White Egrets

White Egrets

by Derek Walcott


View All Available Formats & Editions
Use Standard Shipping. For guaranteed delivery by December 24, use Express or Expedited Shipping.

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9780374532703
Publisher: Farrar, Straus and Giroux
Publication date: 03/15/2011
Pages: 96
Sales rank: 292,793
Product dimensions: 5.44(w) x 8.22(h) x 0.29(d)

About the Author

Derek Walcott (1930-2017) was born in St. Lucia, the West Indies, in 1930. His Collected Poems: 1948-1984 was published in 1986, and his subsequent works include a book-length poem, Omeros (1990); a collection of verse, The Bounty (1997); and, in an edition illustrated with his own paintings, the long poem Tiepolo's Hound (2000). His numerous plays include The Haitian Trilogy (2001) and Walker and The Ghost Dance (2002). Walcott received the Queen's Medal for Poetry in 1988 and the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1992.

Customer Reviews

Most Helpful Customer Reviews

See All Customer Reviews

White Egrets 4.5 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 2 reviews.
Fledgist on LibraryThing 27 days ago
A significant departure for Walcott. This mature, reflective work examines his past and the colonial history of the Caribbean in rhymed verse. This is elegiac, thoughtful, philosophical poetry. A work for the ages.
kidzdoc on LibraryThing 27 days ago
This superb collection of poetry by Nobel laureate Derek Walcott won the T.S. Eliot Prize for Poetry last year. It describes a man heading toward the end of his life, filled with the life and death of others, past and relatively current events such as 9/11, the election of Barack Obama, postcolonialism and post-postcolonialism in Africa, India, and the Caribbean, and post-Franco Spain, with frequent references to nature and his travels around the world. One especially touching poem is "Sixty Years After":In my wheelchair in the Virgin lounge at VieuxfortI saw, sitting in her own wheelchair, her beautyhunched like a crumpled flower, the one whom I thoughtas the fire of my young life would do her dutyto be golden and beautiful and young forevereven as I aged. She was treble-chinned, old, her devastatingsmile was netted in wrinkles, but I felt the feverbriefly returning as we sat there, crippled, hatingtime and the lie of general pleasantries.Small waves still break against the small stone pierwhere a boatman left me in the orange peaceof dusk, a half-century ago, maybe happierbeing erect, she like a deer in her shyness, I stalkingan impossible consummation; those who knew usknew we would never be together, at least not walking.Now the silent knives from the intercom went through us.