Auction and Derek Walcott
Jul. 19th, 2014 11:54 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
Done little today. I have had a bad headache this morning and hence decided to have some more sleep time. I also restarted an E bay page to try to increase funds from the selling of some items in an auction. Done twelve items so far starting at 99 p each which gives me free listing. Auction ends in 7 days ti me.
The auction is under the moniker jazzyd155.
This self promotion is not really my shtick, but if i don't do it, i will never find out if i have piqued some interest. .
. Almost finished reading the Kurt Vonnegut SF novel "The Sirens Of Titan" , and that too may go to the auction.
Listening to the radio, a celebration of the Saint Lucian poet Derek Walcott who is now 84.
Here is one of his poems -
Sea Grapes
BY DEREK WALCOTT
That sail which leans on light,
tired of islands,
a schooner beating up the Caribbean
for home, could be Odysseus,
home-bound on the Aegean;
that father and husband's
longing, under gnarled sour grapes, is
like the adulterer hearing Nausicaa's name
in every gull's outcry.
This brings nobody peace. The ancient war
between obsession and responsibility
will never finish and has been the same
for the sea-wanderer or the one on shore
now wriggling on his sandals to walk home,
since Troy sighed its last flame,
and the blind giant's boulder heaved the trough
from whose groundswell the great hexameters come
to the conclusions of exhausted surf.
The classics can console. But not enough.
The auction is under the moniker jazzyd155.
This self promotion is not really my shtick, but if i don't do it, i will never find out if i have piqued some interest. .
. Almost finished reading the Kurt Vonnegut SF novel "The Sirens Of Titan" , and that too may go to the auction.
Listening to the radio, a celebration of the Saint Lucian poet Derek Walcott who is now 84.
Here is one of his poems -
Sea Grapes
BY DEREK WALCOTT
That sail which leans on light,
tired of islands,
a schooner beating up the Caribbean
for home, could be Odysseus,
home-bound on the Aegean;
that father and husband's
longing, under gnarled sour grapes, is
like the adulterer hearing Nausicaa's name
in every gull's outcry.
This brings nobody peace. The ancient war
between obsession and responsibility
will never finish and has been the same
for the sea-wanderer or the one on shore
now wriggling on his sandals to walk home,
since Troy sighed its last flame,
and the blind giant's boulder heaved the trough
from whose groundswell the great hexameters come
to the conclusions of exhausted surf.
The classics can console. But not enough.