Nearing Forty
Derek Walcott
“Insomniac since four, hearing this narrow,
rigidly metred, early-rising rain
recounting, as its coolness numbs the marrow,
that I am nearing forty, …”
(Full poem unable to be reproduced due to copyright)
VOCABULARY
Insomniac - a person who suffers from insomnia, being unable to sleep at night or at
regular hours, or for a decent period of time.
Marrow - the tissue inside bones.
False dawn - a promising situation that turns out to be useless, also the light that
appears before true sunrise that makes it appear like the dawn.
Rainspout - a spout that drains rainwater.
Sputter - an onomatopoeic word that is similar to ‘splutter’, an explosive sound that
in this case is imitating the erratic movement of fast-flowing water as it pours out of
the rain spouts.
Ambition - desire and determination to be successful or to achieve something
specific.
Searing - similar to burning, exposing something to extreme heat.
Meteor - matter from outer space that enters the earth’s atmosphere, as it enters it
glows from the heat created by friction. Meteor rocks do also fall to earth.
Louvre - the name for the angled slats in a shutter or screen door that can be opened
or closed to allow light in.
Prodigious - impressively large or great.
Cynicism - distrusting or doubting something, or having a naturally skeptical nature
To gauge - to assess something or try to guess its impact, also a rain gauge is an
instrument made for measuring rain, so in the poem, Walcott uses a play on words to
refer to both meanings of this verb.
Greenhorns - people who are new and inexperienced at something.
Conventional - traditional, the usual way to do something.
, Convectional - the circulation of particles through a liquid or gas once the heat is
applied - in dry or hot countries, rainfall is caused by convectional instability as the
ground heats up and releases moisture into the air.
Elation - extreme happiness.
Water clerk - someone who works selling supplies and equipment for ships - rope,
tar, sailcloth, varnish, etc.
STORY/SUMMARY
Having been an insomniac since age four, I am sitting in bed and listening to this
narrow, regular patterned, early-rising rain and remembering, as the coolness of the
rain chills me to the bone, that I am nearly forty years old - nearer to the point where I
will have weak vision that thickens and my eyes frost over with cataracts, nearer to
the day when I will judge my own work by the bleak modesty of middle age - I will
judge my previous poetry as a ‘false dawn’, something that seemed brilliant but turned
out to be underwhelming, fireless and average, which would be fair because your life
bled for the household truth, the style that goes beyond metaphor and is, however
miserable it may be, similar to simple, shining lines, in pages stretched out plain as a
white bed sheet under a rainspout; glad for the spark of occasional insight, you who
used to think that ambition was a blazing meteor, will fumble a damp match and,
smiling, make do instead with the dry wheezing of a dented kettle, for occasional
thoughts of genius that and vision that is smaller than the gap between slats on a
window blind, then, watching your leaves thin (the amount of poetry you write growing
smaller), recall how deeply the seed of great cynicism plants itself - how you start to
no longer trust others or believe in yourself - how this seed tells our seasons by the
year’s rain which, when we were young and fresh at school, we’d call typical for the
type of rainfall we got in the region; or you will get up and start writing lines of poems
with a sadder joy (less enthusiasm) but steadier elation (more consistent happiness),
until the night when you can finally sleep well, measuring how imagination starts to
fade away, typical as anyone who works as a water clerk that weighs the force of
lightly falling rain which, as it is controlled by the new moon, works very well even
when it seems to cry.
Derek Walcott
“Insomniac since four, hearing this narrow,
rigidly metred, early-rising rain
recounting, as its coolness numbs the marrow,
that I am nearing forty, …”
(Full poem unable to be reproduced due to copyright)
VOCABULARY
Insomniac - a person who suffers from insomnia, being unable to sleep at night or at
regular hours, or for a decent period of time.
Marrow - the tissue inside bones.
False dawn - a promising situation that turns out to be useless, also the light that
appears before true sunrise that makes it appear like the dawn.
Rainspout - a spout that drains rainwater.
Sputter - an onomatopoeic word that is similar to ‘splutter’, an explosive sound that
in this case is imitating the erratic movement of fast-flowing water as it pours out of
the rain spouts.
Ambition - desire and determination to be successful or to achieve something
specific.
Searing - similar to burning, exposing something to extreme heat.
Meteor - matter from outer space that enters the earth’s atmosphere, as it enters it
glows from the heat created by friction. Meteor rocks do also fall to earth.
Louvre - the name for the angled slats in a shutter or screen door that can be opened
or closed to allow light in.
Prodigious - impressively large or great.
Cynicism - distrusting or doubting something, or having a naturally skeptical nature
To gauge - to assess something or try to guess its impact, also a rain gauge is an
instrument made for measuring rain, so in the poem, Walcott uses a play on words to
refer to both meanings of this verb.
Greenhorns - people who are new and inexperienced at something.
Conventional - traditional, the usual way to do something.
, Convectional - the circulation of particles through a liquid or gas once the heat is
applied - in dry or hot countries, rainfall is caused by convectional instability as the
ground heats up and releases moisture into the air.
Elation - extreme happiness.
Water clerk - someone who works selling supplies and equipment for ships - rope,
tar, sailcloth, varnish, etc.
STORY/SUMMARY
Having been an insomniac since age four, I am sitting in bed and listening to this
narrow, regular patterned, early-rising rain and remembering, as the coolness of the
rain chills me to the bone, that I am nearly forty years old - nearer to the point where I
will have weak vision that thickens and my eyes frost over with cataracts, nearer to
the day when I will judge my own work by the bleak modesty of middle age - I will
judge my previous poetry as a ‘false dawn’, something that seemed brilliant but turned
out to be underwhelming, fireless and average, which would be fair because your life
bled for the household truth, the style that goes beyond metaphor and is, however
miserable it may be, similar to simple, shining lines, in pages stretched out plain as a
white bed sheet under a rainspout; glad for the spark of occasional insight, you who
used to think that ambition was a blazing meteor, will fumble a damp match and,
smiling, make do instead with the dry wheezing of a dented kettle, for occasional
thoughts of genius that and vision that is smaller than the gap between slats on a
window blind, then, watching your leaves thin (the amount of poetry you write growing
smaller), recall how deeply the seed of great cynicism plants itself - how you start to
no longer trust others or believe in yourself - how this seed tells our seasons by the
year’s rain which, when we were young and fresh at school, we’d call typical for the
type of rainfall we got in the region; or you will get up and start writing lines of poems
with a sadder joy (less enthusiasm) but steadier elation (more consistent happiness),
until the night when you can finally sleep well, measuring how imagination starts to
fade away, typical as anyone who works as a water clerk that weighs the force of
lightly falling rain which, as it is controlled by the new moon, works very well even
when it seems to cry.
