4.0 out of 5 stars
Home, Nov 19 2011
By J. Ang - Published on Amazon.com
This review is from: Prodigal (Paperback)
"The Prodigal" is a travelogue with a difference. Written in blank verse (bordering on free verse), Walcott's wanderings are viewed through a very personal lens that reveals less about the places per se, but more about his internal landscape as he moves forwards and backwards to review memories and experiences. In a sense it enriches the sense of place because he invest it with so much meaning and insight.
The poem is structured in 3 parts. From New York to the Swiss Alps to Milan, to Pescara in the first part, he travels to Latin America in the second part, moving ever closer to home, St Lucia in the Caribbean, which he returns to in the third part. Walcott lapses into third person at will, as if indicate the immediacy of moment-by-moment experience - the Walcott who experiences the scenery is not the Walcott who records it down in poetry as the experience is passed even as he writes it down on hindsight.
The trajectory of his journey may be unconscious, but like a true prodigal, the return to homeland is sweetened by his being away:
'This bedraggled backyard, this unfulfilled lot,
this little field of leaves, brittle and fallen,
of all the cities of the world, this is your centre.
Oh to be luminous and exact!' (p.84)
It is interesting to note that while a longing for home draws him ever closer to St Lucia, he nonetheless claims a universal sort of citizenship that is not bound by geography in the following lines:
'...and if they asked
what country I was from I'd say, "The light
of that tree-lined sunrise down the Via Veneto."' (p.29)
Home is also where he is.
7 of 29 people found the following review helpful
5.0 out of 5 stars
A flock of commas, Nov 3 2004
By Patricia Phillips - Published on Amazon.com
This review is from: Prodigal (Hardcover)
In the "Prodigal", the noble poet luareate, Walcott proves again
he is a man of humble proportion with grand perspective. This landscape of memory lives in poignant hues. His flock of commas soar across stanzas of history. In the color nuiance, he bares his painted soul, so we may grow.