"THE POSSIBILITY OF ANGELS"
(Derek Walcott)
Perhaps the wind has wiped away their prints,
their heel-mark from the sand - and in the air
above the coast of St. Lucia, hints
of feathered spaces flicker here, there, there.
Gulls or white sanderlings could trick an eye
too willing to believe. That emptiness
within the heart, transferred to earth or sky
demands a seraph, sends an S.O.S.
An island is an Eden but the snake
wriggles inside a green, aspiring mind:
a little hiss of worlds elsewhere can make
or break you: "Leave that paradise behind."
You too have feet to stay and wings to go,
apples to eat. As you stand on the cliff,
look seawards, angel; only men are slow
at taking off, weighted by 'but' and 'if'.
HER UNCONSCIONABLE LIGHTNESS
Just like the specks floating across his eyes,
she shimmies past a backdrop of grey air.
He cannot help but watch her. Now he tries
to shut his lids, blank out, yet still she's there
within his veins, freewheeling everywhere.
She is his trivial girl in gauzy blue,
fabrics by Ghost, her shoulders gleaming through,
pale lipstick, thin, head in a magazine
or pressed against a mobile. Honeydew
drips from her mouth, not words. She's seventeen.
He'd like to ground her, weight her strappy shoes,
fill her with thoughts, become a go-between,
link her to this real world, transmit his views.
He'll be her ballast, he will intervene,
leave nothing dancing, nothing unforeseen.
First catch his prey. His insubstantial prize
slips from his speech trap, suddenly too wise
to walk the earth. One foot is near the snare:
babies are waiting and the newborn cries.
She flicks her wings, tosses her drifting hair.
To return to the Home Page click here
(Derek Walcott)
Perhaps the wind has wiped away their prints,
their heel-mark from the sand - and in the air
above the coast of St. Lucia, hints
of feathered spaces flicker here, there, there.
Gulls or white sanderlings could trick an eye
too willing to believe. That emptiness
within the heart, transferred to earth or sky
demands a seraph, sends an S.O.S.
An island is an Eden but the snake
wriggles inside a green, aspiring mind:
a little hiss of worlds elsewhere can make
or break you: "Leave that paradise behind."
You too have feet to stay and wings to go,
apples to eat. As you stand on the cliff,
look seawards, angel; only men are slow
at taking off, weighted by 'but' and 'if'.
HER UNCONSCIONABLE LIGHTNESS
Just like the specks floating across his eyes,
she shimmies past a backdrop of grey air.
He cannot help but watch her. Now he tries
to shut his lids, blank out, yet still she's there
within his veins, freewheeling everywhere.
She is his trivial girl in gauzy blue,
fabrics by Ghost, her shoulders gleaming through,
pale lipstick, thin, head in a magazine
or pressed against a mobile. Honeydew
drips from her mouth, not words. She's seventeen.
He'd like to ground her, weight her strappy shoes,
fill her with thoughts, become a go-between,
link her to this real world, transmit his views.
He'll be her ballast, he will intervene,
leave nothing dancing, nothing unforeseen.
First catch his prey. His insubstantial prize
slips from his speech trap, suddenly too wise
to walk the earth. One foot is near the snare:
babies are waiting and the newborn cries.
She flicks her wings, tosses her drifting hair.
To return to the Home Page click here
