slow-burning signals

In keeping with the theme of poets writing about other poets (it really is a theme), I was going to post Derek Walcott's poem to Pablo Neruda, today; but then I needed to post this one, instead. I'll save the Neruda poem for another year.

Joyce was afraid of thunder,
but lions roared at his funeral
from the Zurich zoo.
Was it Zurich or Trieste?
No matter. These are legends, as much
as the death of Joyce is a legend,
or the strong rumour that Conrad
is dead, and that Victory is ironic.
On the edge of the night-horizon
from this beach house on the cliffs
there are now, till dawn,
two glares from the mile-out-
at-sea derricks; they are like
the glow of the cigar
and the glow of the volcano
at Victory's end.
One could abandon writing
for the slow-burning signals
of the great, to be, instead,
their ideal reader, ruminative,
voracious, making the love of masterpieces
superior to attempting
to repeat or outdo them,
and be the greatest reader in the world.
At least it requires awe,
which has been lost to our time;
so many people have seen everything,
so many people can predict,
so many refuse to enter the silence
of victory, the indolence
that burns at the core,
so many are no more than
erect ash, like the cigar,
so many take thunder for granted.
How common is the lightning,
how lost the leviathans
we no longer look for!
There were giants in those days.
In those days they made good cigars.
I must read more carefully.

—Derek Walcott (b. 1930), "Volcano" from Sea Grapes (New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1971). Sometimes Derek Walcott leaves me kind of speechless with awe -- speaking of thunder.