178 Ocean poems

The day upturned, flooded with sunlight, not a single cloud. I squint into the glare, cautious even then of bright emptiness. We sit under shade, Tía Lucia showing me how white folks dine,the high life. I am about to try my first oyster, Tía spending her winnings from the slots on a whole dozen, the glistening valves wet and private as a cheek’s other side, broken open before us.Don’t be shy. Take it all in at once. Flesh and sea grit, sweet meat and brine, a taste I must acquire. In every split shell, the coast’s silhouette: bodies floating in what was once their home.

Such a long time as the wave idling gathers lofts and presses forward into the curvature of the height before one realizes that the tension completes itself with a fall through air, disorganization the prelude to the meandering of another gather and hurl, the necessary: ah, what can one make to absorb the astonishment: you should have seen me the merchant at market this morning: the people ogled me with severe goggles: maids, buying in manners and measures beyond themselves, stared into my goods and then grew horror-eyed: wives still as distant from day as a carrot from dinner took the misconnection sagely, a usual patience: peashells, I said, long silky peashells: cobs, I said, long cobs: husks and shucks, I said: one concerned person pointed out that my whole economy was wrong; yes, I said, but I have nothing else to sell: and I said to her, won't you appreciate the silky beds where seeds have lain: she had not come to that: and how about this residence all the grains have left: won't you buy it and think about it: not for dinner, she said: rinds, I cried, rinds and peelings: there was some interest in those, as for a marmalade, but no one willing, finally, to do the preparations: absurd, one woman shouted, and then I grew serious: can you do with that: but she was off before we fully met: you should have seen me the merchant at market this morning: will bankruptcy make a go of it: will the leavings be left only: the wave turns over and does not rise again, that wave.

I strayed about the deck, an hour, to-night Under a cloudy moonless sky; and peeped In at the windows, watched my friends at table, Or playing cards, or standing in the doorway, Or coming out into the darkness. Still No one could see me. I would have thought of them —Heedless, within a week of battle—in pity, Pride in their strength and in the weight and firmness And link’d beauty of bodies, and pity that This gay machine of splendour ’ld soon be broken, Thought little of, pashed, scattered. … Only, always, I could but see them—against the lamplight—pass Like coloured shadows, thinner than filmy glass, Slight bubbles, fainter than the wave’s faint light, That broke to phosphorus out in the night, Perishing things and strange ghosts—soon to die To other ghosts—this one, or that, or I.

Sea-ward, white gleaming thro' the busy scud With arching Wings, the sea-mew o'er my head Posts on, as bent on speed, now passaging Edges the stiffer Breeze, now, yielding, drifts, Now floats upon the air, and sends from far A wildly-wailing Note.

The fair wind failed. The wind dropped. Winds were unfavourable straightaway. The favourable wind dropped and they were beset by storms so that they made little progress. Then the wind dropped and they were beset by winds from the north and fog; for many days they did not know where they were sailing. The fair wind failed and they wholly lost their reckoning. They did not know from what direction. Driven here and there. The fog was so dense that they lost all sense of direction and lost their course at sea. There was much fog and the winds were light and unfavourable. They drifted far and wide on the high sea. Most of those on board completely lost their reckoning. The crew had no idea in which direction they were steering. A thick fog which did not lift for days. The ship was driven off course to land. They were tossed about at sea for a long time and failed to reach their destination. We embarked and sailed but a fog so thick covered us that we could scarcely see the poop or the prow of the boat Then the wind ddroppe and they were beset by w inds from then orth and fog for manyd ays they did not know where they were sailing Thef air wind f ailed and they wholly l ost their reck their reckoning did not not know from what direction D riven here and there The f og was sodense that they l ost all ss ense of dirrrtion and l ost thr course at sea There was much fog and the w inds were light and unf and unfavourable They driftedf ar and wide on the high sea Mo stof those onboard completly l ost l ost l ost their reckoning Th ec rew had no idea in which direction they were ststeering A thick fo g which d i d n ot l ift for days The sh ip was driven offf course tol and They were ossted about astea for a longt ime and f iled tor each their destination We mbarkt and sailed but a fog so th but a fog so th but a fog so th th th th thik k overed us that we could scarcely see the poop or the prow of the boa t str  ght w   Th  f  r w nd f  l d Th  w nd dr pp d Th  f v  r bl w nd dr pp d  nd th   w r  b s t b st rms s  th t th   m d l ttl  pr gr ss Th n th  w nd dr pp d  nd th   w r  b s t by w nds fr m the n rth  nd f g f r m ny d ys th y d d n t kn w wh r  th y w r  s  l ng Th  f  r w nd f  l d  nd th y wh ll  l st th  r r ck th  r r ck n ng Th y d d n t kn w fr m wh t d r ct  n D r v n h r   nd th r  Th  f g w s s  d ns  th t th y l  st  ll ss  ns  f d rrrt  n  nd l  st thr c  rs  t s   Th r  w s m ch f g  nd th  w  nds w r  l ght nd unf  nd  nf v   r bl  They dr ft df  r  nd w d   n th  h gh s M  st  f th se   nb  rd c mpl tly l  st l  st l  st th  r r ck n ng Th c r w h d n   d    n wh ch d r ct  n th y w r  stst  ring   th ck f  g wh ch d d n  t l  ft f r d ys The sh  p w s dr ven  fff c  rse t l  nd Th y w r   sst d  b    t  st    f r l ngt  me and f  led t r   ch th  r d st n tion W  mb rkt  nd s  l d b t   f g s   th b t   f g s  th b t f g s   th th th th th k k  v r d s th t w  c  ld sc rc ly s   th  p  p  r th  pr w  f th  b   t  f the b  t of the b  t the b b s t b  st rms s  th t th   m d  l ttl  pr gr ss Th n th  w nd dr pp d  nd th   w r  b s t by w The sh  p w s dr ven  fff c  rse t l  nd Th y w r   sst d  b  t st   f r l ngt  me and f  led t r   ch th  r d st n tion W  mb rkt  nd s  l d b t   f g s  th b t   f g s  th b t   f g s  th th th th th k k  v r d s th t w c   ld sc rc ly s    th  p   p  r th  pr w  f th  b   t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t go t go off t go off course t go off course hafville t be lost forvillet hafville Ache come off course hafville Did not go where I was knowing hafville Had fear wildering hafville For a minute there I lost myself Totally at sea lost myway tossed misted lost mywill in the fog hafville hafville my love Major Tom hafville Li Bai hafville Rimbaud hafville Shelley hafville Amelia Earhart hafville Jeff Buckley hafville Spalding Gray hafville Virginia Woolf hafville Albert Ayler hafville Reinaldo Arenas hafville Hart Crane hafville Ingeborg Bachmann hafville When you rise from the dead,when I rise from the dead,the hangman will hang at the gatethe hammer will sink into the sea Kom ut av kursen hafville Secgan at come hafvillur ok darkens ok myrkr ok hafvillur ok þokur ok hafvillur Cannot pokker see through this þokur Hwær hwanon never knew hu how to steer out of this rook this moss droomly wetter stoutair mattersea thick dank shadoway Lost lost all reckoning the sea coagulated All wats not-light all wats not-dark Déadlockit Beat bells! Blow foghorns! Storm the ceiling! Set my head on fire! Lightup! this d arkness for a bearing thour pis halla Beat bells blow foghorns! Gebangbang for rumbly lowe! When will the wind come? Where will the wind from come? Will it come from the naught, bringing phobias and rationing? Will it come from the soot, bringing droughts and epidemics? Will it come from the feast, fleeding crops and arteries? Will it come from the waste, bringing seizures and military uprisings? When will the wind come? Where will the wind from come? Will it come from the clog, causing jellyfish fission shutdown? Will it come from the leak, bringing mass dispersion radiation? When will the wind come? Where will the wind from come? Will it be an empty confusing windup? Will it be a tempestuous hooley? Will it be a blippy huff ’n puff ? Will it be a good proper piner? Heigh Ho and up she rises! Heigh Ho and up she goes! Beat bells! Blow foghorns! Loud metal gebangbang for rumbly love!

I One day as she rinsed her wash from the jetty, the bay's cold grave rose up through her arms and into her life. Her tears froze into spectacles. The island raised itself by its grass and the herring-flag waved in the deep. II And the swarm of small pox caught up with him, settled down onto his face. He lies and stares at the ceiling. How it had rowed up through the silence. The now's eternally flowing stain, the now's eternally bleeding end-point.

It mounts at sea, a concave wall Down-ribbed with shine, And pushes forward, building tall Its steep incline. Then from their hiding rise to sight Black shapes on boards Bearing before the fringe of white It mottles towards. Their pale feet curl, they poise their weight With a learn’d skill. It is the wave they imitate Keeps them so still. The marbling bodies have become Half wave, half men, Grafted it seems by feet of foam Some seconds, then, Late as they can, they slice the face In timed procession: Balance is triumph in this place, Triumph possession. The mindless heave of which they rode A fluid shelf Breaks as they leave it, falls and, slowed, Loses itself. Clear, the sheathed bodies slick as seals Loosen and tingle; And by the board the bare foot feels The suck of shingle. They paddle in the shallows still; Two splash each other; Then all swim out to wait until The right waves gather.

This that is washed with weed and pebblestone Curved once a dolphin’s length before the prow, And I who read the land to which we bore In its grave eyes, question my idol now, What cold and marvelous fancy it may keep, Since the salt terror swept us from our course, Or if a wisdom later than the storm, For old green ocean’s tinctured it so deep; And with some reason to me on this strand The waves, the ceremonial waves have come, And stooped their barbaric heads, and all flung out Their glittering arms before them, and are gone, Leaving the murderous tribute lodged in sand.

Eastham, Massachusetts One of the spectators is disappointed there isn’t a guide to explain the beaching, the scientists busy cutting into ninety-four pilot whales stranded on the salt grass. No one knows why and, try as the rescue team might, not one whale will go back to water. So they’re injected to speed up the dying, lined up like lumber and sawed into, except when the black skin splits we can’t stop staring, their meat is so red. I don’t want to know why this happens— what parasite or geomagnetic anomaly finished their love of motion. Why should anything have to leave this world when water can cycle from atmosphere down to land, the ocean and back to forgiving sky. I’m on my way to Connecticut where my father has a little vegetation on his heart valve—that’s how the intern describes it, trying to minimize the danger of him slipping into a haze so cold, some nights, bone-cold, his hand can’t get from his plate to his mouth. Rain slicks the highway slowing me down. The same water fattened into snow in the woods of my childhood, the whiteness unbroken except where my father cut trails and taught me to ski, laying down the herringbone behind him as he broke up hills that left me with legs made of slush. He wanted me strong, no patience for pain. No choice but to find the muscle to follow. Even now when he boasts how I zigzagged the breakneck hills in an icestorm, there’s no hint of my knee-chattering fear, slats skittering out of control, each run a victory of luck more than will, each ride up the lift a prayer for my bones. I wonder how it is for him now there in the ward where whiteness can’t hide the cold blank that’s ahead. When the whales beached, spectators came like pilgrims, each new arrival scanning the faces of those heading back to their cars to see how it changed them to survey so much death. Nothing showed. Their eyes followed the asphalt, heads bent in private devotion. There in a room where others have died, my father keeps a record of each test and drug. He watches medicine drip into his arm and circle in the dark of his blood. I believe it will heal him, as I believe in the strength of my blood to protect me from failures of will. Once when my grandmother at ninety-six lay delirious with pneumonia, pitching on her high horsehair bed, she saw three crows perched on the dresser. They smell so awful, she said. Please, open the window. Let them out. It was my father who did what she asked. And the crows flew out, carrying her fever over the treeline, dissolving into sky, and she lived. Whatever she saw, by love, luck or dumb Yankee will, it was true. That’s what I mean by medicine.

Fish of the flood, on the bankèd billow Thou layest thy head in dreams; Sliding as slides thy shifting pillow, One with the streams Of the sea is thy spirit. Gean-tree, thou spreadest thy foaming flourish Abroad in the sky so grey; It not heeding if it thee nourish, Thou dost obey, Happy, its moving. So, God, thy love it not needeth me, Only thy life, that I blessèd be.