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The writer that I chose is Derek Walcott. The reason that I chose him was
because we had never read his poetry in class and we did not cover many black
poets in class. After reading much of his poetry I feel that Walcott and me have
not only a lot in common but at times the same feelings toward are heritage.
Walcott descended from a white grandmother and a black grandmother on both the
paternal and maternal sides, he’s a living example of divided heritage between
two worlds. For Walcott his heritage is painful, but fortunately he can elevate
personal crises into art. My family tree is identical to Walcotts, so this is
why I can relate to what he is saying. A Far Cry from Africa A wind is ruffling
the tawny pelt Of Africa. Kikuyu, quick as flies, Corpses are scattered through
a paradise. Only the worm, colonel of carrion, cries: “Waste no compassion on
these separate dead!” Statistics justify and scholars seize The salients of
colonial policy. What is that to the white child hacked in bed? To savages,
expendable as Jews? Threshed out by beaters, the long rushes break In a white
dust of ibises whose cries Have wheeled since civilization’s dawn *From the
parched river or beast –teeming plain.
The violence of beast on beast is read As
natural law, but upright man Seeks his divinity by inflicting pain. Delirious as
these worried beasts, his wars Dance to the tightened carcass of a drum, While
he calls courage still that native dread Of the white peace contracted by the
dead. Again brutish necessity wipes its hands Upon the napkin of a dirty cause,
again A waste of our compassion, as with Spain, The gorilla wrestles with
superman. Where shall I turn, divided to the vein? I who have cursed The drunken
officer of British rule, how choose Between this Africa and the English tongue I
love? Betray them both, or give back what they give? How can I face such
slaughter and be cool? How can I turn from Africa and live? This poem shows the
reader how much pain Walcott has inside its about his own experiences. He is
picturing Africa as a black leopard. At the beginning, he was explaining how the
Mau Mau tribe is killing white children and this bothers him significantly. He
is describing how the British and the Africans are both animals because they are
both killing each other. He is comparing the massacres to those of the Jews. He
said that they should have ignored the battle in Spain because it was useless.
He was being tempted. The gorilla that he mentions in line 25 is from Darwin and
the superman represents how people can become better. Walcott is saying that he
is confused because he does not know where to turn. The reason he is confused is
because he has both white and black blood from his parents, so he does not know
what side to choose. He describes his heritage as a curse or something that he
is not happy in receiving.
He’s divided between Africa and his British culture
that which he grew up on. He grew up on the English language, but he loves
Africa, so he does not know where to turn if the two of them are on bad terms.
He can not leave his homeland, but he also can not turn his back on the land of
his anscestors. The question of identity is one of the most frequently recurring
themes. He defines this not only as his problem but that of all men whose
heritage comes from divided blood and culture. Nights in the Garden of Port of
Spain Night, the black summer, simplifies her smells into a village; she assumes
the impenetrable musk of the negro, grows secret as sweat, her alleys odorous
with shucked oyster shells, coals of gold oranges, braziers of melon. Commerce
and tambourines increase her heat. Hellfire or the whorehouse: crossing Park
Street, a surf sailors’ faces crests, is gone with the sea’s phosphorescence;
the boites-de nuit tinkle like fireflies in her thick hair. Blinded by
headlamps, deaf to taxi klaxons, she lifts her face from the cheap, pitch of oil
flare towards white stars, like cities, flashing neon, burning to be the bitch
she must become. As daylight breaks the coolie turns his tumbril of hacked,
beheaded coconuts towards home. This is a poem about a prostitute in the islands
even though it’s called Spain. She’s hungry to make money the smell of men gets
her fired up. She’s constantly looking for black men. She sleeps with the men in
an alley that’s dirty. The sound of music and people make her anxious to go out
and make money. When the sailors see her they begin to grimace with excitement.
She sells her body, so that she can make some money but I don’t think that she
enjoys it very much The Glory Trumpeter Old Eddie’s face, wrinkled with river
lights, Looked like a Mississippi man’s. The eyes, Derisive and avuncular at
once, Swiveling fixed me.
They’d seen Too many wakes, too many cathouse nights.
The bony, idle fingers on the valves Of his knee-cradledhorn could tear Through
“ Georgia on My Mind” or Jesus Saves” With the same fury of indifference, If
what propelled such frenzy was despair. Now, as the eyes sealed in the ashen
flesh, And Eddie, like a deacon at his prayer, Rose, tilting the bright horn, I
saw a flash Of gulls and pigeons from the dunes of coal Near my grandmother’s
barracks on the wharves, I saw the sallow faces of those men Who sighed as if
they spoke into their graves About the Negro in America. That was when The
Sunday comics sprawled out on the floor, Sent from the States, had a particular
odour, A smell of money mingled with man’s sweat. And yet, Eddie’s features held
are fate, Secure in childhood I did not know then A jesus-ragtime or gut-bucket
blues To the bowed heads of lean, compliant men Back from the Sates in their
funereal serge, Black, rusty Homburgs and limps waiters’ ties With honey accents
and lard –coloured eyes Was Joshua’s ram’s horn wailing for the Jews Of patient
bitterness or bitter siege. Now it was that as Eddie turned his back On our
young crowd out feteing , swilling liquor, And blew, eyes closed, one foot up,
out to sea, His horn aimed at those cities of the gulf, Mobile and Galveston and
sweetly meted The horn of plenty through a bitter cup, In lonely exaltation
blaming me For all whom race and exile have defeated, For my own uncle in
America, That living there I never could look up. This poem is about a little
boys uncle named Eddie a trumpet player who returns to the islands from the
Sates after working very hard.
The story is from the child’s view point When he
came back from Mississippi he had a different look on his face he looked much
older he looked liked he had gone through hell and back. In the states he played
at wakes which are parties for dead people. Line 10 says that he played with the
same fury of indifference this means that he was feeling very unhappy this is
why his energy is the same through out each song. He lives next to his
grandmother the barracks are homes that are one right after the other. The
Sunday comics and the smell of money described in lines 19-21 signifies to Eddie
making money from work. The sweat signifies the hard work in America because in
the islands there is hardly any work, but in states everyone has to work. The
horn of plenty described in line 36 represents all the money that he made in
America but it was a bitter experience. He is describing his feelings for the
people who have gone to the states seeking the American dream but have been
defeated. He is disappointed that while in America he did not even have enough
time to visit his uncle. Again a major theme of Walcott is expressed that is
being caught between two cultures. There is really no conclusion to the story.
Eddie is torn between exile and loneliness because if he stays home there is no
work but if he goes to the states he will be lonely and have to work very hard
plus it is very tough to be alone. THE FIST The fist clenched round my heart
loosens a little, and I gasp brightness; but it tightens again. When have I ever
not loved the pain of love? But this has moved past love to mania. This has the
strong clench of the madman, this is gripping the ledge of unreason before
plunging howling into the abyss. Hold hard then, heart. This way at least you
live. The drizzle tightens like the strings of a harp. A man with clouded eyes
picks up the rain and plucks the first line of the Odyssey. *From Collected
Poems, 1948-1984 In this poem he is in love with someone very much. The woman
with who he is in love with is controlling him and his heart. He says that she
does not let go of his heart but it is he who is in love with her. She seems to
have him on a short leash. I could be misunderstanding but she might be a very
jealous woman who does not trust her man. He is saying that he is in love with
her, but he needs a little space because she is to controlling. She controls the
way he acts she’s making him act very foolishly. He is comparing her love to
that of a madman. He says love like hers makes people crazy. She has driven him
to the line that divides love and hate.
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