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i.m. Derek Walcott 1930-2017
A brief exchange after a long reading.
You were tired, your chin tucked in your chest.
From where I stood, thought I could see your old
heart tossing, "like a threshing bamboo grove."
The stories of your kindness did not match
this grizzled countenance, this old man's dread
of company, which suffers family
well, though reluctantly, knowing time spent
alone by the beach was time much better
spent. Thought, too, you looked like my father will
one day no doubt look, if he grows a beard,
keeps adding on years away from the booze,
somehow turns into a Caribbean
son of a painter, doesn't age too fast.
He will speak like you did, low-toned and calm,
with a storm, long since weathered, still raging.
It's part of the battle for an old soul.
Somehow I feel it in me, too, even
in this happy life, with friends and a home.
The line moved along. I shuffled closer.
The nerves kept pulsing. What was I to say?
How could we speak, with a long list of friends
you were obliged to attend to? What cause
would you have to give me any of your
time?
Is it like I imagine it, old
age? Do you feel time speeding up, minutes
flitting by faster? Even you, who slows
even the fleetest feet down to a sea-
worthy clip, must sometimes think that it all
went by too quickly, must want it all back.
At last I approached, slim volume in hand,
trembling worse, not because you expect much,
(I know I'm just another outstretched hand)
but simply at the weight of things, your prize,
whatever else you might care to mention.
Relief washed over me (like the ocean
we both lived on as children, some thousands
of miles, decades apart, though by it we're
both blessed nevertheless) when my teacher
leaned in to you, his teacher, and described
me as worthy, in some way, of regard.
You raised your head with what looked like effort,
extended your hand, spoke quietly, "If
he thinks you're good, you must really be good."
And I smiled, unsure of how to seem
grateful, when all I'm used to is pining.
You signed the book, gave another nod, and
off I went, back into the old crowd, hands
clutching the proof, toward some smiling friends, who
waited and understood. "But not enough."
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