify a non-existent past, then time passes us by." Walcott's work weaves together a variety of forms including the folktale, morality play, allegory, fable and ritual featuring emblematic and mythological characters. His epic book length poem Omeros, is an allusive, loose reworking of Homeric story and tradition into a journey within the Caribbean and beyond to Africa, New England, the American West, Canada, and London, with frequent reference to the Greek Islands. His odysseys are not the realm of gods or warriors, but are peopled by everyday folk. Composed in terza rima and organized by rhyme and meter, the work echos the themes that run through Walcott's oeuvre, the beauty of the islands, the colonial burden, fragmentation of Caribbean identity, and the role of the poet in salving the rents. Walcott's friend Joseph Brodsky commented: "For almost forty years his throbbing and relentless lines kept arriving in the English language like tidal waves, coagulating into an archipelago of poems without which the map of modern literature would effectively match wallpaper. He gives us more than himself or 'a world'; he gives us a sense of infinity embodied in the language." A close friend of the Russian Brodsky and the Irish Heaney, Walcott noted that the three of them were a band of poets "outside the American experience". Walcott's writing was also influenced by the work of friends Robert Lowell and Elizabeth Bishop. Awards and Honours 1969 Cholmondeley Award 1971 Obie Award for Dream on Monkey Mountain 1972 OBE 1981 MacArthur Foundation Fellowship OBIE ("genius award") 1988 Queen's Gold Medal for Poetry 1990 Arts Council of Wales International Writers Prize 1990 WH Smith Literary Award for Omeros 1992 Nobel Prize for Literature 2008 Honorary doctorate from the University of Essex 2011 T.S. Eliot Prize for White Egrets 2011 OCM Bocas Prize for Caribbean Literature for White Egrets Eserleri: Poetry collections 1948 25 Poems 1949 Epitaph for the Young: Xll Cantos 1951 Poems 1962 In a Green Night: Poems 1948—60 1964 Selected Poems 1965 The Castaway and Other Poems 1969 The Gulf and Other Poems 1973 Another Life 1976 Sea Grapes 1979 The Star-Apple Kingdom 1981 Selected Poetry 1981 The Fortunate Traveller 1983 The Caribbean Poetry of Derek Walcott and the Art of Romare Bearden 1984 Midsummer 1986 Collected Poems, 1948-1984 1987 The Arkansas Testament 1990 Omeros 1997 The Bounty 2000 Tiepolo's Hound 2004 The Prodigal 2007 Selected Poems (Edited, selected, and with an introduction by Edward Baugh) 2010 White Egrets Plays (1950) Henri Christophe: A Chronicle in Seven Scenes (1951) Harry Dernier: A Play for Radio Production (1953) Wine of the Country (1954) The Sea at Dauphin: A Play in One Act (1957) Ione (1958) Drums and Colours: An Epic Drama (1958) Ti-Jean and His Brothers (1966) Malcochon: or, Six in the Rain (1967) Dream on Monkey Mountain (1970) In a Fine Castle (1974) The Joker of Seville (1974) The Charlatan (1976) O Babylon! (1977) Remembrance (1978) Pantomime (Walcott play) (1980) The Joker of Seville and O Babylon!: Two Plays (1982) The Isle Is Full of Noises (1986) Three Plays The Last Carnival, Beef, No Chicken, and A Branch of the Blue Nile) (1991) Steel (1993) Odyssey: A Stage Version (1997) The Capeman (lyrics, in collaboration with Paul Simon) (2002) Walker and The Ghost Dance Other Books (1950) Henri Christophe: A Chronicle in Seven Scenes, Barbados Advocate (Barbados) (1990) The Poet in the Theatre, Poetry Book Society (London) (1993) The Antilles: Fragments of Epic Memory Farrar, Straus (New York) (1996) Conversations with Derek Walcott, University of Mississippi (Jackson, MS) (1996) (With J Brodsky and S Heaney) Homage to Robert Frost Farrar, Straus (New York) (1998) What the Twilight Says (essays), Farrar, Straus (New York, NY) (2002) Walker and Ghost Dance, Farrar, Straus (New York, NY) (2004) Another Life: Fully Annotated, Lynne Rienner Publishers (Boulder, CO)
wer54w66sf32re2
Derek Walcott reads his poem 'Sea Grapes'
Saint Lucian Nobel Laureate Derek Walcott on Empire and Language
Saint Lucia's Nobel Laureate Derek Walcott interview on his extended poem "Omeros"
Love After Love - Derek Walcott (Read By Tom Hiddleston)
Biography of Sir Derek Alton Walcott
Derek Walcott (The Southbank Show)
"Love after Love" by Derek Walcott (read by Helena Bonham Carter)
Derek Walcott tribute: Linton Kwesi Johnson reads Love After Love - BBC Newsnight
University of Essex | Derek Walcott in conversation with Glyn Maxwell
Derek Walcott interview on his life - www.1SLU.com
Poem reading by Derek Walcott, Nobel Laureate in Literature
"Star" by Derek Walcott (5:21 AM)
Derek Walcott reads begining of Omeros
A Far Cry From Africa by Derek Walcott
Tiepolo's Hound: A Reading by Derek Walcott
Lecture 15 -Caribbean Poetry: Derek Walcott
A Far Cry From Africa by Derek Walcott | Line by Line Analysis
Derek Walcott: a Carribean Shakespeare
A Celebration of Derek Walcott
David Whyte recites Derek Walcott's "Love After Love"
POETRY IS AN ISLAND (Derek Walcott Documentary International Trailer) by Ida Does
Derek and Roderick Walcott video documentary
Black Writers: Derek Walcott
Derek Walcott Sequence at the NYS Writers Institute in 1998
Derek Walcott: Poetry
Derek Walcott Non abituarti mai
Derek Walcott: intervista al Premio Nobel per la Letteratura
A Far Cry from Africa by Derek Walcott - Poem Summary and explanation in hindi line by line
Derek Walcott with Glyn Maxwell and Caryl Phillips
Derek Walcott: Omeros Ch1-4 and other poems [Caedmon Audio]
Derek Walcott discusses his painting and poetry
Derek Walcott, Amore dopo amore(Love after Love) letta da Domenico Pelini
UCSD Convocation: Derek Walcott
Derek Walcott Alla fine di questo verso c'è una porta che si apre
University of Essex | Derek Walcott directs Pantomime at the University of Essex
Derek Walcott | LIVE from the NYPL
Derek Walcott reads his poem "The Bounty" and poems by Joseph Brodsky
Derek Walcott reads Crusoe's Island
Derek Walcott Due Poesie
Love After Love by Derek Walcott (poem)
"Love After Love" by Derek Walcott (read by Tom O'Bedlam)
A Far Cry form Africa | Derek Walcott |MA Sem 3 | African and Carribean Literature | Uty of Kerala
Le Loupgarou- Derek Walcott
Nearing Forty by Derek Walcott. Summary and line by line analysis. GCSE Poetry 2022.
Love After Love by Derek Walcott - Read by Tom Hiddleston
Trailer for Crescent City Stage's "Pantomime" by Derek Walcott
Love After Love by Derek Walcott - Poem Analysis
Love After Love by Derek Walcott
El amor después del amor / Derek Walcott
Love after love by Derek Walcott | Goodnight Poems | Jessie Liu

See also

Who likes

Followers