178 Ocean poems

O mer! O mœurs! O merde contemporaine! What’s left of my battles and my turmoil is in my seaside cabin: this roiling air. And yet it’s what’s outside that makes me shiver. Not the ocean coldness — something heavier. Hot black tea might help — it revives. Two kinds of glass are at hand for my thirst: that windowpane, this tumbler for my tea. If  I stare through the faceted clear sides of   the second at the first, I’ll see the darkness squinting back at me. I can’t deny that even though my eye — clairvoyant as a crystal ball — clinks like it can see something, I don’t know what comes next    ... (Zek — zek — whetstones on knives    ... a nickering    ...    Here comes a horse, it whinnies and the rider — Stick him!, thieves shout as they leap down from a tree and stab, then they lead the horse away down the long snowbound shore.) Windswept snow and sand are sorrel: tea leaves scalded by sunset. Sea foam rushes up these shores to decorate some fir trees but not others. And on the withers of a wave a gull-equestrian comes riding in — Haie! Here they both are! Snow explodes like sugar that someone is stabbing with a spoon in a glass of chai. And the tea-air sweetens, the snow-sand dissolves, the light of  it switched off, spent, an omen: now look — from deep within the firmament Time has bobbed up like the moon: the clock face of  a slice of   lemon. I clink the teaspoon in the glass — what’s that about? And even though each hourly radius of   the lemon slice is fixed in the white rind, between these translucencies pressed pulp spills out. Like lime or lemon, the taste of  Time is sour — and yet it has no odor, color, hour. My clinking teaspoon’s yet another of my self-delusions, since it’s only the glass that answers it, and Time says nothing in reply — like all the other governings that invite us to believe they have their power over us. In every object, quick or dead, there’s Time, yet Time itself  is unaware of   Time — the way a gull (such a polyglot of  fish-tongues), soaring in the dark, unknowingly glows at ten to two, her wings the phosphorescent hands of a clock. No people in this region. But — do people exist at all? And the so-called base and superstructure get, at best, a grade of  C (in Russian, “three,” troika — a kind of carriage — in which the Uriah Heeps are riding toward our “bright new future”    ...    ). Oh, plenty of   hearty pink-faced people (gray-faced, too) here    ...    but are they that real? There’s only sea and tides and more of the same. Sea air throws bombast at my cabin and makes it talk. My window’s blinded by a heavy foamy sea-pulp blast. At the bottom of my tea glass — sweetest sweet. But sugar specks are stuck to the sides, scarcely rinsed by waves of tea, whether attacked or not by my spoon. Now come the many stars that the sky is, or was — like the American flag on the moon — but under such a sky, who feels he needs Kant’s categorical imperative? So Time is always empty, a negative, and doesn’t bother us the way this landscape does. I could have sparkled like a Cicero! But even out here all words are turned into a game of  ping-pong, which makes my silenced brain come bubbling out my throat — it’s just one more white foam    ... And only an insatiable gull’s scream of dissent marks this deaf   land not as the island of a castaway but as a massive continent. Translated from the Russian

The sea-wash never ends. The sea-wash repeats, repeats. Only old songs? Is that all the sea knows? Only the old strong songs? Is that all? The sea-wash repeats, repeats.

May I for my own self song's truth reckon, Journey's jargon, how I in harsh days Hardship endured oft. Bitter breast-cares have I abided, Known on my keel many a care's hold, And dire sea-surge, and there I oft spent Narrow nightwatch nigh the ship's head While she tossed close to cliffs. Coldly afflicted, My feet were by frost benumbed. Chill its chains are; chafing sighs Hew my heart round and hunger begot Mere-weary mood. Lest man know not That he on dry land loveliest liveth, List how I, care-wretched, on ice-cold sea, Weathered the winter, wretched outcast Deprived of my kinsmen; Hung with hard ice-flakes, where hail-scur flew, There I heard naught save the harsh sea And ice-cold wave, at whiles the swan cries, Did for my games the gannet's clamour, Sea-fowls, loudness was for me laughter, The mews' singing all my mead-drink. Storms, on the stone-cliffs beaten, fell on the stern In icy feathers; full oft the eagle screamed With spray on his pinion. Not any protector May make merry man faring needy. This he little believes, who aye in winsome life Abides 'mid burghers some heavy business, Wealthy and wine-flushed, how I weary oft Must bide above brine. Neareth nightshade, snoweth from north, Frost froze the land, hail fell on earth then Corn of the coldest. Nathless there knocketh now The heart's thought that I on high streams The salt-wavy tumult traverse alone. Moaneth alway my mind's lust That I fare forth, that I afar hence Seek out a foreign fastness. For this there's no mood-lofty man over earth's midst, Not though he be given his good, but will have in his youth greed; Nor his deed to the daring, nor his king to the faithful But shall have his sorrow for sea-fare Whatever his lord will. He hath not heart for harping, nor in ring-having Nor winsomeness to wife, nor world's delight Nor any whit else save the wave's slash, Yet longing comes upon him to fare forth on the water. Bosque taketh blossom, cometh beauty of berries, Fields to fairness, land fares brisker, All this admonisheth man eager of mood, The heart turns to travel so that he then thinks On flood-ways to be far departing. Cuckoo calleth with gloomy crying, He singeth summerward, bodeth sorrow, The bitter heart's blood. Burgher knows not — He the prosperous man — what some perform Where wandering them widest draweth. So that but now my heart burst from my breast-lock, My mood 'mid the mere-flood, Over the whale's acre, would wander wide. On earth's shelter cometh oft to me, Eager and ready, the crying lone-flyer, Whets for the whale-path the heart irresistibly, O'er tracks of ocean; seeing that anyhow My lord deems to me this dead life On loan and on land, I believe not That any earth-weal eternal standeth Save there be somewhat calamitous That, ere a man's tide go, turn it to twain. Disease or oldness or sword-hate Beats out the breath from doom-gripped body. And for this, every earl whatever, for those speaking after — Laud of the living, boasteth some last word, That he will work ere he pass onward, Frame on the fair earth 'gainst foes his malice, Daring ado, ... So that all men shall honour him after And his laud beyond them remain 'mid the English, Aye, for ever, a lasting life's-blast, Delight mid the doughty. Days little durable, And all arrogance of earthen riches, There come now no kings nor Cæsars Nor gold-giving lords like those gone. Howe'er in mirth most magnified, Whoe'er lived in life most lordliest, Drear all this excellence, delights undurable! Waneth the watch, but the world holdeth. Tomb hideth trouble. The blade is layed low. Earthly glory ageth and seareth. No man at all going the earth's gait, But age fares against him, his face paleth, Grey-haired he groaneth, knows gone companions, Lordly men are to earth o'ergiven, Nor may he then the flesh-cover, whose life ceaseth, Nor eat the sweet nor feel the sorry, Nor stir hand nor think in mid heart, And though he strew the grave with gold, His born brothers, their buried bodies Be an unlikely treasure hoard.

When descends on the Atlantic The gigantic Storm-wind of the equinox, Landward in his wrath he scourges The toiling surges, Laden with seaweed from the rocks: From Bermuda's reefs; from edges Of sunken ledges, In some far-off, bright Azore; From Bahama, and the dashing, Silver-flashing Surges of San Salvador; From the tumbling surf, that buries The Orkneyan skerries, Answering the hoarse Hebrides; And from wrecks of ships, and drifting Spars, uplifting On the desolate, rainy seas; — Ever drifting, drifting, drifting On the shifting Currents of the restless main; Till in sheltered coves, and reaches Of sandy beaches, All have found repose again. So when storms of wild emotion Strike the ocean Of the poet's soul, erelong From each cave and rocky fastness, In its vastness, Floats some fragment of a song: From the far-off isles enchanted, Heaven has planted With the golden fruit of Truth; From the flashing surf, whose vision Gleams Elysian In the tropic clime of Youth; From the strong Will, and the Endeavor That forever Wrestle with the tides of Fate; From the wreck of Hopes far-scattered, Tempest-shattered, Floating waste and desolate; — Ever drifting, drifting, drifting On the shifting Currents of the restless heart; Till at length in books recorded, They, like hoarded Household words, no more depart.

I know a little what it is like, once here at high tide Stranded, for them to be so attached to the bottom’s Sarcophagus lids, up to their brown green gold wine Bottle necks in the prevailing booze, riding, as far As we can see, like a picnic on a blanket. Whatever plucks them from below the red horizon Like snapped pulleys and ropes for the pyramidal effort Of the moon, they come in, they come through the breakers, Heaps of hair, writing across the beach a collapsed Script, signers of a huge independence. Melville thought them pure, bitter, seeing the fog-sized Flies dancing stiff and renaissance above. But I Have eaten nori and dulse, and to have gone deep Before being cast out leaves hardly a taste of loneliness. And I take in their iodine.

water relives reservoir boat bottom draft displaced ° lineal thought backward body no one knows the brains I am now tree an oar origin joints ruptured soak in deep ink ° wallpaper remnant flower float chandelier brief case hundred words logged erode my Arabic congestion of resin person forecasts final position restless sleep ° width of back belted sodium poultice exhausts courtship agora drain a home of you wind lashes fronds cellophane ° where a mammal bled activity not yet diffused blackened patch of water weight of oyster in gloved hand he shucks dented pewter ° assonance her aspect relocated wind shatters plexi phenomena foregone for me shift at oars new muscle grown bone never held you ° case of dried apricot gorge I am summoned capable a day outlast forecast coral reef feeler ° paper cover mallet awl downfall fire- box androgyne

Out in the sky the great dark clouds are massing; I look far out into the pregnant night, Where I can hear a solemn booming gun And catch the gleaming of a random light, That tells me that the ship I seek is passing, passing. My tearful eyes my soul's deep hurt are glassing; For I would hail and check that ship of ships. I stretch my hands imploring, cry aloud, My voice falls dead a foot from mine own lips, And but its ghost doth reach that vessel, passing, passing. O Earth, O Sky, O Ocean, both surpassing, O heart of mine, O soul that dreads the dark! Is there no hope for me? Is there no way That I may sight and check that speeding bark Which out of sight and sound is passing, passing?

after this, the cold more intense, and the night comes rapidly up . angels in the fall . around a tongue of land, free from trees . awakened by feeling a heavy weight on your feet, something that seems inert and motionless . awestruck manner, as though you expected to find some strange presence behind you . coming through the diamond-paned bay window of your sanctum . a crimson-flowered silk dressing gown, the folds of which I could now describe . deathly pallor overspreading . describing the exact nature of your nightly troubles . discomfort at seeing a surface spoiled . echo and foretaste . the entrance blocked, not only by brambles and nettles, which have to be beaten aside, but by piles of faggots, old boxes, and even refuse . expecting every moment to see the door open and give admission to the original of my detested portrait . fantastic wigs, costumes, other disguises . filling up the width of the street . frequent tussles . the glitter of silver and glass and the subdued lights and cackle of conversation around the dinner table . high-backed carved oak chair . I have omitted in my narration . . . . in a great raftered hall . in a tableau vivant, as an angel, sewn up in tights, with wings on your back . light your candle and  open the window . lines of your dress, with a hint of underthings . looking up, our problem still unsolved . luxurious with heavy silk and rich rococo furniture, all of it much soiled with age . many questions about the stars, of which you gave me my first intelligent idea . meanwhile, the snow, with ominous steadiness, and the wind falls . my weakness for the Ypsilanti Waltz, which I did regard as the most wonderful of compositions . neat strip of fine turf edging the road and running back until the poison of the dead beech leaves kills it under the trees . never venturing farther than a sandy beach, but losing everything at sea . not crawling or creeping, but spreading . not just out of repair, but in a condition of decay . only a foul trick after all . on the face of the judge in the picture, a malignant smile . profound impressions of unearthly horror . rambles and adventures among the rocky banks . the rope of the great alarm bell on the roof, which hangs down . rough horseplay and quarrels . sashes that splinter at a touch . the serpentlike form of the seraphim . something uncertain at work among the monuments . the thing on the bed, slowly shifting . till this particular day has passed through all the seasons of the year . the vicar, who used to tell us the story of Robinson Crusoe . waves and their whelps . while with a sickening revulsion after my terror, I drop half fainting across the end of the bed . with a pair of great greenish eyes shining dimly out within the lattice fronts . with painted carvings of saints and devils, a small galvanic battery, and a microscope

We speak of mankind. Why not wavekind? Barrel-chested military water rushes in a mass to break the shore earth into stonekind. Pphlooph pphlooph the waves grope indistinctly for the shore. As delicate as a butterfly along a cheek a boat with white and orange sail appears. A small boy in a life-belt sits in front and looks ahead with all his might. His father steers, attached like a shaft to his son’s safety and the sail’s management. A sunfish thrown back by a fisherman lies drowned and pitching. The eyes are white in death. This is the raw data. A mystery translates it into feeling and perception; then imagination; finally the hard inevitable quartz figure of will and language. Thus a squirrel tail flying from a handlebar unmistakably establishes its passing rider as a male unbowed in a chipper plume.

So the tide forgets, as morning Grows too far delivered, as the bowls Of rock and wood run dry. What is left seems pearled and lit, As those cases Of the museum stood lit With milk jade, rows of opaque vases Streaked with orange and yellow smoke. You found a lavender boat, a single Figure poling upstream, baskets Of pale fish wedged between his legs. Today, the debris of winter Stands stacked against the walls, The coils of kelp lie scattered Across the floor. The oil fire Smokes. You turn down the lantern Hung on its nail. Outside, The boats aligned like sentinels. Here beside the blue depot, walking The pier, you can see the way The shore Approximates the dream, how distances Repeat their deaths Above these tables and panes of water— As climbing the hills above The harbor, up to the lupine drifting Among the lichen-masked pines, The night is pocked with lamps lit On every boat offshore, Galleries of floating stars. Below, On its narrow tracks shelved Into the cliff’s face, The train begins its slide down To the warehouses by the harbor. Loaded With diesel, coal, paychecks, whiskey, Bedsheets, slabs of ice—for the fish, For the men. You lean on my arm, As once I watched you lean at the window; The bookstalls below stretched a mile To the quay, the afternoon crowd Picking over the novels and histories. You walked out as you walked out last Night, onto the stone porch. Dusk Reddened the walls, the winds sliced Off the reefs. The vines of the gourds Shook on their lattice. You talked About that night you stood Behind the black pane of the French Window, watching my father read some long Passage Of a famous voyager’s book. You hated That voice filling the room, Its light. So tonight we make a soft Parenthesis upon the sand’s black bed. In that dream we share, there is One shore, where we look out upon nothing And the sea our whole lives; Until turning from those waves, we find One shore, where we look out upon nothing And the earth our whole lives. Where what is left between shore and sky Is traced in the vague wake of (The stars, the sandpipers whistling) What we forgive.If you wake soon, wake me.