Review by Esther Phillips
Enigmatic. Cryptic. C. M. Harclyde’s poetic structure is one that may best be described as minimalist: just the right amount of paint on the tip of the brush, followed by the deft stroke, so that nothing other than what is intended leaks past the precise feeling. But then, so much seems intended; more than is stated in Walcott’s select shading and the deliberate slant of his thought as expressed on the page
Among the poet’s concerns are love and Nature. The element of Time, implicit in the repeated use of two simple words “now” and “back,” is the touchstone by which he addresses both concerns. Notably, love is as transitory as it is intense. Indeed love is felt more keenly with the absence of the lover or her imminent departure; the “promised prize” is often just beyond reach.
Nature, too, in one of its facets, is used to record the fleeting quality of life. The grandfather in the poem granpa cannot resist for too long “nature’s pull” (34). Like the late grandmother, each season moves him “a notch closer/ to the warm earth” (34). It is this sense of something fleeting that permeates many of the poet’s natural images. We’re given only glimpses of the fireflies’ flickering flame (37), the butterflies’ “ribboned tapestries” (30), the hummingbird’s flight” (38).
Walcott’s poetry, however, is at its richest where he feels safest; where his delicacy of feeling and perhaps a not so surprising sensuousness combine to produce the beautifully crafted and deeply nuanced poem, Salt. Language and rhythm synchronise so that the reader moves willingly:
[on] every wave
the crest and the eddies and the trough
and the flow back…
out to the “middle-blue” where time stops
and there is no sound, only
the silence of the shudder
and the suck
of the surge (23).
When we can breathe again, every sense is fully and deeply satiated.
Another passionate engagement is with Erzulie, summoned by the poet’s imagination. Here there is a headiness enhanced by the night wind, moonlight, ocean and sky (not to mention the influence of the El Dorado rum and cohiba smoke) and all that is left is for the African goddess Erzulie, in her full sensuousness, to appear. In the end, though, there is “no trace, but memory,” no one to bed, but a dream (28).
Overall, and in spite of his passionate moments, much of Walcott’s poetry gives the impression of something held back, a reluctance to give full rein to what is deeply felt. That he has the eye and sensitivity of the artist is not in question. This we see not only in his responses to the beauty of the natural world, but also in the reflective poems such as this parliament, in which the poet muses on the question of power with its attendant hypocrisies and often its emptiness:
…red carpets
cushion
foot falls, callous
and elegantly precise dialogue, vacuous… (54)
But is reticence a part of the poet’s style, where even mourning happens in “faint tone,” or are we observing passion under control? Does the poet believe that the sketch says what is necessary for him, since he is seeking to share only his part of what he trusts to be the wider human experience? Is he teasing us?
C.M. Walcott’s poetry reveals a poetic engagement with emotion and experience that he will undertake only on his terms. For example, his avoidance of capital letters as they are used traditionally (e.g his titles of book and poems), is noticeable. Is this some kind of modesty unwilling to attract attention to itself? For surely, this break in custom does the exact opposite.
Moreover, Walcott’s negative response to the question: “Are you a poet?” is not surprising, given the enigmatic quality of his work. There may be some self-doubt, but the assertions that follow in the same poem (she asked if I was a poet (57)) suggest that Walcott is very sure of his capacity for feeling, an essential component for any artist, and that the classification of himself as a poet will fit the mould that he himself chooses