{"id":424,"date":"2013-10-02T19:48:29","date_gmt":"2013-10-02T19:48:29","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/masplayhouse.com\/blog\/?p=424"},"modified":"2013-10-03T19:51:34","modified_gmt":"2013-10-03T19:51:34","slug":"the-wind-in-the-dooryard-poem","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/masplayhouse.com\/blog\/2013\/10\/the-wind-in-the-dooryard-poem\/","title":{"rendered":"The Wind in the Dooryard Poem"},"content":{"rendered":"

I didn’t want this poem to come
\nfrom the torn mouth,
\nI didn’t want this poem to come
\nfrom his salt body,<\/span><\/p>\n

but I will tell you what he celebrated:<\/span><\/p>\n

He writes of the wall with spilling coralita
\nfrom the rim of the rich garden
\nand the clean dirt yard
\nclean as the parlour table
\nwith a yellow tree
\nan ackee, an almond
\na pomegranate
\nin the clear vase of sunlight;<\/span><\/p>\n

sometimes he put his finger
\non the pulse of the wind,
\nwhen he heard the sea in the cedars.
\nHe went swimming to Africa,
\nbut he felt tired;
\nhe chose that way
\nto reach his ancestors.<\/span><\/p>\n

No, I did not want to write this,
\nbut, doesn’t the sunrise
\nforce itself through the curtain
\nof the trembling eyelids?
\nWhen the cows are statues in the misting field
\nthat sweats out the dew,
\nand the horse lifts its iron head
\nand the jaws of the sugar mules
\nruminate and grind like the factory?
\nI did not want to hear it again,
\nthe echo of broken windmills,
\nthe mutter of the wild yams creeping
\nover the broken palings,
\nthe noise of the moss
\nstitching the stone barracoons,<\/span><\/p>\n

but the rain breaks
\non the foreheads of the wild yams,
\nthe dooryard opens the voice
\nof his rusty theme,
\nand the first quick drops of the drizzle,
\nthe libations to Shango,
\ndry fast as sweat on the forehead
\nand our tears also.<\/span><\/p>\n

The peasant reeks sweetly of bush,
\nhe smells the same as his donkey–
\nthey smell of the high, high country
\nof clouds and stunted pines–
\nthe man wipes his hand
\nthat is large as a yam
\nand as crusty with dirt
\nacross the tobacco-stained
\npaling stumps of his torn mouth,
\nhe rinses with the mountain dew,
\nand he spits out pity.<\/span><\/p>\n

I did not want it to come,
\nbut sometimes, under the armpit
\nof the hot sky over the country,<\/span><\/p>\n

the wind smells of salt
\nand a certain breeze lifts
\nthe sprigs of the coralita
\nas if, like us,
\nlifting our heads, at our happiest,
\nit too smells of the freshness of life.<\/span><\/p>\n

from\u00a0Sea Grapes<\/em>, 1971<\/span><\/p><\/blockquote>\n

Derek Walcott Caribbean Playwright (St. Lucia)<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

I didn’t want this poem to come from the torn mouth, I didn’t want this poem to come from his salt body, but I will tell you what he celebrated: He writes of the wall with spilling coralita from the rim of the rich garden and the clean dirt yard clean as the parlour table with a yellow tree an ackee, an almond a pomegranate in the clear vase of sunlight;<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[42,48],"class_list":["post-424","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-uncategorized","tag-derek-walcott","tag-poem"],"yoast_head":"\nThe Wind in the Dooryard Poem - MA's Playhouse<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/masplayhouse.com\/blog\/2013\/10\/the-wind-in-the-dooryard-poem\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"The Wind in the Dooryard Poem - 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