George Bradley

In the southern Adriatic, where the blue begins, We came to rest awhile and play On sun-drenched islands known as Tremiti, Where the breeze blows fresh And pine trees shiver and the salt sea Washes the likes of you and me, In the southern Adriatic, in the wind-blown spray. In the bluest water, just where it begins, We came to play awhile, came to rest On rocky shores of barren coves, As the swells arrived and water splashed And reflected sunlight jumped and shimmered Among the cliffs and overhangs and grottoes, In the Adriatic, where that sort of thing begins. In the clear blue water that the swells bring by Out of the sunny Adriatic Sea, We came to rest and play and bathe ourselves, As the pine trees swayed on the bluffs above And wind dispersed the salt sea spray, In the sunny Adriatic, where a way of life begins. We came seeking an immersion, to find ourselves In waters clear enough to fathom A bottom profoundly blue, to see it seemed All the way to Greece or any other site That water washed as well or sun could so ignite, Came to see ourselves in a world of dreams, That words might furnish what place implies, That place might finish what a word begins. We came seeking clearest water, sunniest sky, Came, you and I, to see what would be seen Immersed in waters consummately blue, In sunlit swells that carried their dark secret, Tiny hosts known as meduse, whose fragile arms Glanced and stung and burned all day And raised the blush that blossomed on our skins, Aggravated by the sun and spray, By our own attempts to hold each other, As we swam out of ourselves and were swept away, In the southern Adriatic, where the blue begins.

It makes one all right, though you hadn’t thought of it, A sound like the sound of the sky on fire, like Armageddon, Whistling and crackling, the explosions of sunlight booming As the huge mass of gas rages into the emptiness around it. It isn’t a sound you are often aware of, though the light speeds To us in seconds, each dawn leaping easily across a chasm Of space that swallows the sound of that sphere, but If you listen closely some morning, when the sun swells Over the horizon and the world is still and still asleep, You might hear it, a faint noise so far inside your mind That it must come from somewhere, from light rushing to darkness, Energy burning towards entropy, towards a peaceful solution, Burning brilliantly, spontaneously, in the middle of nowhere, And you, too, must make a sound that is somewhat like it, Though that, of course, you have no way of hearing at all.

Standing in line at the SuperSave, it all falls Into place, Princess Di and the aliens and diet Tips from outer space, King Tut and King Elvis, Out of the subfusc air, the rank urgency of dusk, Among the heavy odors of differing dungs, Acrid signatures of urine, the bold perfume of musk . . . Nostradamus, this year's senate race, unforeseen Links between absolutely everything and sex, Conspiracies requiring conspiracy to be detected, From a sibilance of scattered leaves, the sudden Snap of twig, inflections of a gabbling breeze, Horizons stained with dust, the attitude of trees . . . And O my fellow shoppers waiting to check out, What appetite is this that drives such dim belief, What thirst for intercourse between these banal bits? From the cacophony of birds as from abrupt silence, Odd sounds of usual insects, subliminal presence Of added shadow, faintest trembling in the ground . . . When greed and accident stand ever ready to explain, Whence this convolvulus of tenuous connection? What need for the devious when the obvious will do? From remarkable weeds, from a slight imbalance In the normal proportion of game, from distressed bark, Out of the bewildering swirl of importunate sense . . . Attention, shoppers, there lies a veldt within us each, Its grasses rustle with intent, and on that plain Was born the fine suspicion that has carried us so far, To behold the unassuming fact and comprehend design, To look upon confusion and construct its plot and act, To leap at merest notion found floating in the mind . . . Has brought us to these sheltered aisles under thin gray light, Where in boredom and abundance we seek our narrative, Whatever tale comes now to kill us and can creep.

Her handlers, dressed in vests and flannel pants, Step forward in the weak winter light Leading a behemoth among elephants, Topsy, to another exhibition site; Caparisoned with leather bridle, Six impassive tons of carnival delight Shambles on among spectators who sidle Nervously off, for the brute has killed At least three men, most recently an idle Hanger-on at shows, who, given to distilled Diversions, fed her a live cigar. Since become a beast of burden, Topsy thrilled The crowds in her palmy days, and soon will star Once more, in an electrocution, Which incident, though it someday seem bizarre, Is now a new idea in execution. Topsy has been fed an unaccustomed treat, A few carrots laced with cyanide, And copper plates have been fastened to her feet, Wired to cables running off on either side; She stamps two times in irritation, Then waits, for elephants, having a thick hide, Know how to be patient. The situation Seems dreamlike, till someone throws a switch, And the huge body shakes for the duration Of five or six unending seconds, in which Smoke rises and Topsy’s trunk contracts And twelve thousand mammoth pounds finally pitch To earth, as the current breaks and all relax. It is a scene shot with shades of grey— The smoke, the animal, the reported facts— On a seasonably grey and gloomy day. Would you care to see any of that again? See it as many times as you please, For an electrician, Thomas Edison, Has had a bright idea we call the movies, And called on for monitory spark, Has preserved it all in framed transparencies That are clear as day, for all the day is dark. You might be amused on second glance To note the background—it’s an amusement park!— A site on Coney Island where elephants Are being used in the construction, And where Topsy, through a keeper’s negligence, Got loose, causing some property destruction, And so is shown to posterity, A study in images and conduction, Sunday, January 4th, 1903.