Thomas D'Evelyn. Thomas D'Evelyn is general editor for the humanities ., The Christian Science Monitor
THERE'S a direct ratio between precision and complexity on the one hand and bold outline on the other. Remember: The Renaissance masters sketched bold cartoons before adding shading and color. It works in poetry, too. Derek Walcott's new book-length poem, "Omeros," illustrates how.
The bold outline comes from literature and history. To tell his African-American tale (the place is the West Indies, where he grew up), playwright-poet Walcott has borrowed from Omeros (Homer in modern Greek).
Like Joyce's Dublin, Walcott's Saint Lucia comes alive with names out of Homer - Helen, Achille, Hector. Through their voices the details jump with life - small-boat fishing, deep-sea diving, hurricanes, lots of rain, coal mining, the gumbo mixture of French, British, and African cultures.
If the plot draws on Homer and history, the frame of the language, the bold outline on each page, comes from Dante. Those tidy groups of three lines are jammed with rhymes and puns and every sort of word play. Turbulent as the ocean (which may be the most just comparison), Walcott's verses domesticate traditions of all sorts and sing their own songs.
At a deeper level, Walcott works by analogy. He starts by comparing the history of his black people to Homer's Greeks, and himself to Homer, and ends by comparing the poetic craft to realms of nature. "Time is the meter, memory the only plot."
Of the ocean, he writes: "It never altered its meter to suit the age, a wide page without metaphors. / Our last resort as much as yours, Omeros."
Like Homer, Walcott writes not pure fiction but "history." There's a big difference: "All that Greek manure under the green bananas, / under the indigo hills, the rain-rutted road, / the galvanized village, the myth of rustic manners, / glazed by the transparent page of what I had read. / What I had read and rewritten till literature / was guilty as History." It takes its toll.
Walcott asks, almost praying: "When would it stop, / the echo in the throat, insisting, `Omeros'; / when would I enter the light beyond metaphor?" Achille returns to Africa, looking for his father. Walcott's own quest, his own wandering, occupies the middle of the book. His Homeric poem had turned his black Helen - "Her beauty stands apart / in a golden dress, its beaches wreathed with her name" - into a symbol, the island itself. …