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The Prodigal: A Poem Miękka oprawa – 1 marca 2006

Wydanie: Angielski Derek Walcott (Autor)

4,6 Liczba ocen: 10

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Nobel Laureate Derek Walcott's The Prodigal is a journey through physical and mental landscapes, from Greenwich Village to the Alps, Pescara to Milan, Germany to Cartagena.

But always in "the music of memory, water," abides St. Lucia, the author's birthplace, and the living sea. In this book of poems, Derek Walcott has created a sweeping yet intimate epic of an exhausted Europe studded with church spires and mountains, train stations and statuary, where the New World is an idea, a "wavering map," and where History subsumes the natural history of his "unimportantly beautiful" island home. Here, the wanderer fears that he has been tainted by his exile, that his life has become untranslatable, and that his craft itself is rooted in betrayal of the vivid archipelago to which, like Antaeus, he must return for the very sustenance of life.

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Długość wersji drukowanej

105 str.
Język

Angielski
Wydawca

FARRAR STRAUSS & GIROUX
Data publikacji

1 marca 2006
Wymiary

14.58 x 0.71 x 21.03 cm
ISBN-10

0374530165
ISBN-13

978-0374530167
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Opis produktu

Recenzja

"Derek Walcott's virtues as a poet are extraordinary . . . He could turn his attention on anything at all and make it live with a reality beyond its own; through his fearless language it becomes not only its acquired life, but the real one, the one that lasts." --James Dickey, The New York Times Book Review

"Like the best poetry, the combination of luminosity and precision is what allows it to be both old and new at the same time ... One couldn't ask for better. [The Prodigal] is an accessible book, and a noble one." --The Economist

O autorze

Derek Walcott (1930-2017) was born in St. Lucia, the West Indies, in 1930. His Collected Poems: 1948-1984 was published in 1986, and his subsequent works include a book-length poem, Omeros (1990); a collection of verse, The Bounty (1997); and, in an edition illustrated with his own paintings, the long poem Tiepolo's Hound (2000). His numerous plays include The Haitian Trilogy (2001) and Walker and The Ghost Dance (2002). Walcott received the Queen's Medal for Poetry in 1988 and the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1992.

Fragment książki opublikowany za zgodą wydawcy. Wszelkie prawa zastrzeżone.

The Prodigal

By Derek Walcott

Farrar Straus Giroux

Copyright © 2006 Derek Walcott
All right reserved.
ISBN: 9780374530167

Chapter One

I In autumn, on the train to Pennsylvania, he placed his book face-down on the sunlit seat and it began to move. Metre established, carried on calm parallels, he preferred to read the paragraphs, the gliding blocks of stanzas framed by the widening windows-Italian light on the factories, October's motley in Jersey, wild fans of trees, the blue metallic Hudson, and in the turning aureate afternoon, dusk on rose brickwork as if it were Siena. Nothing. Nobody at the small railroad station. The willows fan open. Here we hung our harps, as the river slid past to elegiac banjos and the barge crawled along an ochre canal past the white spires of autumnal towns and racketing freight trains all long whoop and echo. Stations, bridges and tunnels enter their language and the scribble of brown twigs on a blank sky. And now the cars began to fill with pilgrims, while the book slept. With others in the car, he felt as if he had become a tunnel through which they entered the idea of America-familiar mantling through the tunnel's skin. It was still unfamiliar, the staidness of trains. And the thoughtful, the separate, gliding in cars on arrowing rails serenely, each gripped face intent on the puzzle of distance, as stations pass without waving, and sad, approaching cities, announced by the prologue of ramshackle yards and toothless tunnels, and the foliage rusting across an old aqueduct, loomed and then dwindled into their name. There were no stations or receding platforms in the maps of childhood nor blizzards of dogwood, no piercing steeples from buttressed cathedrals, nor statues whose base held dolphins, blunt browed, repeating themselves. Look at that man looking from the stalled window-he contains many absences. He has ridden over infinite bridges, some with roofs below, many where the afternoon glittered like mica on the empty river. There was no time to fall in love with Florence, to completely understand Wilmington or the rusty stanchions that flashed past with their cables or how the screaming gulls knew the names of all the women he had lost. There was sweet meditation on a train even of certain griefs, a gliding time on the levelled surface of elegiac earth more than the immortal motion of a blue bay next to the stone sails of graves, his growing loss. Echoing railway stations drew him to fiction, their web of schedules, incoherent announcements, the terror of missing his train, and because trains (their casual accuracy, the joy in their gliding power) had (there were no trains on the islands of his young manhood) a child's delight in motion, the lines and parallels and smoky arches of unread famous novels would stay the same for yet another fall with its bright counties, he knew, through the gliding window, the trees would lift in lament for all the leaves of the unread books, Anna Karenina, for the long wail of smoke across Alpine meadows, for soldiers leaning out of war-crowded stations, a separate joy more rooted in landscapes than the flare of battles. In the middle of the nineteenth century, somewhere between Balzac and Lautriamont, a little farther on than Baudelaire Station where bead-eyed Verlaine sat, my train broke down, and has been stuck there since. When I got off I found that I had missed the Twentieth Century. I studied those small things which besieged the station, the comical belligerence of dragonflies and the perpetual astonishment of owls. It was another country whose time had passed, with pastoral willows and a belief in drawing. I saw where Courbet lived; I saw the big quarry and the lemon light of Jean-Baptiste Camille Corot. The noise of roaring parliaments, a noise that sounded like the ocean, whorled in my ear-shell, was far, and the one sibilance was of the poplars who once bowed to Hobbema. My joy was stuck. The small station was empty in the afternoon, as it had been on the trip to Philadelphia. I sipped the long delight of a past time where ambition was too late. My craft was stuck. My deep delight lay in being dated like the archaic engine. Peace was immense. But Time passed differently than it did on water. II There is a continent outside my window, in the Hudson's patient narrative. There's some calm. But traffic hurtles up the West Side Highway, and in fall, the embankment blazes, but even in spring sunlight I have rarely sought the glittering consolation of the river, its far-fetched history, the tongues of unknown trees talk to an old man sitting on a bench. Along the smouldering autumnal sidewalks, the secretive coffee-shops, bright flower stalls, wandering the Village in search of another subject other than yourself, it is yourself you meet. An old man remembering white-headed mountains. And subtly the sense insinuates itself that frequent exile turns into treachery, missing the seasons at the table of July on lower Seventh Avenue when young women glide like Nereids in their lissome summer dresses, all those Susannas for a single elder! In spring the leaves sing round a tireless statue who will not sit although invited to. From a fresh- to a salt-water muse. Home to the Hudson. The bells on a bright Sunday from my bed, the squares of sunlight on the buildings opposite the river slate, the sky cloudless, enamelled. Then Sunday brings its summary of the world, with the serene Hudson and its criss-crossing ferries, great clouds and a red barge. Gaze, graze on the numinous greys of the river, its spectral traffic and the ghostly bridges, the bouquet of lamps, along the embankment your name fades into fog. Clouds, the sag of old towels, sodden in grey windows, the far shore scumbled by the fog, ducks bob on the grey river like decoys, not ducks but the submerged pieces of an old pier, lights fade from the water, "Such, such were the joys," muffled remorse in the December air. III Desire and disease commingling, commingling, the white hair and the white page with the fear of white sight, blindness, amputation, a recurring kidney stone, the plague of AIDS, shaken in the mirror by that bewildered look, the truculence, the drooping lip of a spiritual lout. Look at it any way you like, it's an old man's book whenever you write it, whenever it comes out, the age in your armpits in the pleats of your crotch, the faded perfumes of cherished conversations, and the toilet gurgling its eclogues, resurrecting names in its hoarse swivelling into an echo after. This is the music of memory, water. IV On Mondays, Boston classes. Lunch, a Korean corner-my glasses clouded by a tribal broth, a soup that tamed shaggy Mongolian horsemen in steaming tents while their mares stamped the snow. Asia swirls in a blizzard; winter is rising on drifts across the pavements, soon every gutter will be a locked rivulet then it will be time for rose and orange lights to dot the Prudential, and sparrows to bulb along the stricken branches. I missed the fall. It went with a sudden flare and blew its wick in Gloucester, sank in Salem, and bleached the salt grass bending off Cape Ann, flipped seals into the sound, rattled the shades of a dark house on that headland abandoned except by Hopper. You know the light I mean. American light. And the wind is the sound of an age going out the window, yellow and red as taxis, the leaves. And then boring through volumes of cloud, a silverfish-

Chapter Two

I Chasms and fissures of the vertiginous Alps through the plane window, meadows of snow on powdery precipices, the cantons of cumuli grumbling or closing, gasping falls of light a steady and serene white-knuckled horror of speckled white serrations, inconceivable in repetition, spumy avalanches of forgetting cloud, in the wrong heaven-a paradise of ice and camouflage of speeding seraphs' shadows down its slopes under the metal, featherless wings, the noise a violation of that pre-primal silence white and without thought, my fear was white and my belief obliterated-a black stroke on a primed canvas, everything was white, white was the colour of nothing, not the night, my faith was strapped in. It could go no higher. I doubted that there would be a blest descent braking like threshing seraph's wings, to spire and sun-shot field, wide, innocent. The worst fear widened, to ask of the infinite: How many more cathedral-spires? How many more peaks of these ice-seized mountains, and towns locked in by avalanches with their yellow lights inside on their brilliant goods, with the clappers of bells frozen by silence? How many small crows like commas punctuating the drifts? Infinite and repetitive as the ridges patterned like okapi or jaguar, their white forests are an opposite absolute world, a different life, but more like a different death. The wanderer's cry forms an O of terror but muted by the slanted snow and a fear that is farther than panic. This, whatever its lesson, is the tacit chorus of the screaming mountains, the feathering alp, the frozen ocean of oceanic roofs above which hangs the white ogling horn-skeletal tusk of a mastodon above white inns. II A small room, brown and dark, its linen white as the white spur of the Matterhorn above the balcony and the dark inns in snow, and, incredibly on the scars of the crevasses, a train crawling up the mountain. Orange lights and brighter in the muffled streets of Zermatt, what element more absolute as itself than the death-hush of the snow, the voiceless blizzard, between the brilliant windows of the stores? He stood outside bright windows filled with music, faint conversation through the mullioned panes and crab-clenched chandeliers with pointed flames above the animate and inanimate faces of apparitions whose features matched their names, all gentlemen with some big-buttressed dames, a fiction in a fiction. The door could open, he would be more than welcome. The lights were squared on the lawn's edges. A conspiring pen had brought him thus far. All that he had dared lay in elegant ambush whose bright noise was like the starlit surf whose voice had reared him. But this was a different climate, a different country. Now both lives had met in this achievement. He turned his head away this time, and walked back towards the road. The scene was just like something he had read. Something in boyhood, before he went abroad. But cowardice called to him. He went back inside; secure and rigid in their printed places all of the dancers in that frozen ballroom. III As with snow, to feel the air changing, the heart darken and in the clarity of sunshine-the clarity of ice, as in the islands, all spring, all summer, it was the one world till autumn marshalled its divisions, its flags, and deer marched with agreeing nodding antlers into another fiction while we remained in immortal cobalt, unchanging viridian; and what was altered was something more profound than geography, it was the self. It was vocabulary. Now it was time for the white poem of winter, when icicles lock the great bronze horse's teeth. The streets were white. No sidewalks in the streets and the short snowy distances between the shops brilliant with winter gear and above the streets full of skiers with their poles on their shoulders the chalets, snow-roofed, with peaks like Christmas cards. From a climate without wolves, what if I dreamt a white wolf trotted and stood in my path, there, in the early lights of the busy streets thickened to silence, coal-eyed, its tongue a panting flame, snow swarming my eyes. Then, like a match struck with light! A different glow than the windows of the hotels, the stores, the inns. Her hair above the crisp snow of table linen was like a flare, it led him, stumbling, inane. He went down early to the lounge. Repeat: He went down early to the lounge and waited. The street lights were still on. Then they went out. Eventually she came and when she came, she brought the mountain with her into the big room with her cold cheeks, snow smudged with strawberries, her body steaming with hues of a banked hearth, her eyes the blue-green of its dying coals, and her hair, once it was shaken from its cap leapt like new fire. Ilse, perhaps, brought in the muddy tracks between the inns, dark pines, the unicorn shaft or the priapic horn of the white mountain, as famous as its stamp, she brought in echoes of hunted stags folding from a shot's ricochet through a crevasse in the warmth of the body which she now unsheathed, shaking the dust of snow from fur and leather and hanging her ski-coat on a rack of antlers, with a glance that pierced him like an icicle, flashing the blizzard of white teeth, then tousling the wet hair at the nape of her neck, she stood for a moment in a blizzard of linen and the far-lightning flash of cutlery over the chalets and lodges of Zermatt. IV As far as secular angels go there is always one, in Venice, in Milan, hardening that horn of ageing desire and its devastations, while skiers plunge and slide soundlessly past crevasses, invisible as thoughts, like the waitress buttoning her uniform already pronged by an invisible horn and lids that sometimes closed as if her form slept in the white peace after an avalanche. He looked out through the window at white air, and there, crawling impossibly like an insect across the drifts, a train, distinct, impossible. Now with more promise than he could expect. Her speech was crisp, and as for the flushed face, was it a patronizing kindness? Who could tell? Auf Wiedersehen to the pines and the peaked chalets to the inns looking like toys behind the car and the waitresses and Ilse, indifferently going about their business with the lamps of the Alpine dusk, and the beds freshly made as the new snow that blurred the villages and the lights from the stores on the banked street and the receding shore of our hotel. Again, how many farewells and greetings on cheeks that change their name, how many kisses near tinkling earrings that fade like carriage bells.

Continues...
Excerpted from The Prodigalby Derek Walcott Copyright © 2006 by Derek Walcott. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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Szczegóły produktu

Wydawca ‏ : ‎ FARRAR STRAUSS & GIROUX (1 marca 2006)
Język ‏ : ‎ Angielski
Miękka oprawa ‏ : ‎ 105 str.
ISBN-10 ‏ : ‎ 0374530165
ISBN-13 ‏ : ‎ 978-0374530167
Wymiary ‏ : ‎ 14.58 x 0.71 x 21.03 cm

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4,6 Liczba ocen: 10

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K. A. 67

Derek Walcott Lives on in The Prodigal

Opinia napisana w Stanach Zjednoczonych dnia 23 marca 2017

Zweryfikowany zakup

The Prodigal by Derek Walcott is a short epic poem that moves across the geography of the mind as the poet takes the reader on a journey through various continents. The poem travels with a musicality that stretches the line with the sounds of place as Walcott weighs home in Manhattan and the Hudson River with his home at St. Lucia in the Caribbean. Artists, rivers, refugees,a Columbian woman soldier, the wandering poet stamp the passport of the eyes, absorbed in the fresco of color that Walcott paints with words. Nature and history form a mythic union as the Prodigal takes the reader on his "untethered pilgrimage."

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Kindle Customer

the prodigal

Opinia napisana w Wielkiej Brytanii dnia 12 czerwca 2010

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Walcott shows-off his sense of place, time, and ambiance drawing out every relvent part of the journey with a surgeons accuracy -

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Stephenr

Derek Walcott does it again

Opinia napisana w Stanach Zjednoczonych dnia 13 maja 2017

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Excellent. It reads like poetic memoir. His use of language and Imagery is wonderful. For me it was obvious that he was hearing music from his homeland when writing these poems

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lacreole1

SHIPMENT

Opinia napisana w Stanach Zjednoczonych dnia 2 stycznia 2019

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GOOD SELLER book as described

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G. Trialonis

Five Stars

Opinia napisana w Stanach Zjednoczonych dnia 15 marca 2015

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Wonderful!!

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The Prodigal: A Poem Miękka oprawa – 1 marca 2006

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O autorze

Fragment książki opublikowany za zgodą wydawcy. Wszelkie prawa zastrzeżone.

The Prodigal

Farrar Straus Giroux

Chapter One

Chapter Two

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