Notes from a small island A weblog by Jonathan Ali |
Friday, May 30, 2003 ...Yet, when dry winds rattle the flags whose bamboo lances bend to Hanuman, when, like chattel folded in a cloth knot, the debased brasses are tremblingly placed on flaking temple lintels, when the god stamps his bells and smoke writhes its blue arms for your lost India, the old men, threshing rice, rheum-eyed, paused, their brown gaze flecked with chaff, their loss chafed by the raw whine of the cinema-van calling the countryside to its own dark devotions, summoning the drowned from oceans of deep cane. The hymn to Mother India whores its lie. Your memory walks by its soft-spoken path, as flickering, broken Saturday jerks past like a cheap film. - From "Exile" by Derek Walcott, taken from The Gulf And Other Poems (1969). Today marks the 158th anniversary of the first arrival of Indians to Trinidad. posted by Jonathan | 1:36 PM 0 comments 0 Comments: |
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