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William LoganWalcott has captured his islands with a lushness and richness rare in our poetry — the outposts of empire once seemed as strange as Kipling’s India or Bishop’s Brazil. If air travel has brought them closer, it has brought their tragedies closer as well. No living poet has written verse more delicately rendered or distinguished than Walcott, though few individual poems seem destined to be remembered. For more than half a century he has served as our poet of exile — a man almost without a country, unless the country lies wherever he has landed, in flight from himself.
— The New York Times