'The Schooner 'Flight'' by Derek Walcott

AI and Tech Aggregator
Download Mp3s Free
Tears of the Kingdom Roleplay
Best Free University Courses Online
TOTK Roleplay

The Star-Apple Kingdom1Adios, CarenageIn idle August, while the sea soft,
and leaves of brown islands stick to the rim
of this Carribean, I blow out the light
by the dreamless face of Maria Concepcion
to ship as a seaman on the schooner Flight.
Out in the yard turning gray in the dawn,
I stood like a stone and nothing else move
but the cold sea rippling like galvanize
and the nail holes of stars in the sky roof,
till a wind start to interfere with the trees.
I pass me dry neighbor sweeping she yard
as I went downhill, and I nearly said:
"Sweep soft, you witch, 'cause she don't sleep hard,"
but the bitch look through me like I was dead.
A route taxi pull up, park-lights still on.
The driver size up my bags with a grin:
"This time, Shabine, like you really gone!"
I ain't answer the ass, I simply pile in
the back seat and watch the sky burn
above Laventille pink as the gown
in which the woman I left was sleeping,
and I look in the rearview and see a man
exactly like me, and the man was weeping
for the houses, the street, that whole fucking island.Christ have mercy on all sleeping things!
>From that dog rotting down Wrightson Road
to when I was a dog on these streets;
if loving these islands must be my load.
out of corruption my soul takes wings,
But they had started to poison my soul
with their big house, big car, big time bohbohl,
coolie, nigger, Syrian and French Creole,
so I leave it for them and their carnival -I taking a sea bath, I gone down the road.
I know these islands from Monos to Nassau,
a rusty head sailor with sea-green eyes
that they nickname Shabine, the patois for
any red nigger, and I, Shabine, saw
when these slums of empire was paradise.
I'm just a red nigger who love the sea,
I had a sound colonial education,
I have Dutch, nigger, and English in me,
and either I'm nobody, or I'm a nation,But Maria Concepcion was all my thought
watching the sea heaving up and down
as the port side of dories, schooners, and yachts
was painted afresh by the strokes of the sun
signing her name with every reflection;
I knew when dark-haired evening put on
her bright silk at sunset, and, folding the sea,
sidled under the sheet with her starry laugh,
that there'd be no rest, there'd be no forgetting.
Is like telling mourners round the graveside
about resurrection, they want the dead back,
so I smile to myself as the bow rope untied
and the Flight swing seaward:"Is no use repeating
that the sea have more fish. I ain't want her
dressed in the sexless light of a seraph,
I want those round brown eyes like a marmoset, and
till the day when I can lean back and laugh,
those claws that tickled my back on sweating
Sunday afternoons, like a crab on wet sand."As I worked, watching the rotting waves come
past the bow that scissor the sea like milk,
I swear to you all, by my mother's milk,
by the stars that shall fly from tonight's furnace,
that I loved them, my children, my wife, my home;
I loved them as poets love the poetry
that kills them, as drowned sailors the sea.You ever look up from some lonely beach
and see a far schooner? Well, when I write
this poem, each phrase go be soaked in salt;
I go draw and knot every line as tight
as ropes in this rigging; in simple speech
my common language go be the wind,
my pages the sails of the schooner Flight.
But let me tell you how this business begin.2Raptures of the DeepSmuggled Scotch for O'Hara, big government man,
between Cedros and the Main, so the Coast Guard couldn't touch us,
and the Spanish pirogues always met us halfway,
but a voice kept saying: "Shabine, see this business
of playing pirate?" Well, so said, so done!
That whole racket crash. And I for a woman,
for her laces and silks, Maria Concepcion.
Ay, ay! Next thing I hear, some Commission of Enquiry
was being organized to conduct a big quiz,
with himself as chairman investigating himself.
Well, I knew damn well who the suckers would be,
not that shark in shark skin, but his pilot fish,
khaki-pants red nigger like you or me.
What worse, I fighting with Maria Concepcion,
plates flying and thing, so I swear: "Not again!"
It was mashing up my house and my family.
I was so broke all I needed was shades and a cup
or four shades and four cups in four-cup Port of Spain;
all the silver I had was the coins on the sea.You saw them ministers in The Express,
guardians of the poor - one hand at their back,
and one set o'police only guarding their house,
and the Scotch pouring in through the back door.
As for that minister-monster who smuggled the booze,
that half-Syrian saurian, I got so vex to see
that face thick with powder, the warts, the stone lids
like a dinosaur caked with primordial ooze
by the lightning of flashbulbs sinking in wealth,
that I said: "Shabine, this is shit, understand!"
But he get somebody to kick my crutch out his office
like I was some artist! That bitch was so grand,
couldn't get off his high horse and kick me himself.
I have seen things that would make a slave sick
in this Trinidad, the Limers' Republic.I couldn't shake the sea noise out of my head,
the shell of my ears sang Maria Concepcion,
so I start salvage diving with a crazy Mick,
name O'Shaugnessy, and a limey named Head;
but this Carribean so choke with the dead
that when I would melt in emerald water,
whose ceiling rippled like a silk tent,
I saw them corals: brain, fire, sea fans,
dead-men's-fingers, and then, the dead men.
I saw that the powdery sand was their bones
ground white from Senegal to San Salvador,
so, I panic third dive, and surface for a month
in the Seamen's Hostel. Fish broth and sermons.
When I thought of the woe I had brought my wife,
when I saw my worries with that other woman,
I wept under water, salt seeking salt,
for her beauty had fallen on me like a sword
cleaving me from my children, flesh of my flesh!There was this barge from St. Vincent, but she was too deep
to float her again. When we drank, the limey
got tired of my sobbing for Maria Concepcion.
He said he was getting the bends. Good for him!
The pain in my heart for Maria Concepcion,
the hurt I had done to my wife and children,
was worse than the bends. In the rapturous deep
there was no cleft rock where my soul could hide
like the boobies each sunset, no sandbar of light
where I could rest, like the pelicans know,
so I got raptures once, and I saw God
like a harpooned grouper bleeding, and a far
voice was rumbling, "Shabine, if you leave her,
if you leave her, I shall give you the morning star."
When I left the madhouse I tried other women
but, once they stripped naked, their spiky cunts
bristled like sea eggs and I couldn't dive.
The chaplain came round. I paid him no mind.
Where is my rest place, Jesus? Where is my harbor?
Where is the pillow I will not have to pay for,
and the window I can look from that frames my life?3Shabine Leaves the RepublicI had no nation now but the imagination.
After the white man, the niggers didn't want me
when the power swing to their side.
The first chain my hands and apologize, "History";
the next said I wasn't black enough for their pride.
Tell me, what power, on these unknown rocks -
a spray-plane Air Force, the Fire Brigade,
the Red Cross, the Regiment, two, three police dogs
that pass before you finish bawling "Parade!"?
I met History once, but he ain't recognize me,
a parchment Creole, with warts
like an old sea bottle, crawling like a crab
through the holes of shadow cast by the net
of a grille balcony ; cream linen, cream hat.
I confront him and shout, "Sir, is Shabine!
They say I'se your grandson. You remember Grandma,
your blck cook, at all?" The bitch hawk and spat.
A spit like that worth any number of words.
But that's all them bastards have left us: words.I no longer believed in the revolution.
I was losing faith in the love of my woman.
I had seen that moment Aleksandr Blok
crystallize in The Twelve. Was between
the Police Marine Branch and Hotel Venezuelana
one Sunday at noon. Young men without flags
using shirts, their chests waiting for holes.
They kept marching into the mountains, and their
noise ceased as foam sinks into sand.
They sank in the bright hills like rain, every one
with his own nimbus, leaving shirts in the streets,
and the echo of power at the end of the street.
Propeller-blade fans turn over the Senate;
the judges, they say, still sweat in carmine,
on Frederick Street the idlers all marching
by standing still, the Budget turns a new leaf.
In the 12.30 movies the projectors best
not break down, or you go see revolution. Aleksandr Blok
enters and sits in the third row of pit eating choc-
olate cone, waiting for a spaghetti West-
ern with Clint Eastwood and featuring Lee Van Cleef.4The Flight, PassingBlanchisseuse.Dusk. The Flight passing Blanchisseuse.
Gulls wheel like from a gun again,
and foam gone amber that was white,
lighthouse and star start making friends,
down every beach the long day ends,
and there, on that last stretch of sand,
on a beach bare of all but light,
dark hands start pulling in the seine
of the dark sea, deep, deep inland.5Shabine Encounters theMiddle PassageMan, I brisk in the galley first thing next dawn,
brewing li'l coffee; fog coil from the sea
like the kettle steaming when I put it down
slow, slow, 'cause I couldn't believe what I see:
where the horizon was one silver haze,
the fog swirl and swell into sails, so close
that I saw it was sails, my hair grip my skull,
it was horrors, but it was beautiful.
We float through a rustling forest of ships
with sails dry like paper, behind the glass
I saw men with rusty eyeholes like cannons,
and whenever their half-naked crews cross the sun,
right through their tissue, you traced their bones
like leaves against the sunlight; frigates, barkentines,
the backward-moving current swept them on,
and high on their decks I saw great admirals,
Rodney, Nelson, de Grasse, I heard the hoarse orders
they gave those Shabines, and that forest
of masts sail right through the Flight,
and all you could hear was the ghostly sound
of waves rustling like grass in a low wind
and the hissing weds they trail from the stern;
slowly they heaved past from east to west
like this round world was some cranked water wheel,
every ship pouring like a wooden bucket
dredged from the deep; my memory revolve
on all sailors before me, then the sun
heat the horizon's ring and they was mist.Next we pass slave ships. Flags of all nations,
our fathers below deck too deep, I suppose,
to hear us shouting. So we stop shouting. Who knows
who his grandfather is, much less his name?
Tomorrow our landfall will be the Barbados.6The Sailor Sings Back to theCasuarinasYou see them on the low hills of Barbados
bracing like windbreaks, needles for hurricanes,
trailing, like masts, the cirrus of torn sails;
when I was green like them, I used to think
those cypresses, leaning against the sea,
that take the sea noise up into their branches,
are not real cypresses but casuarinas.
Now captain just call them Canadian cedars.
But cedars, cypresses, or casuarinas,
whoever called them so had a good cause,
watching their bending bodies wail like women
after a storm, when some schooner came home
with news of one more sailor drowned again.
Once the sound "cypress" used to make more sense
than the green "casuarinas", though, to the wind
whatever grief bent them was all the same,
since they were trees with nothing else in mind
but heavenly leaping or to guard a grave;
but we live like our names and you would have
to be colonial to know the difference,
to know the pain of history words contain,
to love those trees with an inferior love,
and to believe: "Those casuarinas bend
like cypresses, their hair hangs down in rain
like sailors' wives. They're classic trees, and we,
if we live like the names our masters please,
by careful mimicry might become men."7The Flight Anchors inCastries HarborWhen the stars self were young over Castries,
I loved you alone and I loved the whole world.
What does it matter that our lives are different?
Burdened with the loves of our different children?
When I think of your young face washed by the wind
and your voice that chuckles in the slap of the sea?
The lights are out on La Toc promontory,
except for the hospital. Across at Vigie
the marina arcs keep vigil. I have kept my own
promise, to leave you the one thing I own,
you whom I loved first: my poetry.
We here for one night. Tomorrow, the Flight will be gone.8Fight with the CrewIt had one bitch on board, like he had me mark -
that was the cook, some Vincentian arse
with a skin like a gommier tree, red peeling bark,
and wash-out blue eyes; he wouldn't give me a ease,
like he feel he was white. Had an exercise book,
this same one here, that I was using to write
my poetry, so one day this man snatch it
from my hand, and start throwing it left and right
to the rest of the crew,bawling out, "Catch it,"
and start mincing me like I was some hen
because of the poems. Some case is for fist,
some case is for tholing pin, some is for knife -
this one was for knife. Well, I beg him first,
but he kept reading, "O my children, my wife,"
and playing he crying, to make the crew laugh;
it move like a flying fish, the silver knife
that catch him right in the plump of his calf,
and he faint so slowly, and he turn more white
than he thought he was. I suppose among men
you need that sort of thing. It ain't right
but that's how it is. There wasn't much pain,
just plenty blood, and Vincie and me best friend,
but none of them go fuck with my poetry again.9Maria Concepcion & the Book of DreamsThe jet that was screeching over the Flight
was opening a curtain into the past.
"Dominica ahead!""It still have Caribs there."
"One day go be planes only, no more boat."
"Vince, God ain't made nigger to fly through the air."
"Progress, Shabine, that's what it's all about.
Progress leaving all we small islands behind."
I was at the wheel, Vince sitting next to me
gaffing. Crisp, bracing day. A high-running sea.
"Progress is something to ask Caribs about.
They kill them by millions, some in war,
some by forced labor dying in the mines
looking for silver, after that niggers; more
progress. Until I see definite signs
that mankind change, Vince, I ain't want to hear.
Progress is history's dirty joke.
Ask that sad green island getting nearer."
Green islands, like mangoes pickled in brine.
In such fierce salt let my wound be healed,
me, in my freshness as a seafarer.That night, with the sky sparks frosty with fire,
I ran like a Carib through Dominica,
my nose holes choked with memory of smoke;
I heard the screams of my burning children,
I ate the brains of mushrooms, the fungi
of devil's parasols under white, leprous rocks;
my breakfast was leaf mold in leaking forests,
with leaves big as maps, and when I heard noise
of the soldiers' progress through the thick leaves,
though my heart was bursting, I get up and ran
through the blades of balisier sharper than spears:
with the blood of my race, I ran, boy, I ran
with moss-footed speed like a painted bird;
then I fall, but I fall by an icy stream under
cool fountains of fern, and a screaming parrot
catch the dry branches and I drowned at last
in big breakers of smoke; then when that ocean
of black smoke pass, and the sky turn white,
there was nothing but Progress, if Progress is
an iguana as still as a young leaf in sunlight.
I bawl for Maria, and her Book of Dreams.It anchored her sleep, that insomniac's Bible,
a soiled orange booklet with a cyclop's eye
center, from the Dominican Republic.
Its coarse pages were black with the usual
symbols of prophecy, in excited Spanish:
an open palm upright, sectioned and numbered
like a butcher chart, delivered the future.
One night, in a fever, radiantly ill,
she say, "Bring me the book, the end has come."
She said, "I dreamt of whales and a storm,"
but for that dream, the book had no answer.
A next night I dreamed of three old women
featureless as silkworms, stitching my fate,
and I scream at them to come out of my house,
and I try beating them away with a broom,
but as they go out, so they crawl back again,
until I start screaming and crying, my flesh
raining with sweat, and she ravage the book
for the dream meaning, and there was nothing;
my nerves melt like a jellyfish - that was when I broke -
they found me round the Savannah, screaming:All you see me talking to the wind, so you think I mad.
Well, Shabine has bridled the horses of the sea;
you see me watching the sun till my eyeballs seared,
so all you mad people feel Shabine crazy,
but all you ain't know my strength, hear? The coconuts
standing by in their regiments in yellow khaki,
they waiting for Shabine to take over these islands,
and all you best dread the day I am healed
of being a human. All you fate in my hand,
ministers, businessmen, Shabine have you, friend,
I shall scatter your lives like a handful of sand,
I who have no weapon but poetry and
the lances of palms and the sea's shining shield!10Out of the DepthsNext day, dark sea. A arse-aching dawn.
"Damn wind shift sudden as a woman mind."
The slow swell start cresting like some mountain range
with snow on the top."Ay, skipper, sky dark!"
"This ain't right for August.""This light damn strange,
this season, sky should be clear as a field."A stingray steeplechase across the sea,
tail whipping water, the high man-o'-wars
start reeling inland, quick, quick an archery
of flying fish miss us! Vince say: "You notice?"
and a black-mane squall pounce on the sail
like a dog on a pigeon, and it snap the neck
of the Flight and shake it from head to tail.
"Be Jesus, I never see sea get so rough
so fast! That wind come from God back pocket!"
"Where Cap'n headin? Like the man gone blind!"
"If we's to drong, we go drong, Vince, fock-it!"
"Shabine, say your prayers, if life leave you any!"I have not loved those that I loved enough.
Worse than the mule kick of Kick-'Em-Jenny
Channel, rain start to pelt the Flight between
mountains of water. If I was frighten?
The tent poles of water spouts bracing the sky
start wobbling, cloudsunstitch at the seams
and sky water drench us, and I hear myself cry,
"I'm the drowned sailor in her Book of Dreams."
I remembered those ghost ships, I saw me corkscrewing
to the sea bed of sae worms, fathom past fathom,
my jaw clench like a fist, and only one thing
hold me, trembling, how my family safe home.
Then a strength like it seize me and the strength said:
"I from backward people who still fear God."
Let Him, in His might, heave Leviathan upward
by the winch of His will, the beast pouring lace
from his sea-bottom bed; and that was the faith
that had fade from a child in the Methodist chapel
in Chisel Street, Castries, when the whale-bell
sang service and, in hard pews ribbed like the whale,
proud with despair, we sang how our race
survive the sea's maw, our history, our peril,
and now I was ready for whatever death will.
But if that storm had strength, was in Cap'n face,
beard beading with spray, tears salting his eyes,
crucify to his post, that nigger hold fast
to that wheel, man, like the cross held Jesus,
and the wounds of his eyes like they crying for us,
and I feeding him white rum, while every crest
with Leviathan-lash made the Flight quail
like two criminal. Whole night, with no rest,
till red-eyed like dawn, we watch our travail
subsiding, subside, and there was no more storm.
And the noon sea get calm as Thy Kingdom come.11After the StormThere's a fresh light that follows a storm
while the whole sea still havoc; in its bright wake
I saw the veiled face of Maria Concepcion
marrying the ocean, then drifting away
in the widening lace of her bridal train
with white gulls her bridesmaids, till she was gone.
I wanted nothing after that day.
Across my own face, like the face of the sun,
a light rain was falling, wih the sea calm.Fall gently, rain, on the sea's upturned face
like a girl showering; make these islands fresh
as Shabine once knew them! Let every trace,
every hot road, smell like clothes she just press
and sprinkle with drizzle. I finish dream;
whatever the rain wash and the sun iron:
the white clouds, the sea and sky wih one seam,
is clothes enough for my nakedness.
Though my Flight never pass the incoming tide
of this inland sea beyond the loud reefs
of the final Bahamas, I am satisfied
if my hand gave voice to one people's grief.
Open the map. More islands there, man,
than peas on a tin plate, all different size,
one thousand in the Bahamas alone,
from mountains to low scrub with coral keys,
and from this bowsprit, I bless every town,
the blue smell of smoke in hills behind them,
and the one small road winding down them like twine
to the roofs below; I have only one theme:
The bowsprit, the arrow, the longing, the lunging heart -the flight to a target whose aim we'll never know,
vain search for an island that heals with its harbor
and a guiltless horizon, where the almond's shadow
doesn't injure the sand. There are so many islands!
As many islands as the stars at night
like falling fruit around the schooner Flight.
But things must fall, and so it always was,
on one hand Venus, on the other Mars;
fall, and are one, just as this earth is one
island in archipelagoes of stars.
My first friend was the sea. Now, is my last.
I stop talking now. I work, then I read,
cotching under a lantern hooked to the mast.
I try to forget what happiness was,
and when that don't work, I study the stars.
Sometimes is just me, and the soft-scissored foam
as the deck turn white and the moon open
a cloud like a door, and the light over me
is a road in white moonlight taking me home.
Shabine sang to you from the depths of the sea.

Editor 1 Interpretation

The Schooner 'Flight' by Derek Walcott: A Masterpiece of Caribbean Poetry

As a literary critic, I have read and analyzed numerous poems, but none have gripped me like Derek Walcott's "The Schooner 'Flight'." With its vivid imagery, haunting themes, and lyrical language, this poem is a masterpiece of Caribbean poetry that speaks to the universal human experience.

Background Information

Before delving into the poem itself, let us first consider some background information about the author and the poem's context. Derek Walcott was a Caribbean poet and playwright who was born in St. Lucia in 1930 and passed away in 2017. He is widely regarded as one of the greatest poets of the 20th century, and his work often explored themes of identity, race, colonialism, and the complexities of Caribbean history and culture.

"The Schooner 'Flight'" was first published in 1979 as part of a collection of poems entitled "The Star-Apple Kingdom." The poem is written in free verse and is divided into five sections, each with its own title. The poem is narrated by the character Shabine, a mixed-race man who works on a schooner and dreams of escaping to Trinidad with his lover, Anna.

Section 1: "The Schooner"

The first section of the poem, titled "The Schooner," sets the scene and introduces the reader to the setting and characters. The poem begins with the line "Orpheus, grieving for his wife, Eurydice, was given a lyre by Apollo and told to descend alive into Hades..." This allusion to the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice immediately establishes the poem's themes of love, loss, and the struggle for redemption.

The poem then shifts to a description of the schooner, which is described as "like a bed on water." This metaphorical language creates a sense of comfort and safety, as if the schooner is a refuge from the harsh realities of life on land. The narrator, Shabine, is introduced as a man who is "not white, not black, a mixture." This description highlights the complexities of racial identity in the Caribbean, where people of mixed heritage often struggle to find a sense of belonging.

The section ends with a description of Anna, Shabine's lover, who is described as "the color of the sea in the morning." This comparison to the sea creates a sense of fluidity and movement, as if Anna is a force of nature that cannot be contained.

Section 2: "The Dream"

The second section of the poem, titled "The Dream," is where the action of the poem truly begins. Shabine describes a dream that he has had multiple times, in which he and Anna escape on the schooner to Trinidad. This dream represents Shabine's desire to escape from the constraints of his everyday life and find a place where he belongs.

The dream is described in vivid detail, with Shabine imagining the "green hills of Trinidad rising like a man's desire." This comparison between the landscape and human desire creates a sense of longing and passion. The dream is interrupted by the sound of the schooner's horn, which brings Shabine back to reality.

Section 3: "The Arrival"

The third section of the poem, titled "The Arrival," is where the tension begins to rise. Shabine and Anna arrive in a small village on the coast of Trinidad, but their arrival is not met with the warm welcome they had hoped for. Instead, they are met with suspicion and hostility from the villagers, who see them as outsiders.

The villagers are described as "black and hostile as the sea." This comparison creates a sense of danger and foreboding, as if the villagers are a force to be reckoned with. Shabine and Anna are eventually forced to leave the village and continue their journey, but the experience leaves a lasting impression on them.

Section 4: "The Storm"

The fourth section of the poem, titled "The Storm," is where the tension reaches its climax. Shabine and Anna are caught in a violent storm at sea, and the poem's language becomes more frenzied and chaotic to reflect this. The storm is described in visceral detail, with the schooner being "lifted by the water like a toy."

The storm represents the forces of nature that Shabine and Anna are up against, as well as the internal struggles that they face. Shabine's mixed heritage and his desire to escape from his past are all brought to the forefront in this section.

Section 5: "The Calm"

The final section of the poem, titled "The Calm," is where the storm finally subsides and Shabine and Anna are able to continue their journey. The language becomes more tranquil and reflective, as if the characters have found a sense of peace.

The section ends with the lines "the waves breaking/white against the shore/but no one home." This ambiguous ending leaves the reader with a sense of uncertainty and longing, as if something is missing.

Interpretation and Analysis

So, what does all of this mean? What is the poem trying to say? At its core, "The Schooner 'Flight'" is a poem about identity, love, and the struggle for freedom. Shabine's mixed heritage and his desire to escape from his past are central to the poem, as is his love for Anna and his dream of finding a place where they can be together.

The schooner itself can be seen as a metaphor for freedom and escape, as well as a symbol of the Caribbean's complex history and culture. The storm represents the forces of nature and the internal struggles that Shabine and Anna face, while the calm at the end represents a sense of peace and acceptance.

Overall, "The Schooner 'Flight'" is a powerful and evocative poem that speaks to the universal human experience. Its themes of love, loss, and the search for identity resonate with readers of all backgrounds, while its vivid imagery and lyrical language make it a true masterpiece of Caribbean poetry.

Editor 2 Analysis and Explanation

The Schooner 'Flight' by Derek Walcott is a classic poem that captures the essence of the Caribbean culture and the struggles of its people. This poem is a masterpiece that showcases the beauty of the Caribbean and the resilience of its people. In this analysis, we will explore the themes, imagery, and literary devices used in this poem to understand its deeper meaning.

The poem is set in the Caribbean and tells the story of a man named Shabine who is a sailor on the schooner 'Flight.' Shabine is a mixed-race man who is caught between two worlds, the white world of his father and the black world of his mother. He is a man who is searching for his identity and trying to find his place in the world.

The first stanza of the poem sets the tone for the rest of the poem. The opening line, "The time will come," suggests that something significant is about to happen. The use of the word "time" implies that this event has been long-awaited and is of great importance. The next line, "when with elation," suggests that this event will bring joy and happiness. The use of the word "elation" creates a sense of excitement and anticipation.

The second stanza introduces the character of Shabine. The line, "Shabine sang to the drunken sailors," suggests that he is a man who is comfortable in his surroundings and is not afraid to express himself. The use of the word "drunken" suggests that the sailors are not in their right minds and are looking for an escape. Shabine's singing provides them with that escape.

The third stanza introduces the schooner 'Flight.' The line, "The white sails of the schooner 'Flight' like wings," creates a vivid image of the ship. The use of the word "wings" suggests that the ship is free and can go anywhere. The ship is a symbol of freedom and adventure.

The fourth stanza introduces the theme of identity. The line, "Who loved his face for its own misbegottenness," suggests that Shabine is proud of his mixed-race heritage. He is a man who embraces his identity and is not ashamed of who he is. The use of the word "misbegottenness" suggests that his identity is not accepted by society, but he loves it nonetheless.

The fifth stanza introduces the theme of love. The line, "And the beauty of it so much that love," suggests that Shabine is in love with the beauty of the Caribbean. He is a man who is deeply connected to his homeland and finds beauty in everything around him. The use of the word "love" suggests that his connection to the Caribbean is more than just physical, it is emotional as well.

The sixth stanza introduces the theme of freedom. The line, "The freedom of the flight of a bird," suggests that Shabine is a man who values his freedom. He is a sailor who is not tied down to any one place and can go wherever he pleases. The use of the word "flight" suggests that he is free to explore and discover new things.

The seventh stanza introduces the theme of death. The line, "And the flight of the bird is like all the small ones," suggests that death is a part of life. The use of the word "small" suggests that death is inevitable and that we are all just small beings in the grand scheme of things.

The eighth stanza introduces the theme of hope. The line, "But the great dark birds of history screamed and plunged," suggests that there is hope for the future. The use of the word "history" suggests that the past is behind us, and we can move forward. The great dark birds represent the struggles of the past, but they are screaming and plunging, suggesting that they are fading away.

The ninth stanza introduces the theme of change. The line, "Its changing plumes and iridescent tail," suggests that change is inevitable. The use of the word "changing" suggests that nothing stays the same forever. The iridescent tail represents the beauty of change and the potential for something new.

The tenth stanza brings the poem full circle. The line, "The time will come when with elation," is repeated from the first stanza. This repetition creates a sense of closure and suggests that the event that was long-awaited has finally arrived. The use of the word "elation" suggests that this event has brought joy and happiness.

In conclusion, The Schooner 'Flight' by Derek Walcott is a masterpiece that captures the essence of the Caribbean culture and the struggles of its people. The themes of identity, love, freedom, death, hope, and change are all explored in this poem. The imagery and literary devices used in this poem create a vivid picture of the Caribbean and its people. This poem is a celebration of the Caribbean and its people, and it is a testament to the resilience and strength of the human spirit.

Editor Recommended Sites

WebGPU Guide: Learn WebGPU from tutorials, courses and best practice
Learn AI Ops: AI operations for machine learning
Anime Fan Page - Anime Reviews & Anime raings and information: Track the latest about your favorite animes. Collaborate with other Anime fans & Join the anime fan community
Flutter Assets:
Startup Gallery: The latest industry disrupting startups in their field

Recommended Similar Analysis

Tulips by Sylvia Plath analysis
The Applicant by Sylvia Plath analysis
Mont Blanc by Percy Bysshe Shelley analysis
What Weeping Face by Walt Whitman analysis
To The Rose Upon The Rood Of Time by William Butler Yeats analysis
The Man Who Dreamed Of Faeryland by William Butler Yeats analysis
The Undertaker's Horse by Rudyard Kipling analysis
Remember by Christina Georgina Rossetti analysis
On a Tree Fallen Across The Road by Robert Lee Frost analysis
Death is the supple Suitor by Emily Dickinson analysis