THE LIGHT OF THE WORLD - Derek Walcott - Saint Lucia - Poetry International
Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Derek Walcott

THE LIGHT OF THE WORLD

HET LICHT VAN DE WERELD

Marley was aan het rocken op de bus-stereo
en de schoonheid neuriede rustig mee met de koortjes.
Ik kon zien waar het licht op het vlak van haar wang
strepen trok, er contouren aan gaf; als dit
een portret was zou je dit licht voor het laatst bewaren;
het maakte van zijde haar zwarte huid; ik zou er
een oorbel bij doen, iets simpels van echt goud,
voor het contrast, maar zij droeg geen sieraad.
Ik verbeeldde mij dat er een sterke en zoete
geur van haar kwam, als van een stille panter,
en het hoofd was van een pure heraldiek.
Toen ze naar me keek en toen netjes van me wegkeek
omdat het onbeleefd is naar vreemden te staren,
was het als een standbeeld, als De vrijheid die het volk
leidt van een zwarte Delacroix, het iets uitpuilende
wit van haar ogen, de uit ebbenhout gesneden mond,
het stevige van de romp, die van een vrouw,
maar allengs verdween zelfs dat in de schemer,
op de lijn van haar profiel na, en de belichte wang,
en ik dacht: O Schoonheid, jij bent het licht van de wereld!

Het was niet de enige keer dat ik aan die zin moest denken
in het busje-voor-zestien-passagiers dat zoemde tussen
Gros-Islet en de Markt, met zijn gruis van houtskool
en het groente-afval na de zaterdagmarkt
en de krijsende rum-shops, met voor de lichte deuren
dronken vrouwen op het trottoir, het droevigst van alles,
die hun week afsloten, hun week afwonden.
De Markt herinnerde zich, toen hij afliep op zaterdagavond,
een kindertijd van zwervende gaslantaarns
aan palen op straathoeken, en het oude rumoer
van kooplui en verkeer, toen de aansteker op zijn ladder
de lantaren vastmaakte aan zijn paal en doorging naar
een volgende, en de kinderen wendden hun blik naar de motten,
hun ogen wit als hun nachtgoed; de Markt zelf
was opgesloten in zijn erbij betrokken donker
en de schaduwen ruzieden om brood in de winkels,
of ruzieden uit de geijkte gewoonte van het ruzieen
in de electrische rum-shops. Ik herinner me de schaduwen.

De bus liep langzaam vol in het donker wordende station.
Ik zat op de voorste bank, ik had geen behoefte aan tijd.
Ik keek naar twee meisjes, een in een geel lijfje
en gele shorts, met een bloem in het haar,
en ik begeerde vredig; de andere boeide me minder.
Die avond had ik door de straten gelopen van de stad
waar ik geboren was en was opgegroeid, denkend aan
mijn moeder met haar witte haar getint door de schemer,
en de scheve dooshuizen die pervers leken
in hun kramp; ik had naar binnen gekeken in woonkamers
met halfgesloten jalouzieen, naar het doffe meubilair,
Morris-stoelen, een tafel met kunstbloemen in het midden,
en de lithografie van Christus van het Heilige Hart,
venters die nog leurden langs de lege straten -
snoepjes, noten, slappe chocola, notentaart, pepermunt.

Een oude vrouw met een strooien hoed op haar hoofddoek
hobbelde naar ons toe met een mand; ergens, verder
weg, stond een zwaardere mand die zij
niet kon dragen. Ze was in paniek.
Ze zei tegen de chauffeur: 'Pas quittez moi a terre',
wat in haar patois betekent: 'Laat me niet achter',
wat in de geschiedenis van haar en van haar volk is:
'Laat mij niet op aarde' of, met een andere klemtoon:
'Laat mij de aarde niet na' (als erfenis):
'Pas quittez moi a terre, Hemels vehikel,
Laat mij niet op de aarde, ik heb er genoeg van.'
De bus liep vol in het donker met zware schaduwen
die niet op aarde achter wilden blijven; nee, dat
zou zijn: aan de aarde overgeleverd. Verlating
was iets waaraan ze gewend waren geraakt.

En ik had hen verlaten, ik wist dat daar,
zittend in de bus, in de zee-kalme schemering
met mannen gehurkt in kano's, en de oranje lichten
van het Vigie-voorgebergte, zwarte boten op het water;
ik, die mijn schaduw nooit stevig genoeg kon maken
om een van hun schaduwen te zijn, had ze hun aarde
gelaten, hun witte-rum-ruzies en hun kolenzakken,
hun haat jegens korporaals, jegens elke autoriteit.
Ik voelde een grote liefde voor de vrouw bij het raam.
Ik wilde met haar deze avond naar huis gaan.
Ik wilde dat zij de sleutel had van ons kleine huis
bij het strand van Gros-Ilet; ik wilde dat zij een
gladde witte nachtpon zou aantrekken die als water
zou stromen over de zwarte rotsen van haar borsten,
simpel naast haar liggen bij de kring van een koperen
petroleumlamp, en haar in stilte vertellen
dat haar haar was als een nachtelijk bos op een heuvel,
dat er een sijpelen van rivieren was in haar oksels,
dat ik Benin voor haar zou kopen als ze dat wilde,
en haar nooit op aarde zou laten. Maar de anderen ook niet.

Omdat ik een grote liefde voelde die mij tot tranen zou kunnen
bewegen, en een meelij dat mijn ogen prikte als een
brandnetel; ik was bang dat ik in snikken zou uitbarsten
in de bus met de Marley aan het zingen en
een jongetje dat over de schouder van de chauffeur
tuurde en ik ook naar de tegemoetkomende lichten,
naar het voortsnellen van de weg in het landelijk donker,
met lampen in de huizen op de lage heuvels,
en struikgewas van sterren; ik had ze verlaten,
ik had ze op aarde gelaten, ik had ze Marley's songs
laten zingen van een droefheid zo echt als de geur
van regen op droge aarde, of de geur van nat zand,
en de bus voelde warm van hun nabuurschap,
hun wellevendheid en het beleefd afscheidnemen

in het licht van de koplampen. In de luide,
stampend snikkende muziek, de dwingende reuk
die van hun lijven kwam. Ik wilde dat de bus
altijd zou doorgaan, dat niemand uit zou stappen
en goedenavond zou zeggen in het licht van de lampen
en het bochtige pad in zou slaan naar de verlichte deur,
geleid door vuurvliegjes; ik wilde dat haar schoonheid
terecht zou komen in de warmte van wellevend hout,
het opgelucht rammelen van emaille borden
in de keuken, en de boom op de binnenplaats,
maar ik was bij mijn halte. Voor het Halcyon Hotel.
De lounge zou vol passanten zijn zoals ikzelf.
Dan zou ik wandelen met de branding op het strand.
Ik stapte uit zonder goedenavond te zeggen.
Goedenavond zou vol onuitsprekelijke liefde zijn.
Zij gingen verder in hun bus, ze lieten mij op aarde.

Toen, een paar meter verder, stopte de bus. Een man
schreeuwde mijn naam uit het raampje.
Ik liep op hem toe. Hij stak mij iets toe.
Er was een pakje sigaretten uit mijn zak gevallen.
Hij gaf het me. Ik draaide me om, verborg mijn tranen.
Er was niets wat ze wilden hebben, ik kon ze niets geven,
behalve dit ding, dat ik heb genoemd 'Het licht van de wereld.'

THE LIGHT OF THE WORLD

Marley was rocking on the transport's stereo
and the beauty was humming the choruses quietly.
I could see where the lights on the planes of her cheek
streaked and defined them; if this were a portrait
you'd leave the highlights for last, these lights
silkened her black skin; I'd have put in an earring,
something simple, in good gold, for contrast, but she
wore no jewelry. I imagined a powerful and sweet
odour coming from her, as from a still panther,
and the head was nothing else but heraldic.
When she looked at me, then away from me politely
because any staring at strangers is impolite,
it was like a statue, like a black Delacroix's
Liberty leading the People, the gently bulging
whites of her eyes, the carved ebony mouth,
the heft of the torso solid, and a woman's,
but gradually even that was going in the dusk,
except the line of her profile, and the highlit cheek,
and I thought, O Beauty, you are the light of the world!

It was not the only time I would think of that phrase
in the sixteen-seater transport that hummed between
Gros-Islet and the Market, with its grit of charcoal
and the litter of vegetables after Saturday's sales,
and the roaring rum shops, outside whose bright doors
you saw drunk women on pavements, the saddest of all things,
winding up their week, winding down their week.
The Market, as it closed on this Saturday night,
remembered a childhood of wandering gas lanterns
hung on poles at street corners, and the old roar
of vendors and traffic, when the lamplighter climbed,
hooked the lantern on its pole and moved on to another,
and the children turned their faces to its moth, their
eyes white as their nighties; the Market
itself was closed in its involved darkness
and the shadows quarrelled for bread in the shops,
or quarrelled for the formal custom of quarrelling
in the electric rum shops. I remember the shadows.

The van was slowly filling in the darkening depot.
I sat in the front seat, I had no need for time.
I looked at two girls, one in a yellow bodice
and yellow shorts, with a flower in her hair,
and lusted in peace, the other less interesting.
That evening I had walked the streets of the town
where I was born and grew up, thinking of my mother
with her white hair tinted by the dyeing dusk,
and the tilting box houses that seemed perverse
in their cramp; I had peered into parlours
with half-closed jalousies, at the dim furniture,
Morris chairs, a centre table with wax flowers,
and the lithograph of Christ of the Sacred Heart,
vendors still selling to the empty streets-
sweets, nuts, sodden chocolates, nut cakes, mints.

An old woman with a straw hat over her headkerchief
hobbled towards us with a basket; somewhere,
some distance off, was a heavier basket
that she couldn't carry. She was in a panic.
She said to the driver: 'Pas quittez moi a terre,'
which is, in her patois: 'Don't leave me stranded,'
which is, in her history and that of her people:
'Don't leave me on earth,' or, by a shift of stress:
'Don't leave me the earth' (for an inheritance);
'Pas quittez moi a terre, Heavenly transport,
Don't leave me on earth, I've had enough of it.'
The bus filled in the dark with heavy shadows
that would not be left on earth; no, that would be left
on the earth, and would have to make out.
Abandonment was something they had grown used to.

And I had abandoned them, I knew that there
sitting in the transport, in the sea-quiet dusk,
with men hunched in canoes, and the orange lights
from the Vigie headland, black boats on the water;
I, who could never solidify my shadow
to be one of their shadows, had left them their earth,
their white rum quarrels, and their coal bags,
their hatred of corporals, of all authority.
I was deeply in love with the woman by the window.
I wanted to be going home with her this evening.
I wanted her to have the key to our small house
by the beach at Gros-Ilet; I wanted her to change
into a smooth white nightie that would pour like water
over the black rocks of her breasts, to lie
simply beside her by the ring of a brass lamp
with a kerosene wick, and tell her in silence
that her hair was like a hill forest at night,
that a trickle of rivers was in her armpits,
that I would buy her Benin if she wanted it,
and never leave her on earth. But the others, too.

Because I felt a great love that could bring me to tears,
and a pity that prickled my eyes like a nettle,
I was afraid I might suddenly start sobbing
on the public transport with the Marley going,
and a small boy peering over the shoulders
of the driver and me at the lights coming,
at the rush of the road in the country darkness,
with lamps in the houses on the small hills,
and thickets of stars; I had abandoned them,
I had left them on earth, I left them to sing
Marley's songs of a sadness as real as the smell
of rain on dry earth, or the smell of damp sand,
and the bus felt warm with their neighbourliness,
their consideration, and the polite partings

in the light of its headlamps. In the blare,
in the thud-sobbing music, the claiming scent
that came from their bodies. I wanted the transport
to continue forever, for no one to descend
and say a good night in the beams of the lamps
and take the crooked path up to the lit door,
guided by fireflies; I wanted her beauty
to come into the warmth of considerate wood,
to the relieved rattling of enamel plates
in the kitchen, and the tree in the yard,
but I came to my stop. Outside the Halcyon Hotel.
The lounge would be full of transients like myself.
Then I would walk with the surf up the beach.
I got off the van without saying good night.
Good night would be full of inexpressible love.
They went on in their transport, they left me on earth.

Then, a few yards ahead, the van stopped. A man
shouted my name from the transport window.
I walked up towards him. He held out something.
A pack of cigarettes had dropped from my pocket.
He gave it to me. I turned, hiding my tears.
There was nothing they wanted, nothing I could give them
but this thing I have called 'The Light of the World.'
Close

THE LIGHT OF THE WORLD

Marley was rocking on the transport's stereo
and the beauty was humming the choruses quietly.
I could see where the lights on the planes of her cheek
streaked and defined them; if this were a portrait
you'd leave the highlights for last, these lights
silkened her black skin; I'd have put in an earring,
something simple, in good gold, for contrast, but she
wore no jewelry. I imagined a powerful and sweet
odour coming from her, as from a still panther,
and the head was nothing else but heraldic.
When she looked at me, then away from me politely
because any staring at strangers is impolite,
it was like a statue, like a black Delacroix's
Liberty leading the People, the gently bulging
whites of her eyes, the carved ebony mouth,
the heft of the torso solid, and a woman's,
but gradually even that was going in the dusk,
except the line of her profile, and the highlit cheek,
and I thought, O Beauty, you are the light of the world!

It was not the only time I would think of that phrase
in the sixteen-seater transport that hummed between
Gros-Islet and the Market, with its grit of charcoal
and the litter of vegetables after Saturday's sales,
and the roaring rum shops, outside whose bright doors
you saw drunk women on pavements, the saddest of all things,
winding up their week, winding down their week.
The Market, as it closed on this Saturday night,
remembered a childhood of wandering gas lanterns
hung on poles at street corners, and the old roar
of vendors and traffic, when the lamplighter climbed,
hooked the lantern on its pole and moved on to another,
and the children turned their faces to its moth, their
eyes white as their nighties; the Market
itself was closed in its involved darkness
and the shadows quarrelled for bread in the shops,
or quarrelled for the formal custom of quarrelling
in the electric rum shops. I remember the shadows.

The van was slowly filling in the darkening depot.
I sat in the front seat, I had no need for time.
I looked at two girls, one in a yellow bodice
and yellow shorts, with a flower in her hair,
and lusted in peace, the other less interesting.
That evening I had walked the streets of the town
where I was born and grew up, thinking of my mother
with her white hair tinted by the dyeing dusk,
and the tilting box houses that seemed perverse
in their cramp; I had peered into parlours
with half-closed jalousies, at the dim furniture,
Morris chairs, a centre table with wax flowers,
and the lithograph of Christ of the Sacred Heart,
vendors still selling to the empty streets-
sweets, nuts, sodden chocolates, nut cakes, mints.

An old woman with a straw hat over her headkerchief
hobbled towards us with a basket; somewhere,
some distance off, was a heavier basket
that she couldn't carry. She was in a panic.
She said to the driver: 'Pas quittez moi a terre,'
which is, in her patois: 'Don't leave me stranded,'
which is, in her history and that of her people:
'Don't leave me on earth,' or, by a shift of stress:
'Don't leave me the earth' (for an inheritance);
'Pas quittez moi a terre, Heavenly transport,
Don't leave me on earth, I've had enough of it.'
The bus filled in the dark with heavy shadows
that would not be left on earth; no, that would be left
on the earth, and would have to make out.
Abandonment was something they had grown used to.

And I had abandoned them, I knew that there
sitting in the transport, in the sea-quiet dusk,
with men hunched in canoes, and the orange lights
from the Vigie headland, black boats on the water;
I, who could never solidify my shadow
to be one of their shadows, had left them their earth,
their white rum quarrels, and their coal bags,
their hatred of corporals, of all authority.
I was deeply in love with the woman by the window.
I wanted to be going home with her this evening.
I wanted her to have the key to our small house
by the beach at Gros-Ilet; I wanted her to change
into a smooth white nightie that would pour like water
over the black rocks of her breasts, to lie
simply beside her by the ring of a brass lamp
with a kerosene wick, and tell her in silence
that her hair was like a hill forest at night,
that a trickle of rivers was in her armpits,
that I would buy her Benin if she wanted it,
and never leave her on earth. But the others, too.

Because I felt a great love that could bring me to tears,
and a pity that prickled my eyes like a nettle,
I was afraid I might suddenly start sobbing
on the public transport with the Marley going,
and a small boy peering over the shoulders
of the driver and me at the lights coming,
at the rush of the road in the country darkness,
with lamps in the houses on the small hills,
and thickets of stars; I had abandoned them,
I had left them on earth, I left them to sing
Marley's songs of a sadness as real as the smell
of rain on dry earth, or the smell of damp sand,
and the bus felt warm with their neighbourliness,
their consideration, and the polite partings

in the light of its headlamps. In the blare,
in the thud-sobbing music, the claiming scent
that came from their bodies. I wanted the transport
to continue forever, for no one to descend
and say a good night in the beams of the lamps
and take the crooked path up to the lit door,
guided by fireflies; I wanted her beauty
to come into the warmth of considerate wood,
to the relieved rattling of enamel plates
in the kitchen, and the tree in the yard,
but I came to my stop. Outside the Halcyon Hotel.
The lounge would be full of transients like myself.
Then I would walk with the surf up the beach.
I got off the van without saying good night.
Good night would be full of inexpressible love.
They went on in their transport, they left me on earth.

Then, a few yards ahead, the van stopped. A man
shouted my name from the transport window.
I walked up towards him. He held out something.
A pack of cigarettes had dropped from my pocket.
He gave it to me. I turned, hiding my tears.
There was nothing they wanted, nothing I could give them
but this thing I have called 'The Light of the World.'

THE LIGHT OF THE WORLD

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