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The Omeros









              Location: Site 39, North of Derek Walcott Square, Castries, St. Lucia
              Research

              In 1992 the Castries-born poet and playwright Derek Walcott won the Nobel Prize for

              literature, two years after publishing the epic poem "Omeros”. Walcott was Saint Lucia’s

              second Nobel Prize winner after Sir Arthur Lewis, who won the prize for economics in 1979.
              Design Intent                                                                                                                                                                                    39

              The aim of the Multifunctional Literary Museum is to promote knowledge about literature
              T
              and its role in St. Lucian society. Literature is important to St. Lucian history as Castries-born

              poet Derek Walcott won the Nobel Prize for literature. The Museum acquires, preserves
              and communicates his literature through Architecture/Architectural language while

              facilitating teaching and learning in an artistic atmosphere. “Omeros” is concerned with

              the link between the past and present.




                                                                                                                                                                                       The name was bent like the trees on the precipice to point inland
                                                                                                                                             December road where the Comet hurtled with empty leopard seats

                                                                                                                                                         graceless and as treacherous as it had seemed
                                                                                                                                                                                                    We were climbing out of Micoud








                                                                                                                                                                                mist slowly erased the royal palms on the crests of the hills and the hills themselves
                                                                                                                                             breeze so fresh it lifted the lace curtains like a petticoat
                                                                                                                                                                                         One side of the coast plunges its precipices into the Atlantic
                                                                                                                                                                                             graceless and as treacherous as it had seemed
                                                                                                                                                                      breeze so fresh it lifted the lace curtains like a petticoat
                                                                                                                                             The breeze threshed the palms on the cool

                                                                                                                                                                                     He’d paid the penalty of giving up the sea
                                                                                                                                            I watched the sea
                                                                                                                                                               I watched the afternoon sea
                                                                                                                                                                                  Art is History’s nostalgia, it prefers a thatched
                                                                                                                                                                                      roof to a concrete factory
                                                                                                                                                                                                     I watched the afternoon sea
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