[Michael Juster]

One of our greatest poets, Derek Walcott, has passed away. I loved the music of his verse and the music of his voice.

[Aaron Novick]

I just picked up his Omeros from a used bookstore a couple weeks ago. I'll have to read it soon – it will be my first exposure to his work.

[Andrew Szilvasy]

This is sad news. I bought his Selected years ago and it was a real treat. A fantastic poet.

[Gregory Palmerino]

The first poem I ever read of his. And much of what I aim for each time I write a poem.

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.

[Jim Moonan]

Bon voyage, my good man. Thank you for what you've left behind.

[Rick Mullin]

Really sad news.

His images of nature and sense of place and his ability to tie his Caribbean roots into the grand Western tradition as well as the Caribbean's African history were all so appealing. Of course he had British roots as well, which only made it all the more interesting with the colonial overtones. Omeros is just a towering accomplishment. He was a pretty good painter and a great poet.

RM

NB: My introduction was a used copy of Tiepolo's Hound I picked up on Decatur Street in the French Quarter. Illustrated with a lot of his watercolor landscapes.

[Orwn Acra]

It amazes me how interested I become in someone's work immediately after that person dies. It is as if death is the seal of truth to the observed life.

[Simon Hunt]

I know I've posted this story before, but I like it...

In the winter of 93-94, I attended some poetry events at London's venerable Troubadour coffeehouse. At one such, the manager approached the poetry-organizers and said "That f#$%^& Derek Walcott's not coming back tonight, is he?"

This piqued my interest. Might I meet Walcott? Would there be a poetry dust-up? And what was the manager's objection to the poet? Disgruntlement over the Nobel Prize? More of a Heaney fan? Nope. The poetry-organizers asked, "Why? What's the problem?"

The manager answered, "He moved the tables last time he was here after we told him not to. He's banned."

[Ian Hoffman]

I read much of Omeros several years ago. It's beautiful, yeah, and the images are often breathtakingly precise. It's also difficult, long, and I wouldn't say I had "fun" reading it. Still, a marvel in its way.

I have White Egrets (I think that's the name...) on my bookshelf... I should get around to reading it.

A bummer. Walcott was clearly an important poet.

[William A. Baurle]

One of my favorite poets. Omeros is a must read. Also the Collected 1948-1984.

My favorite bit from Walcott, which I've posted probably ten times for various reasons on various boards:

8 Fight with the Crew ( The Schooner Flight )

It had one bitch on board, like he had me mark—
that was the cook, some Vincentian arse
with a skin like a gommier tree, red peeling bark,
and wash-out blue eyes; he wouldn’t give me a ease,
like he feel he was white. Had an exercise book,
this same one here, that I was using to write
my poetry, so one day this man snatch it
from my hand, and start throwing it left and right
to the rest of the crew, bawling out, “Catch it,”
and start mincing me like I was some hen
because of the poems. Some case is for fist,
some case is for tholing pin, some is for knife—
this one was for knife. Well, I beg him first,
but he keep reading, “O my children, my wife,”
and playing he crying, to make the crew laugh;
it move like a flying fish, the silver knife
that catch him right in the plump of his calf,
and he faint so slowly, and he turn more white
than he thought he was. I suppose among men
you need that sort of thing. It ain’t right
but that’s how it is. There wasn’t much pain,
just plenty blood, and Vincie and me best friend,
but none of them go fuck with my poetry again.

But read the whole poem:

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poe...s/detail/48316

One very marvelous thing about Walcott was his voice. If you can hear him read somewhere, do it. It really helps to appreciate his poetry.