Guinea Woman

It seems her fate was anchored
in the unfathomable sea
for her great grandmother caught the eye of a sailor
whose ship sailed without him from Lucea harbour.
Great grandmother's royal scent of
cinnamon and escallions
drew the sailor up the straits of Africa,
the evidence my blue-eyed grandmother
the first Mulatta
taken into backra's household
and covered with his name.
They forbade great grandmother's 
guinea woman presence
they washed away her scent of
cinnamon and escallions
controlled the child's antelope walk
and called her uprisings rebellions.

This poem brings to light conflicts with being mixed that arose in this family. The children of "Great Grandmother" and the sailor from Lucea were controlled as they were growing up and in the process, their quirks and actions were controlled by the family not to be that of their mother and father's. But as time went on, their grandmother's traits were still there and no matter what they did they came back. Unhomeliness suggested by great grandmother's interaction outside her own race.

Blues by Derek Walcott

Those five or six young guys
lunched on the stoop
that oven-hot summer night
whistled me over. Nice
and friendly. So, I stop.
MacDougal or Christopher
Street in chains of light.

A summer festival. Or some
saint's. I wasn't too far from
home, but not too bright
for a nigger, and not too dark.
I figured we were all
one, wop, nigger, jew,
besides, this wasn't Central Park.
I'm coming on too strong? You figure
right! They beat this yellow nigger
black and blue.

     This poem by Derek Walcott is a bit difficult to analyze given that it is rather difficult to figure out when it was written. However, a line does appear that strikes dischord with me.

"I figured we were all one, wop, nigger, jew, besides, this wasn't Central Park." 

I felt that this meant that in his eyes, (probably Derek Walcott's Eyes), he viewed himself as the same as the same as these other groups. He even used the terms that were used to refer to certain groups of people that had undergone their hardships in the past. But, even though all 3 groups had been discriminated against, he was beaten up and on top of that for nothing. His group was still considered lower even after considerable attempts in history to correct that. 

I did nothing. They fought

each other, really. Life

gives them a few kcks,

that's all. The spades, the spicks.

I felt this line was a symbol of the war within the world on how to deal with these many racial groups and how it caused problems within their own groups as individual opinions waged war on each other.

You know they wouldn't kill
you. Just playing rough,
like young Americans will.
Still it taught me somthing
about love. If it's so tough,
forget it.

     I think this last piece is about how opinions of America formed. Played rough and like to try to fix things but, if it was gonna cause so much trouble, then maybe their help is not worth it.

A Far Cry From Africa

"Again brutish necessity wipes its hands

Upon the napkin of a dirty cause, again

A waste of our compassion, as with Spain,

The gorilla wrestles with the superman.

I who am poisoned with the blood of both,

Where shall I turn, divided to the vein?

I who have cursed

The drunken officer of British rule, how choose

Between this Africa and the English tongue I love?

Betray them both, or give back what they give?

How can I face such slaughter and be cool?

How can I turn from Africa and live?"

     This is an excerpt from Derek Walcott's A Far Cry From Africa. Unlike much of what we have read before, it is fairly short and written in a poetic form. In it, you can see the conflicts he has being forced to choose "Between this Africa and the English tongue I love?" It seems to be a political poem on the state of affairs in Africa.

Much like Codicil, A Far Cry From Africa, seems to be wrecked with this conflict of 2 things.

To change your language you must change your life.

"I cannot right old wrongs.

Waves tire of horizon and return.

Gulls screech with rusty tongues

Above the beached, rotting pirogues,

they were a venomous beaked cloud at Charlotteville.

One I thought love of country was enough,

now, even if I chose, there is no room at the trough.

I watch the best minds rot like dogs

for scraps of flavour.

I am nearing middle

age, burnt skin

peels from my hand like paper, onion-thin,

like Peer Gynt's riddle."

'"From David Walcott's Codicil"'

Having to choose between the country and the what was once the governing power, the colonizer. This conflict seems to be the basis for the emotions expressed within both poems. Conflict between the past and the future.