Elsewhere, the tree-of-heaven grows—
in deserted parking lots,

How can I breathe, without air? you asked yourself.
(I’m wondering about that, too.)

Another feast day, and the bells are ringing.
The bells are ringing, and not more
than a handful of versts from here,

As soon as he realized he was lost, that
in kicking around his new job in his head,
the new people he'd met, and how

“As a writer, if you don’t identify with the writers who are sending you work, you’re probably hardening yourself against yourself.”

Vijay Seshadri, our poetry editor, introduces the latest book from Paris Review Editions: ‘Poets at Work.’

Unless understood the right way, saying Brathwaite was a Caribbean and West Indian writer obscures something crucial about him as a person and an artist.