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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=368076" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>In The Virgins</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">You can't put in the ground swell of the organ<br>from the Christiansted, St.Croix, Anglican Church<br>behind the paratrooper's voice: 'Turned cop<br>after Vietnam. I made thirty jumps.'<br>Bells punish the dead street and pigeons lurch<br>from the stone belfry, opening their chutes,<br>circling until the rings of ringing stop.<br>'Salud!' The paratrooper's glass is raised.<br>The congregation rises to its feet<br>like a patrol, with scuffling shoes and boots,<br>repeating orders as the organ thumps:<br>'Praise Ye the Lord. The Lord's name be praised.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">You cannot hear, beyond the quiet harbor,<br>the breakers cannonading on the bruised<br>horizon, or the charter engines gunning for<br>Buck Island. The only war here is a war<br>of silence between blue sky and sea,<br>and just one voice, the marching choir's, is raised<br>to draft new conscripts with the ancient cry<br>of 'Onward, Christian Soldiers,' into pews<br>half-empty still, or like a glass, half-full.<br>Pinning itself to a cornice, a gull<br>hangs like a medal from the serge-blue sky.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Are these boats all? Is the blue water all?<br>The rocks surpliced with lace where they are moored,<br>dinghy, catamaran, and racing yawl,<br>nodding to the ground swell of 'Praise the Lord'?<br>Wesley and Watts, their evangelical light<br>lanced down the mine shafts to our chapel pew,<br>its beam gritted with motes of anthracite<br>that drifted on us in our chapel benches:<br>from God's slow-grinding mills in Lancashire,<br>ash on the dead mired in Flanders' trenches,<br>as a gray drizzle now defiles the view</div><div style="margin:10px 0">of this blue harbor, framed in windows where<br>two yellow palm fronds, jerked by the wind's rain,<br>agree like horses' necks, and nodding bear,<br>slow as a hearse, a haze of tasseled rain,<br>and, as the weather changes in a child,<br>the paradisal day outside grows dark,<br>the yachts flutter like moths in a gray jar,<br>the martial voices fade in thunder, while<br>across the harbor, like a timid lure,<br>a rainbow casts its seven-colored arc.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Tonight, now Sunday has been put to rest.<br>Altar lights ride the black glass where the yachts<br>stiffly repeat themselves and phosphoresce<br>with every ripple - the wide parking-lots<br>of tidal affluence - and every mast<br>sways the night's dial as its needle veers<br>to find the station which is truly peace.<br>Like neon lasers shot across the bars<br>discos blast out the music of the spheres,<br>and, one by one, science infects the stars.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Derek+Walcott">Derek Walcott</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=368076" data-title="In The Virgins de Derek Walcott" data-description="You can't put in the ground swell of the organ
from the Christiansted, St.Croix, Anglican Church
behind the paratrooper's voice: 'Turned cop
after Vietnam. I made thirty jumps.'
Bells punish the dead street and pigeons lurch
from the stone belfry,..."></div>
</div>
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