"Love After Love" by Derek Walcott
A breakup poem that tastes like Resurrection
I remember the exact moment this poem came into my life. One bright autumn afternoon during my senior year of college, one of my roommates came bursting into our apartment after class. She shouted in the direction of the bedrooms, “Guys! You HAVE to listen to this!”
We met her in the dining room. And then, with the afternoon light twinkling on the white walls of the apartment, she read us this poem:
“Love After Love” by Derek Walcott1
The time will come when, with elation you will greet yourself arriving at your own door, in your own mirror and each will smile at the other's welcome, and say, sit here. Eat. You will love again the stranger who was your self. Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart to itself, to the stranger who has loved you all your life, whom you ignored for another, who knows you by heart. Take down the love letters from the bookshelf, the photographs, the desperate notes, peel your own image from the mirror. Sit. Feast on your life. (Derek Walcott, Sea Grapes, 1976.)
This is a poem to soothe a broken heart. A heart broken by romance? Sure. But hearts can break in a hundred different ways. And there is usually only one thing that will put them back together again.
When I first heard this poem, standing barefoot on industrial carpet alongside my roommates, none of us had a broken heart. But over the course of that year, each of our hearts would break in a unique way as we navigated the highs and lows of our early twenties. We kept the poem close, literally and figuratively, taping a copy inside one of our kitchen cabinets and quoting it repeatedly to ease each other’s growing pains.
In the same year that this poem served as an anchor for me and my friends, I studied St. Catherine of Siena’s Dialogue. In it, she teaches that the path to knowing and loving God begins with knowing and loving yourself. When I read this poem – both then and now – I don’t see a defeated lover trying to reclaim her identity. Instead, I see the beloved returning to the Love that loved her first, to “the Stranger who has loved you / all your life, whom you ignored / for another” (emphasis mine).
This return stirs up great rejoicing – elation, even – as bread and wine are shared and the beloved is invited to sit, eat, and “feast on your life.” While others may see a broken heart as an excuse for hedonism, these lines remind me of the story of the prodigal son or the wedding feast of the Lamb. When we come home to love – to ourselves, our families, or our God – there is always celebration.
And isn’t this what we celebrate now, in the long fifty days of the Easter season? A reunion between Love and the beloved brought about by the Resurrection – and the audacious hope for an eternal feast as a result.
Indeed, looking at the poem now, over ten years later, I am struck by the quiet, confident hope in the first line: “The time will come” for this great feast. There is no question about whether or not the time will come; it will. This is wisdom that can only be earned through experience and relationship, like watching God’s keep His promises generation after generation, even in the most trying times and unusual circumstances. Even in the midst of a broken heart, Love remains, waiting to heal us and welcome us home.
What I’ve been reading and writing lately…
There hasn’t been as much reading as I would have liked this month, but I have been listening to The Gray Havens nonstop, thanks to my husband’s excellent recommendation.
I wrote two reflections for Wisdom’s Dwelling this month on Palm Sunday and Holy Thursday.
Coming up…
In May, I’ll be writing about one of my favorite sacred sites, Notre-Dame de Paris, and why I still can’t stop thinking about it burning four years later. Subscribe so you don’t miss it!
If you liked this essay, would you forward it to a friend? Thanks for your kindness!
When I was doing research for this essay, I discovered that Walcott was accused of sexual harassment by several of his female students. While I would never condone that type of behavior, I decided to move forward with this essay anyway for two reasons: this poem is still really special to me and I’m still trying to figure out what I believe about the relationship between an artist and his or her work. Do bad choices in an artist’s personal life invalidate the good art they produce throughout their career? Is virtue a prerequisite for creating Good art? If you have thoughts on any of this, I’d love to hear them!
This was such a beautiful reflection, friend! I especially loved how you worded the wisdom earned through experience and relationship - mm, so good.
And I appreciate your note and opening of the conversation around the connection between an artist and their work. I’ve recently struggled with that around the abuses committed by Jean Vanier and his work and vision of L’Arche. Thank goodness the Lord can work through imperfect tools, but how do we reconcile that in our own hearts?
I needed this music rec. thank you!