Your poems

Upon your penitential morning, some skull must rub its memory with ashes, some mind must squat down howling in your dust, some hand must crawl and recollect your rubbish, someone must write your poems. …from “Mass Man,” by Derek Walcott, in The Gulf...

La belle qui fut…

Miss Rossignol lived in the lazaretto For Roman Catholic crones; she had white skin, And underneath it, fine, old-fashioned bones; Shew flew like bats to vespers every twilight, The living Magdalen of Donatello; And tipsy as a bottle when she stalked On stilted legs...