Quote

Memory that yearns to join the centre, a limb remembering the body from which it has been severed, like those bamboo thighs of the god.

Derek Walcott

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Derek Walcott
Age: 87 †
Born: 1930
Born: January 23
Died: 2017
Died: March 17
Author
Playwright
Poet
Prosaist
Writer
Derek Alton Walcott
Sir Derek Alton Walcott
Memory
Severed
Memories
Bamboo
Remember
Limb
Body
Thighs
Like
Remembering
Limbs
Centre
Join
Yearns

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The future happens. No matter how much we scream.
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Damn wind shift sudden as a woman mind.
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The first thing we have to do is get rid of the pentameter. To ditch the pentameter.
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What are men? Children who doubt.
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I have never separated the writing of poetry from prayer. I have grown up believing it is a vocation, a religious vocation.
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For every poet it is always morning in the world history a forgotten, insomniac night. The fate of poetry is to fall in love with the world in spite of history.
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I look in the mirror. There's me. What's in the mirror is not real. So am I unreal?
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Good science and good art are always about a condition of awe. I don't think there is any other function for the poet or the scientist in the human tribe but the astonishment of the soul.
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A culture, we all know, is made by its cities.
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The poem is itself a mirror.
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We look and see what we see in a mirror, and we believe it. That's important, the question of belief. The question is: Should we believe what we see in a mirror?
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The classics can console. But not enough.
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The voice does go up in a poem. It is an address, even if it is to oneself.
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Break a vase, and the love that reassembles the fragments is stronger than that love which took its symmetry for granted when it was whole.
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The English language is nobody's special property. It is the property of the imagination: it is the property of the language itself.
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We read, we travel, we become.
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How can I turn from Africa and live?
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When poems are no good they don't make any sense.
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The sigh of History rises over ruins, not over landscapes, and in the Antilles there are few ruins to sigh over, apart from the ruins of sugar estates and abandoned forts.
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The personal vocabulary, the individual melody whose metre is one's biography, joins in that sound, with any luck, and the body moves like a walking, a waking island.
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