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The Web Poetry Corner - Ronald G. Auguste - TO SAINT LUCIA, WITH LOVE

TO SAINT LUCIA, WITH LOVE

by

Ronald G. Auguste

(In Memory of my Dear Mother, Eugenie)

Sweet Isle, sweet home, sweet, sweet abode,

In self-exile I walk the road

Of savage cities, far away,

Regressing in a slow decay

Through Winter fevers, Summer chills,

And sad, soul-wracking, bitter ills.

The pleasures of exile are few!

I see no cobwebs, gemmed in dew,

In myriad numbers, all aglimmer --

In early morning lights they shimmer

Like veils of fine spun filigree,

Fragile, tensile, silvery.

Oh, they had been a splendid sight,

Engendering such a rare delight!

Men of great letters could but try

To praise your beauty.... How can I,

Of lesser words, be more sublime?

Evoke your majesties in rhyme

With limp iambics on a page?

They should exult and shout and rage!

If I could trap those lofty words

Singing within me like bright birds,

I might succeed in showing a trace

Of the sweet splendour of your face.

I might succeed, sweet emerald isle,

In missing only by a mile!

Do you still rise, my sunny isle,

From sun-swept seas, wearing the smile

Of tropic nature, sweet, serene --

So sweet, the worst storms could not glean

Its simple splendours? Do you still

Flaunt Immortelles upon the hill

Beyond the "Four Roads" -- orange fire,

Of which my eyes could never tire?

Do palm trees still preen on parade,

Their regal fronds proudly displayed

Like banners in a cavalcade?

Do mango trees with laden boughs

(Providing shade for lazy cows,

Tick-ridden, mottled, indiscreet,

Forsaking grass for mangoes sweet!)

Still odorize the sunlit ways

With fragrance ... during August days?

I hope that breadfruit trees are still

Prolific upon every hill,

Their silver bark reflecting sun --

Or moon -- glow, when the day is done.

Do blackbirds still sing in the park?

Do fireflies illume the dark

Like twinkling asterisks of light,

To lend an eerie air to night --

To captivate -- and bring delight?

Do happy children still play "Nay!"

After the coppery heat of day

Has softened, and a mellow moon

Makes ghostly shadows dance and swoon,

While lovers lie in beds of grass,

Where frogs and crazy crickets pass?

And what of Castries -- wood and stone --

Where frequently I walked alone

(When I craved lack of company)

To muse on Love and Poetry?

I dream, no matter where I roam,

Of that old house which was my home,

And often wonder: Does it stand,

Still doleful, on its plot of land,

Communing with the burning street

Where people passed on dancing feet?

Or does it glow, new-bright, but quaint,

In a brilliant coat of paint?

How vivid still the memory

Of days spent in the company

Of precious friends, not loath to share,

(Over cakes and iced root-beer)

A meager purse of jaded wit....

Perfunctory laughter at each bit

Would sometimes swell to a crescendo,

Upon a smutty innuendo!

How fares my old school, set above

Those foaming waters that I love --

On Vigie headland, from where one

Can see your hills roll on and on,

And see the hills of Martinique rise

As if before one's very eyes?

And Pigeon Island, green and grey,

A seagull's cry from Gros Islet,

That little fishing village set

Like turtle shells caught in a net

Of sunlight by the water's side --

Do children there still race, or ride,

Those gentle waves that splash and curl

Like liquid love, round boy and girl?

From there, too, one can see the specks

Of ships like tiny floating wrecks --

And screeching gulls that dive to spear

Bright fishes and then mount the air

On graceful wings that whir like joy,

Delighting every staring boy!

What of those graves beside the sea,

Where Loved Ones meet eternity?

Do wild birds there still mourn their dying?

Are still sea breezes sadly sighing --

While wild waves beat upon the shore,

As if in grief ... for evermore?

Are holy roses still in bloom,

Upon each sandy, wind-blown tomb?

I hope the head stones stand, though bent,

Rooted in mournful Sacrament --

Unmoved by storms, or ghoulish hands;

Unmoving, though in moving sands....

Those dancing cane fields where I played

Truant, and very often stayed

Until the brazen sun was sinking!

And fireflies already winking --

Do they still dance, those fields of cane,

In sun, and wind, and slashing rain?

I still hear the cane cutters shout!

Waving their cutlasses about ...

They're singing! How their bodies gleam

With rivulets of sweat that stream

In warm profusion to the earth!

The valleys echo with their mirth!

What of those pastures where I played

Ball games, and generally displayed

My lack of skill for any sport --

Though I could revel and cavort,

Gay as a clown, in hills of hay,

While sunset lent departing day

An ethereal air of peace,

And boyish hearts mourned the surcease

Of daytime past-times, rich and dear,

While countless bats spun in the air

Like shreds of grace, endowed with wings,

Free-wheeling in eccentric rings?

And what of Micoud, Vieux-Fort, Dennery,

Choiseul, Anse-La-Raye, and Laborie,

La Ressource, and Babonneau,

Roseau, Ti Morne, Marigot,

Canaries, and Soufriere,

Where The Pitons rise in the air

Like monuments to tropical

Enchantments -- rare and magical?

Oh emerald harbinger of peace,

I weep, I mourn for the surcease

Of all those joys which you inspired

Deep in my soul -- by splendour fired!

Your bright birds and your flaming flowers

Ignited all my youthful hours!

Your forest giants, reared so high

That they seemed to support the sky,

Awe-filled my soul and made me tower

Among the clouds -- brimful of power!

And how can I forget the joy

Which rocked me when I was a boy

Alone beside your singing sea,

Enraptured by its melody --

Surging sweet among the billows! --

While I, bemused on sandy pillows,

Had visions of this dreary land?

Who can share or understand

My feelings now? Words can't conceive

The awful way in which I grieve

For you, my little island, rising high

Above the restless sea where seagulls fly

Like paper scissors in a fickle breeze....

I see the sun set fire to the seas

And seashore hills, while colours riot loud

On the tremendous canvas of a cloud

As huge as the Atlantic! -- more sublime

Than anything immortalized in rhyme!

Deep orange, purple, rose, and pink and gold --

A spectacle stupendous to behold!

Reflected in the mirrors of the sea,

Like rippling tapestries of imagery....

I miss warm ocean winds, the glint of sails

As boats cleave greenish water, and the hails

Of boisterous workers on the crowded quay,

While sailors go in search of revelry

Until the early hours of the dawn,

When, gaiety ceasing, their cares are reborn.

Oh sweet Saint Lucia, locket of the chain

Of golden islands strung out on the Main --

I left my heart deep in a lonely wood,

Where I had -- in bird-broken solitude --

Composed a poem to a dusky girl

Who had me spinning in a giddy whirl!

A splendid girl -- breath-taking like a gleam

Of sunlight on a laughing mountain stream.

When shall I walk your golden sands again,

And let warm waters wash away my pain?

Or bask upon your sands, beneath the trees,

While your kind sun consumes my miseries?

Why do men journey far away from home?

Why must men suffer sorrows when they roam?

I was an angel in your hills of praise!

Serene my soul was in my younger days....

I miss your rugged, sun-swept, palm-fringed coast.

I miss your shimmering sands -- of which I boast --

And countless other things ... but I miss most

The haunting joy your setting sun instills,

While bats and shadows flee across the hills....

When I no longer can endure this pain,

I shall return -- Oh Paradise! -- again.

When, from the homing ship, I see your shore,

I'll weep ... but, afterwards, weep nevermore....

NEXT?
Why don't you look at Clock
by: Richard Betts Jr.
from: Warrington, PA, US

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