one instinct made you rise
out of this life, into another’s,
then from another’s, circling to your own?
You are folded in my eyes,
whose irises will open
to a white sky with bird and woman gone.” Derek Walcott (from his poem, “Guyana”)
Recurrence is the dead silence of the heartless noon
Belonging neither to the certainty of the
Precipitated moon nor to the improbable out
Pouring of phrases allowed with stingy
Grace, a hollowed out sense of remaining
True to the repetition, the steady thump
Thump of a wary heart, a quickening quick
Enough for a child's sense of proportion.
Recurrence is the most recent annulment of the pre
Varication of whim, the new instalment
Of story, of rhyme, the building up of
Yesterday in the mist of now. For the
Meter to start effecting, the efficacy
Of the myth has to give. For the thump
Thump to stay true to the repetition, the
Greys are allowed to persist in tandem.
Recurrence is the outpouring of this, of the untamed
Thus, of the poem's longing for bird, for
Woman, for the newness of word to spill
Over and to shriek. A final word of caution,
A parting shrill of care, a deafening of
Syllables aligned with song's want of care,
And a few parables of old, each one a pebble
Of some life, a grain of solidity in thick mist.
