“What if impulsive, delicate bird
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.