by Derek Walcott
SEA
GRAPES
That
sail which leans on light,
tired
of islands,
a
schooner beating up the Caribbean
for
home, could be Odysseus,
home-bound
on the Aegean;
that
father and husband's
longing,
under gnarled sour grapes, is
like
the adulterer hearing Nausicaa's name
in
every gull's outcry.
This
brings nobody peace. The ancient war
between
obsession and responsibility
will
never finish and has been the same
for
the sea-wanderer or the one on shore
now
wriggling on his sandals to walk home,
since
Troy sighed its last flame,
and
the blind giant's boulder heaved the trough
from
whose groundswell the great hexameters come
to
the conclusions of exhausted surf.
The
classics can console. But not enough.
"Sea
Grapes" from Selected Poems by Derek Walcott. (2007)
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