Omeros

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Omeros Page 20

by Derek Walcott

then ruddering straight. The dry sea-flakes whitened her

  breast, her feathers thinned. Then, one dawn the day-star

  rose slowly from the wrong place and it frightened her

  because all the breakers were blowing from the wrong

  east. She saw the horned island and uncurled her claws

  with one frail cry, since swifts are not given to song,

  and fluttered down to a beach, ejecting the seed

  in grass near the sand. She nestled in dry seaweed.

  In a year she was bleached bone. All of that motion

  a pile of fragile ash from the fire of her will,

  but the vine grew its own wings, out of the ocean

  it climbed like the ants, the ancestors of Achille,

  the women carrying coals after the dark door

  slid over the hold. As the weed grew in odour

  so did its strength at the damp root of the cedar,

  where the flower was anchored at the mottled root

  as a lizard crawled upwards, foot by sallow foot.

  Chapter XLVIII

  I

  Under the thick leaves of the forest, there’s a life

  more intricate than ours, with our vows of love,

  that seethes under the spider’s veil on the wet leaf.

  There’s a race of beetles whose nature is to bleed

  the very source that nourishes them, till the host

  is a rattling carapace; slowly they proceed

  to a fecund partner, mounting the dry one’s ghost.

  No, there is no such insect, but there are creatures

  with two legs only, but with pincers in their eyes,

  and arms that clinch and stroke us; they hang like leeches

  on the greenest vines, from the veins of paradise.

  And often, in the female, what may seem wilful

  will seem like happiness, that spasmic ecstasy

  which ejects the fatal acid, from which men fall

  like a desiccated leaf; and this natural history

  is not confined to the female of the species,

  it all depends on who gains purchase, since the male,

  like the dung-beetle storing up its dry feces,

  can leave its exhausted mate hysterical, pale.

  This is succession, it hides underneath a log,

  it crawls on a shaken flower, and then both mates

  embrace, and forgive; then the usual epilogue

  occurs, where one lies weeping, which the other hates.

  All I had gotten I deserved, I now saw this,

  and though I had self-contempt for my own deep pain,

  I lay drained in bed, like the same dry carapace

  I had made of others, till my turn came again.

  It could not lift the heavy agonies I felt

  for the fatherless wanderings of my own sons,

  but some sorrows are like stones, and they never melt,

  though our tears rain and groove them, and the other ones,

  the marriages dissolved like sand through the fingers,

  the per mea culpa that had emptied all hope

  from cupboards where some scent of happiness lingers

  in camphor, in a lost hairpin crusted with soap;

  the love I was good at seemed to have been only

  the love of my craft and nature; yes, I was kind,

  but with such certitude it made others lonely,

  and with such bent industry it had made me blind.

  It was a cry that called from the rock, some water

  that the sea-swift crossed alone, and the calling stayed

  like the hoarse echo in the conch; it called me from daughter

  and son, it called me from my bed at dawn in darkness

  like a fisherman walking towards the white noise

  of paper, then in its hollow craft sets his oars.

  It is what Achille learnt under the dark ceiling

  of sea-grapes dripping with rain that puckered the sand:

  that there is no error in love, of feeling

  the wrong love for the wrong person. The still island

  seasoned the wound with its salt; he scooped the bucket

  and emptied the bilge with its leaves of manchineel,

  thinking of the stitched, sutured wound that Philoctete

  was given by the sea, but how the sea could heal

  the wound also. And that was what Ma Kilman taught.

  She glimpsed gods in the leaves, but, their features obscured

  by the restless shade and light, those momentary

  guardians, unlike the logwood thorns of her Lord,

  or that golden host named for her mother, Mary,

  thronging around her knees, with some soldiery crushed

  by the weight of a different prayer, had lost their names

  and, therefore, considerable presence. They had rushed

  across an ocean, swifter than the swift, numerous

  in loud migration as the African swallows

  or bats that circle a cotton-tree at sunset

  when their sight is strong and branches uphold the house

  of heaven; so the deities swarmed in the thicket

  of the grove, waiting to be known by name; but she

  had never learnt them, though their sounds were within her,

  subdued in the rivers of her blood. Erzulie,

  Shango, and Ogun; their outlines fading, thinner

  as belief in them thinned, so that all their power,

  their roots, and their rituals were concentrated

  in the whorled corolla of that stinking flower.

  All the unburied gods, for three deep centuries dead,

  but from whose lineage, as if her veins were their roots,

  her arms ululated, uplifting the branches

  of a tree carried across the Atlantic that shoots

  fresh leaves as its dead trunk wallows on our beaches.

  They were there. She called them. They had knotted the shouts

  in her throat like a vine. They were the bats whose screeches

  are shriller than what a dog hears. Ma Kilman heard

  and saw them when their wings with crisscrossing stitches

  blurred in the leaf-breaks, building a web overhead,

  a net that entered her nerves, and her skin itches

  as if flailed with a nettle. She foraged for some sign

  of the stinging bush, and thrashed herself for the sin

  of doubting their names before the cure could begin.

  II

  The wild, wire-haired, and generously featured

  apotheosis of the caverned prophetess

  began. Ma Kilman unpinned the black, red-berried

  straw-hat with its false beads, lifted the press

  of the henna wig, made of horsehair, from the mark

  on her forehead. Carefully, she set both aside

  on the coiled green follicles of moss in the dark

  wood. Her hair sprung free as the moss. Ants scurried

  through the wiry curls, barring, then passing each other

  the same message with scribbling fingers and forehead

  touching forehead. Ma Kilman bent hers forward,

  and as her lips moved with the ants, her mossed skull heard

  the ants talking the language of her great-grandmother,

  the gossip of a distant market, and she understood,

  the way we follow our thoughts without any language,

  why the ants sent her this message to come to the wood

  where the wound of the flower, its gangrene, its rage

  festering for centuries, reeked with corrupted blood,

  seeped the pustular drops instead of sunlit dew

  into the skull, the brain of the earth, in the mind

  ashamed of its flesh, its hair. On the varnished pew

  of the church, she remembered the frantic messenger

  that had paused, making desperate sign
s, its oars

  lifted, but she had ignored the deaf-mute anger

  of the insect signing a language that was not hers,

  but now Ma Kilman, her hair wild, followed the vine

  of the generations of silent black workers, their hands

  passing stones so quickly against the white line

  of breakers, with coal-baskets, with invisible sounds,

  and the cries of the insects led her where she bowed

  her bare head and unbuttoned the small bone buttons

  of her church dress. Ma Kilman, in agony, bayed

  up at the lights moving in the high leaves, like aeons,

  like atoms, her dugs shifting like the sow’s in a shift

  of cheap satin. She rubbed dirt in her hair, she prayed

  in the language of ants and her grandmother, to lift

  the sore from its roots in Philoctete’s rotting shin,

  from the flower on his shin-blade, puckering inwards;

  she scraped the earth with her nails, and the sun

  put the clouds to its ears as her screech reeled backwards

  to its beginning, from the black original cave

  of the sibyl’s mouth, her howl made the emerald lizard

  lift one clawed leg, remembering the sound.

  Philoctete shook himself up from the bed of his grave,

  and felt the pain draining, as surf-flowers sink through sand.

  III

  See her there, my mother, my grandmother, my great-great-

  grandmother. See the black ants of their sons,

  their coal-carrying mothers. Feel the shame, the self-hate

  draining from all our bodies in the exhausted sleeping

  of a rumshop closed Sunday. There was no difference

  between me and Philoctete. One wound gibbers in the weeping

  mouth of the sibyl, the obeah-woman, in the swell

  of the huge white satin belly, the dark gust that bent her

  limbs till she was a tree of snakes, the spidery sibyl

  hanging in a sack from the cave at Cumae, the obeah

  that possessed her that the priests considered evil

  in their white satin frocks, because ants had lent her

  their language, the flower that withered on the floor

  of moss smelt sweet and spread its antipodal odour

  from the seed of the swift; now through a hot meadow

  of unnamed flowers, a large woman in a red-berried

  hat is walking. She comes down the broken brown road

  past the first houses, past the sun-stricken yards, the bed

  of a rivulet, past the crunching goats, where the buried

  lie under the cement stones at whose base the moss

  is evergreen, then the galvanized fences of rusted

  tin-covers, as if she had stopped off after Mass

  to gossip with neighbours, like ants at the end of a log,

  or the end of a street. Where Seven Seas, and a dog

  coiled in the dial’s shade of the pharmacy,

  closed for Sunday, senses her black, passing shape,

  and the only sound is the hot, lazy drum of the sea.

  Chapter XLIX

  I

  She bathed him in the brew of the root. The basin

  was one of those cauldrons from the old sugar-mill,

  with its charred pillars, rock pasture, and one grazing

  horse, looking like helmets that have tumbled downhill

  from an infantry charge. Children rang them with stones.

  Wildflowers sprung in them when the dirt found a seam.

  She had one in her back yard, close to the crotons,

  agape in its crusted, agonized O: the scream

  of centuries. She scraped its rusted scabs, she scoured

  the mouth of the cauldron, then fed a crackling pyre

  with palms and banana-trash. In the scream she poured

  tin after kerosene tin, its base black from fire,

  of seawater and sulphur. Into this she then fed

  the bubbling root and leaves. She led Philoctete

  to the gurgling lava. Trembling, he entered

  his bath like a boy. The lime leaves leeched to his wet

  knuckled spine like islands that cling to the basin

  of the rusted Caribbean. An icy sweat

  glazed his scalp, but he could feel the putrescent shin

  drain in the seethe like sucked marrow, he felt it drag

  the slime from his shame. She rammed him back to his place

  as he tried climbing out with: “Not yet!” With a rag

  sogged in a basin of ice she rubbed his squeezed face

  the way boys enjoy their mother’s ritual rage,

  and as he surrendered to her, the foul flower

  on his shin whitened and puckered, the corolla

  closed its thorns like the sea-egg. What else did it cure?

  II

  The bow leapt back to the palm of the warrior.

  The yoke of the wrong name lifted from his shoulders.

  His muscles loosened like those of a brown river

  that was dammed with silt, and then silkens its boulders

  with refreshing strength. His ribs thudded like a horse

  cantering on a beach that bursts into full gallop

  while a boy yanks at its rein with terrified “Whoas!”

  The white foam unlocked his coffles, his ribbed shallop

  broke from its anchor, and the water, which he swirled

  like a child, steered his brow into the right current,

  as calm as In God We Troust to that other world,

  and his flexed palm enclosed an oar with the ident-

  ical closure of a mouth around its own name,

  the way a sea-anemone closes slyly

  into a secrecy many mistake for shame.

  Centuries weigh down the head of the swamp-lily,

  its tribal burden arches the sea-almond’s spine,

  in barracoon back yards the soul-smoke still passes,

  but the wound has found her own cure. The soft days spin

  the spittle of the spider in webbed glasses,

  as she drenches the burning trash to its last flame,

  and the embers steam and hiss to the schoolboys’ cries

  when he’d weep in the window for their tribal shame.

  A shame for the loss of words, and a language tired

  of accepting that loss, and then all accepted.

  That was why the sea stank from the frothing urine

  of surf, and fish-guts reeked from the government shed,

  and why God pissed on the village for months of rain.

  But now, quite clearly the tears trickled down his face

  like rainwater down a cracked carafe from Choiseul,

  as he stood like a boy in his bath with the first clay’s

  innocent prick! So she threw Adam a towel.

  And the yard was Eden. And its light the first day’s.

  III

  And I felt the wrong love leaving me where I stood

  on the café balcony facing the small square

  and the tower with its banyan. I heard my blood

  echoing the lifted leaves of the hills, and fear

  leaving them like the rain; I felt her voice draining

  from mine. A drizzle passed, but the sprinkled asphalt,

  since the rain was shining and the sun was raining,

  dried quickly with the smell of a singeing iron,

  and whipped up the wet in sheets. My eyes were so clear

  that I counted the barrack-arches on the Morne,

  and traced the gauze of fine rain towards Soufrière

  and imagined it cooling the bubbling pits of

  the Malebolge, and beading its volcanic ferns

  with clear, sliding drops. The roofs glittered with that love

  which loses the other; clearer when it returns.

  The
process, the proof of a self-healing island

  whose every cove was a wound, from the sibyl’s art

  renewed my rain-washed eyes. I felt an elation

  opening and closing the valves of my panelled heart

  like a book or a butterfly. The drying roofs

  glittered with an interior light like Lucia’s

  and my joy was pounding like a stallion’s hooves

  on a morning beach scattering the crabbed wrestlers

  near Helen’s wall to this thudding metre it loves.

  Of course we had loved each other, but differently,

  as we loved the island. My braceleted Circe

  was gone, like the shining drizzle, far now, at sea,

  but the Caribbean ringed me with infinite mercy

  as it did the island. In her white pillared house

  I looked down from the wrong height, not like Philoctete

  limping among his yams and the yam flowers.

  My love was common as dirt; brown sheep bayed at it,

  as it sang an old hymn and scraped a yard with a broom,

  a yard with a bunioned plum-tree and old tires

  under the bunioned plum-tree. It was rusted from

  heat like a galvanized roof, it writhed from blue fires

  of garbage, hens pecked its eyes out, smoke made it cry

  for a begging breadfruit, an old head-scarfed woman

  in the bible of an open window, a boy

  steered it like a bicycle rim; like an onion

  it wept openly. In a shop, with its felt hat,

  it smelt of old age. It was carrying Hector’s child,

  and taking a break from the heat outside, it sat

  fanning its parted thighs, and whenever it smiled,

  it smiled for the island. It looked out on a street

  of small, fretwork uprights. It yelped when a mongrel

  skittered from a transport. All night, it sucked the sweet

  of an Extra-Strong moon till it melted. The smell

  of asphalt drying from rain was the breeze that shone

  on Philoctete’s skin, opening her gate with its bell,

  then turning to fit the hook, closing that question.

  Chapter L

  I

  Latticework shadows diamonded the verandah,

  crossing out plans for the Plunketts’ cruise. Brochures. Dates.

  “Time, time,” swayed the brass bells of the allamanda.

  “Cheap! Cheap!” the sparrows chirruped round the breakfast plates.

  On their last trip home he’d been shaken by it all:

  England cashing in on decayed gentility

  like the sneering portraits in their three-star hotel,

 

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