By Vladimir Lucien
The moth that enters
your house at night is a grudge
that someone is holding
against you. It half-sits, bothered
by your light and the roof
over your head. It spreads
its small evening wherever
it lands over the things
you love most. A dark tent
of dark intentions.
Vladimir Lucien is a poet, screenwriter and actor from Saint Lucia, his first poetry collection, Sounding Ground (Peepal Tree Press, 2014) won the 2015 OCM Bocas Prize for Caribbean Literature.
By Derek Walcott
There are so many islands!
As many islands as the stars at night
on that branched tree from which meteors are shaken
like falling fruit around the schooner Flight.
But things must fall, and so it always was,
on one hand Venus, on the other Mars;
fall, and are one, just as this earth is one
island in archipelagoes of stars.
My first friend was the sea. Now, is my last.
I stop talking now. I work, then I read,
cotching under a lantern hooked to the mast.
I try to forget what happiness was,
and when that don’t work, I study the stars.
Sometimes is just me, and the soft-scissored foam
as the deck turn white and the moon open
a cloud like a door, and the light over me
is a road in white moonlight taking me home.
Shabine sang to you from the depths of the sea.