1. From “Hurucan”

    Derek Walcott

    you rage
    till we get your name right,
    till the surf and the bent palms dance
    to your tune, even if, at your entrance,
    clouds plod the horizon like caparisoned camels,
    and the wind begins to unwhirl
    like a burnoose; you abhor
    all other parallels
    but our own
    Hurucan.

    You scream like a man whose wife is dead,
    like a god who has lost his race,
    you yank the electric wires with wet hands.

    Then we think of a different name
    than the cute ones christened by radar,
    in the sludge that sways
    next day by the greased pierheads
    where a rowboat still rocks in fear