Those five or six young guys
hunched on the stoop
that oven-hot summer night
whistled me over. Nice
and friendly. So, I stop.
MacDougal or Christopher
Street in chains of light.

A summer festival. Or some
saint's. I wasn't too far from
home, but not too bright
for a nigger, and not too dark.
I figured we were all
one, wop, nigger, jew,
besides, this wasn't Central Park.
I'm coming on too strong? You figure
right! They beat this yellow nigger
black and blue.

Yeah. During all this, scared
in case one used a knife,
I hung my olive-green, just-bought
sports coat on a fire plug.
I did nothing. They fought
each other, really. Life
gives them a few kicks,
that's all. The spades, the spicks.

My face smashed in, my bloody mug
pouring, my olive-branch jacket saved
from cuts and tears,
I crawled four flights upstairs.
Sprawled in the gutter, I
remember a few watchers waved
loudly, and one kid's mother shouting
like 'Jackie' or 'Terry',
'now that's enough!'
It's nothing really.
They don't get enough love.

You know they wouldn't kill
you. Just playing rough,
like young America will.
Still, it taught me something
about love. If it's so tough,
forget it.

from Selected Poems (Faber & Faber, 2007), copyright © Derek Walcott 2007, used by permission of the author


Buy album £0.00


2A Far Cry from Africa

3Ruins of a Great House

4A Letter from Brooklyn

5The Castaway



8from Another Life

9Sea Grapes

10Saint Lucie

12Sea Canes

12from The Schooner Flight

13The Sea is History

14The Saddhu of Souva

15Forest of Europe

16The Season of Phantasmal Peace

17from Omeros

Books by Derek Walcott