Here's something you might be interested in.
Ask a Hipster — Advice you didn't know you needed
Big Screen — Movie commentary
Blurt — Music's inside track
Booze News — San Diego spirits
Classical Music — Immortal beauty
Classifieds — Free and easy
Cover Stories — Front-page features
Drinks All Around — Bartenders' drink recipes
Excerpts — Literary and spiritual excerpts
Feast! — Food & drink reviews
Feature Stories — Local news & stories
Fishing Report — What’s getting hooked from ship and shore
From the Archives — Spotlight on the past
Golden Dreams — Talk of the town
The Gonzo Report — Making the musical scene, or at least reporting from it
Letters — Our inbox
Movies@Home — Local movie buffs share favorites
Movie Reviews — Our critics' picks and pans
Musician Interviews — Up close with local artists
Neighborhood News from Stringers — Hyperlocal news
News Ticker — News & politics
Obermeyer — San Diego politics illustrated
Outdoors — Weekly changes in flora and fauna
Overheard in San Diego — Eavesdropping illustrated
Poetry — The old and the new
Reader Travel — Travel section built by travelers
Reading — The hunt for intellectuals
Roam-O-Rama — SoCal's best hiking/biking trails
San Diego Beer — Inside San Diego suds
SD on the QT — Almost factual news
Sheep and Goats — Places of worship
Special Issues — The best of
Street Style — San Diego streets have style
Surf Diego — Real stories from those braving the waves
Theater — On stage in San Diego this week
Tin Fork — Silver spoon alternative
Under the Radar — Matt Potter's undercover work
Unforgettable — Long-ago San Diego
Unreal Estate — San Diego's priciest pads
Your Week — Daily event picks
Derek Walcott: poem and prayer
Celebrating life in all its natural a supernatural fullness
- Pentecost
- Better a jungle in the head
- than rootless concrete.
- Better to stand bewildered
- by the fireflies’ crooked street;
- winter lamps do not show
- where the sidewalk is lost,
- nor can these tongues of snow
- speak for the Holy Ghost;
- the self-increasing silence
- of words dropped from a roof
- points along iron railings,
- direction, in not proof.
- But best is this night surf
- with slow scriptures of sand,
- that sends, not quite a seraph,
- but a late cormorant,
- whose fading cry propels
- through phosphorescent shoal
- what, in my childhood gospels,
- used to be called the Soul.
- Love After Love
- The time will come
- when, with elation
- you will greet yourself arriving
- at your own door, in your own mirror
- and each will smile at the other’s welcome,
- and say, sit here. Eat.
- You will love again the stranger who was your self.
- Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
- to itself, to the stranger who has loved you
- all your life, whom you ignored
- for another, who knows you by heart.
- Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,
- the photographs, the desperate notes,
- peel your own image from the mirror.
- Sit. Feast on your life.
- Coral
- This coral’s shape echoes the hand
- It hollowed. Its
- Immediate absence is heavy. As pumice,
- As your breast in my cupped palm.
- Sea-cold, its nipple rasps like sand,
- Its pores, like yours, shone with salt sweat.
- Bodies in absence displace their weight,
- And your smooth body, like none other,
- Creates an exact absence like this stone
- Set on a table with a whitening rack
- Of souvenirs. It dares my hand
- To claim what lovers’ hands have never known:
- The nature of the body of another
Derek Walcott
Derek Walcott (1930-2017) was a poet from St. Lucia who won the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1992. His work, colored with his native Caribbean island and infused with a Christian spirituality. “I have never separated the writing of poetry from prayer,” he once wrote. “I have grown up believing it is a vocation, a religious vocation.” The themes in his poetry run the gamut from love to elegy, celebrating life in all its natural a supernatural fullness. Walcott’s poems are marked by a precise and elaborate use of metaphor and other figures of speech.
Here's something you might be interested in.
Derek Walcott: poem and prayer
Celebrating life in all its natural a supernatural fullness
Derek Walcott: poem and prayer
Celebrating life in all its natural a supernatural fullness
- Pentecost
- Better a jungle in the head
- than rootless concrete.
- Better to stand bewildered
- by the fireflies’ crooked street;
- winter lamps do not show
- where the sidewalk is lost,
- nor can these tongues of snow
- speak for the Holy Ghost;
- the self-increasing silence
- of words dropped from a roof
- points along iron railings,
- direction, in not proof.
- But best is this night surf
- with slow scriptures of sand,
- that sends, not quite a seraph,
- but a late cormorant,
- whose fading cry propels
- through phosphorescent shoal
- what, in my childhood gospels,
- used to be called the Soul.
- Love After Love
- The time will come
- when, with elation
- you will greet yourself arriving
- at your own door, in your own mirror
- and each will smile at the other’s welcome,
- and say, sit here. Eat.
- You will love again the stranger who was your self.
- Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
- to itself, to the stranger who has loved you
- all your life, whom you ignored
- for another, who knows you by heart.
- Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,
- the photographs, the desperate notes,
- peel your own image from the mirror.
- Sit. Feast on your life.
- Coral
- This coral’s shape echoes the hand
- It hollowed. Its
- Immediate absence is heavy. As pumice,
- As your breast in my cupped palm.
- Sea-cold, its nipple rasps like sand,
- Its pores, like yours, shone with salt sweat.
- Bodies in absence displace their weight,
- And your smooth body, like none other,
- Creates an exact absence like this stone
- Set on a table with a whitening rack
- Of souvenirs. It dares my hand
- To claim what lovers’ hands have never known:
- The nature of the body of another
Derek Walcott
Derek Walcott (1930-2017) was a poet from St. Lucia who won the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1992. His work, colored with his native Caribbean island and infused with a Christian spirituality. “I have never separated the writing of poetry from prayer,” he once wrote. “I have grown up believing it is a vocation, a religious vocation.” The themes in his poetry run the gamut from love to elegy, celebrating life in all its natural a supernatural fullness. Walcott’s poems are marked by a precise and elaborate use of metaphor and other figures of speech.