Reading Walcott

For Andrew Mandelbaum


When this man writes white almonds, I pretend I'm blind
as a bat that's lying dreaming on a book of Homer,
so I can go on reading, in my head a number
of voices ricocheting, a deliquescent grind
of genuine island lilts and one that's less refined:
my landlocked cracker mimick. No. We must remember
the almonds. White, he said. Alright. I see a comber
Curling in, on top a watermelon rind-

white froth of foam that seems to want to settle down
upon an arc of shoreline where I see together
a woman and a man in daylight sharp as a diamond.
Her hair is dark and flying loose, skin cinnamon-brown,
half-naked, and him the same; they laugh and love the weather.
They wave me over to them, toss me a sweet white almond.

Ballad of Morning Star

I got up sick this morning, Lord,
  it always starts that way,
and found that my old lady
  and my hound dog ran away.
My landlord said, "boy, pony up
  for two months now, or split."
O Lord, you know just what I got,
  but I'm not sayin' it.

I took a bus on into town,
  to find a paying job,
a hard-ass boss just up and said
  I was a no-good slob;
I almost wrung his scrawny throat,
  so angry I could spit,
O Lord you know just what I got,
  but I'm not sayin' it.

I thought about an old guitar
  that I had put away.
I bought it as a strapping lad,
  but could not hardly play.
I'd pluck and strum all night but still
  I'd turn a song to shit,
O Lord, you know just what I got,
  but I'm not sayin' it.

So in a filthy bar I sat down
  with a glass of scotch
to sum up all my good and bad
  and wound up with a botch.
My Daddy said in days long past
  a good man would not quit,
But Lord you know what I still got,
  though I'm not sayin' it.

A sharp young man was sitting tall,
  just down that sticky bar,
who drank out of a shot glass
  with a hand as black as tar;
and with a grin that shadow-man
  shook up my soul a bit:
(O Lord, that man knows what I got,
  though I'm not sayin' it.)

"I'm known as Morning Star," that man said,
  with a frightful hiss,
"though I'm as dark as night and cold
  as any warlock's piss."
His words slid out as chill as mist
  from an unholy pit.
O Lord I saw him plain as day,
  but would not own to it!

"Up in your room, dirty with dust,
  you stow an old guitar,
go find it now and brush up on
  your chops", said Morning Star,
"Tonight is inspiration;
  and tomorrow, bang, a hit!"
O Lord, I saw him through and through,
  but did not own to it!

Tonight I took that old guitar and,
  good Lord, how it rang!
what chords my hands could fashion now,
  how gloriously I sang!
But, Lord, I took that old guitar
  and, in a pious fit,
I cast it down and with an oath said,
  "I'm not playin' it!"

My room got hot, a ghostly moonlight
  through a window sash
lit up that old guitar which now
  was but a mound of ash;
and, nigh but out of sight, old Morning Star
  spat, "I admit,
Your will is strong, your soul is God's,
  and I'm not touching it."

And soon a stormy wind struck up that,
  blowing hard and fast,
wild as a pack of jackals braying
  with a furious blast,
took up that ash and had it spinning
  quick as a hot drill bit...
  ...Still got an old harmonica,
        but I ain't too fond of it.


2004