As in the sea — the sea both
hiding
and revealing the rubble
below, bits
of shell, seaweed — or,
as in more often
the wind — the
wind-as-indifference
we learn to accept, finally, in nature —
despite some lucid reflection we hope
the water hurls back as
we wade
in the shallows, shy
almost, reluctant
or just returning from
full
immersion, though as we
stood there
it would seem no
different . . .
I know, the waves no longer whisper,
I know what you've
always been . . . no shame,
no need to confess . .
.
*
Soon we were dry — half
awake, half naked —
in the sand. Now the
crest and momentum
toward us the shore, the
roar and glide
beyond which there is no
regret, as
the thinning sprawl of
sea barely visible now,
now vanishing, leaving
only the sand,
slightly darker than the
rest, the rest
of the innocent shore . .
.
*
And then we stood, as if
in surrender . . .
We walked toward where
the sea would meet us.
Lots of beautiful images here. "Now the crest and momentum toward the shore is so lovely." There is a sadness though and also a sense of connectedness. Nice.
ReplyDeleteI agree with DB. A lot of really nice images throughout.
ReplyDeleteI think the line that surprised me most was: more often, that gray indifference we learn
to accept, finally, in nature,
Something almost Emersonian in this, and yet it is "urban transcendentalism" that I think reppears in:
the thinning sprawl
of sea barely visible now,
I think this is a very Brooklyn poem.
Emerson? A Brooklyn poem?! Don't know, Joel, but I did write it at Brighton Beach. Mad Russians out there . . . and me, some yellow boy all reflecting and shit.
Delete@johanisek: Sometimes I forget that Brooklyn is a coastal village whose sublime aesthetic qualities derive as much from the nature it has left intact as that it has obliterated.
ReplyDelete@LD: Much to admire here. I'm loving the syntactical midstride of the first line that sustains the first half of the poem.