Derek Walcott, 1992 Nobel Prize in Literature laureate, 1993 was born in Saint Lucia, British West Indies. He was educated at St Mary's College on the island and the University of the West Indies in Kingston, Jamaica. Later, he moved to Trinidad, engaged in book review, art criticism and script creation, founded Trinidad Theatre, and served as supervisor until 1977. Walcott is currently teaching at Boston University, but he is concerned about the cultural and ethnic dilemmas in the history of the West Indies and still pursues these dilemmas from his own land and origin. Although he writes fluently in English, he often incorporates West Indian dialects into his poems, hoping to establish a language of his own race.
Chinese name: Walcott
DerekWalcott
Nationality: UK
Place of birth: Saint Lucia, British West Indies
Occupation: teacher, writer
Graduate School: University of the West Indies
Main achievements: 1992 Nobel Prize in Literature.
Masterpiece: The Call of Africa
brief introduction
Walcott has black and English blood on him at the same time. English is his writing language, and he tried to make a groundbreaking poetic sound from this worldwide language. He not only draws nutrients from the English literary tradition, but also always forgets the history of the colonial country where he grew up. For example, he developed a unique poetic style, which took into account the blood relationship between Europe and Africa, and combined complex images with simple language. Walcott explored a wide range of themes with diverse poetic styles: racial issues, inhumanity of colonialism, self-orientation and pursuit, cultural and political alienation and identity, all of which are the themes of his thinking. He inherited the dual literary traditions of Africa and Europe, and the contradictions and struggles caused by the dual cultural shock in the keen mind of Walcott are the themes that constantly flash in his poems. In the poem "Afracry FromaAfrica", the poet said, "I was poisoned by the blood of both, and I was completely divided. Where should I go? " _ I once cursed the drunken British colonial officials. How should I choose between such Africa and my beloved Britain? _ How can I calmly face such a massacre? _ How can I live without Africa? In Walcott, we confirm Yates' famous saying: "Arguing with self is the motive force of poetry creation. 」
African long distance call
A gust of wind wrinkled Africa.
Yellow and brown fur. Kikuyus as agile as flies,
Ye Ping's blood.
Bodies are all over heaven.
Only worm maggots, carrion head, shouted:
"Don't waste pity on these individual dead people! 」
Statistics will fully prove that scholars will agree.
Superiority of colonial policy.
What does this have to do with the white kid who was hacked to death in bed?
What does a barbarian abandoned like a Jew have to do with this?
When the arrested birds are driven away, the crested ibis is like a mass of white dust and fog.
Crowds poured in, and their cries
Since the beginning of civilization, it has been circulating.
Since the dry river, since the plains where animals gather.
Violent fighting between wild animals is considered to be
Natural laws, but honest human beings
It's about torturing others and creating their own sacredness.
Crazy, like these anxious beasts, he defeated.
An inspiring war made up of tight bodies,
And his so-called courage is still for the dead.
Built by the instinctive fear of white peace.
However, the necessary animal nature is disguised as despicable.
An excuse to wipe your hands with a napkin, but still
We wasted our sympathy, just like the Spanish Civil War.
Gorillas wrestle with Superman.
Poisoned by the blood of both sides,
Completely split, where should I invest?
I once cursed drunken British colonial officials. How about that?
Choose between such Africa and my favorite English?
Betray them both, or give me back what they gave me?
How can I face such a massacre calmly?
How can I live without Africa?
The title of this poem "AFarCryFromAfrica" is a subtle pun: it can be interpreted as "far away from Africa" and "a distant cry from Africa", which fully shows Walcott's inner struggle as a black poet. It is mentioned in the poem that the Kikuyu radical organization "Mao Mao" in East Africa began a long-term terrorist retaliation against the British colonists living in Kenya in 1952. By 1956, 100 Europeans, 2,000 Africans who supported Britain and 1 1000 rebels had died among them.
Garden night in port of Spain
Night, black summer, simplified her breathing.
For a village: she is unfathomable.
Black musk, as mysterious as sweat stains,
Her alley smelled of oyster shells,
Orange coal, claw-colored brazier.
Trading and tambourines increased her heat.
Hellfire or brothel: the street opposite the park
The sailors' faces bulged like waves and followed.
Marine phosphorescence disappears; nightclub
Jingle sounds like fireflies through her thick hair.
Bright lights, deafening taxi horns,
She raised her face from the cheap asphalt shine.
Looking up at the white stars, like cities, flashing neon,
Burning became her destiny takes a hand prostitute.
At dawn, a coolie drove a car full.
The coconut truck with its head cut off by a random knife set foot on its way home.
Port of Spain is the capital of Trinidad in the British West Indies.
force
Life will keep knocking the grass into the ground.
I admire this violence;
Love is steel. I admire
The violent interaction between broken waves and rocks.
They have a tacit understanding.
I can even understand
An agreement between a galloping lion and a frightened doe,
Her eyes showed an awareness of terror.
What I'll never understand is
Write down this poem
This beast disguised as the core of life.
volcano
Joe is very sad and afraid of thunder.
But the lions in Zurich Zoo
Roaring at his funeral.
Zurich or Riyadh?
It doesn't matter, it's just a legend, like
Joe's tragic death is also a legend,
Conrad is dead, and immortality is not enough.
The same is true of rumors all over the sky.
On the horizon at night,
A cargo mast at sea miles away
Projecting two strong lights onto
This seaside villa on the cliff,
Until dawn; They're like
The red light of cigars,
Like the end of "eternal life"
The red flame of a volcano.
One can become a master.
The slowly burning signal gives up writing and becomes
Their ideal readers, thoughtfully,
The desire for knowledge makes the love for masterpieces
An attempt to surpass oneself
The urge to reproduce or surpass,
Become the greatest reader in the world.
This must at least have a heart of awe-
This era is long gone,
So many people have seen everything,
Many people can predict the future,
So many people refuse to accept immortals.
Silence, the core of rejection
Burning lazily,
A lot of people are like
The rising ashes are like cigars,
Many people think that thunder is inevitable,
How common lightning has become,
Where is the sea giant now,
We stopped looking for it!
There were giants at that time,
Good cigars were produced at that time.
I must read more carefully.
new world
After the Garden of Eden,
But what else is amazing?
Yes, Adam. Yes
The awe of the first sweat.
From then on, all sentient beings
Sprinkle salt,
Accept the edges and corners of the season,
Fear and gain,
Happiness-it's hard,
But at least it belongs to you.
What about the snake? He doesn't want to join.
The forked tree rusted.
The snake praises labor,
It won't let him go
They looked at the leaves.
Shake the white alder,
October oak trees are dyed yellow,
Everything turned into money.
Take Adam's ark as an example.
Exiled to our new Eden,
The newly cast snake is also to urge relatives and neighbors.
Coiled here; Everything is predestined.
Adam has an idea.
For the benefit, he and the snake
Share the loss of Eden.
Together they created a new world. It looks good.
destination
I live by water,
One person. Without his wife and children,
I have bypassed all possibilities.
Just came here:
A low gray house by the water,
The window is always open.
Moldy sea. These are not what we want,
But we created ourselves.
We suffer, the years pass,
We unloaded the goods, but we couldn't unload them.
Family fatigue. Love is a stone.
Put it under grey water
Now at the bottom of the sea, for poetry
I just want the real feeling.
No pity, no fame, no wound healing. A silent wife,
We can sit and watch the gray water.
In mediocrity and
In a life full of garbage
Live like a stone.
I'll forget how I feel,
Forget my gift. That's better than mediocrity
Life is greater and harder.
Midsummer: 27
Something here is unconsciously americanized-
The chain-like fence roared in the open sea.
Separated from the open court, gap
The voice of "empire" hummed into the voice of "low country";
An early gannet in the gray metallic light,
Turn off the engine and slide on the pink sea as cold as Maine.
This light warms the thirsty white side of the fuselage-
It stopped under the mottled hills of St. Thomas.
Landing runway. Those warehouses, brown, practical aircraft warehouses,
This is just like what we saw during the last war occupation.
Leaving a stench under the Casuarina tree at night,
The villa is fenced off from the beach where local people walk-
Illegal immigrants from unfortunate islands,
They envy hydra the right to work.
Crabs and molluscs smuggled in here are citizens.
Ye Zi has a green card. Bulldozer bumps
Dig up this hill, but we all know it is
Industrial dust must be tolerated. Soon-
Ripples in all aspects will be large.
Zinc is welded by burning solar acetylene. at present
Mao Mao rain is American rain,
Sew stars on the beach. My blood cells
It changes just as fast. I'm afraid of what immigrants crave:
The multi-star pattern they made-the flag above the post office-
The characteristics of dust, the loyalty that changes under my feet.