Forty Acres, a poem by Derek Walcott
Out of the turmoil emerges one emblem, an engraving�
a young Negro at dawn in straw hat and overalls,
an emblem of impossible prophecy: a crowd
dividing like the furrow which a mule has plowed,
parting for their president; a field of snow-flecked cotton
forty acres wide, of crows with predictable omens
that the young plowman ignores for his unforgotten
cotton-haired ancestors, while lined on one branch are a tense
court of bespectacled owls and, on the field�s receding rim
is a gesticulating scarecrow stamping with rage at him
while the small plow continues on this lined page
beyond the moaning ground, the lynching tree, the tornado�s black vengeance,
and the young plowman feels the change in his veins, heart, muscles, tendons,
till the field lies open like a flag as dawn�s sure
light streaks the field and furrows wait for the sower.
I've been told many times, directly and indirectly, notably by Geoffrey and Rustum, both of whom I admire, that if I read any one thing, then I must let it be Walcott. This poem proves them right.
a crowd
dividing like the furrow which a mule has ploughed,
parting for their president
a young Negro at dawn in straw hat and overalls,
an emblem of impossible prophecy: a crowd
dividing like the furrow which a mule has plowed,
parting for their president; a field of snow-flecked cotton
forty acres wide, of crows with predictable omens
that the young plowman ignores for his unforgotten
cotton-haired ancestors, while lined on one branch are a tense
court of bespectacled owls and, on the field�s receding rim
is a gesticulating scarecrow stamping with rage at him
while the small plow continues on this lined page
beyond the moaning ground, the lynching tree, the tornado�s black vengeance,
and the young plowman feels the change in his veins, heart, muscles, tendons,
till the field lies open like a flag as dawn�s sure
light streaks the field and furrows wait for the sower.
I've been told many times, directly and indirectly, notably by Geoffrey and Rustum, both of whom I admire, that if I read any one thing, then I must let it be Walcott. This poem proves them right.
a crowd
dividing like the furrow which a mule has ploughed,
parting for their president
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| Derek Walcott |
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