ALL RESPONSES |
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| Both English and Russian titles refer to the nautical tradition that waves grow larger and large in a series up to the largest wave, the ninth (or tenth) wave, at which point the series starts again. This painting is sometimes called "the most beautiful painting in Russia". |
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THERE it is. It is there! In Friends! Whose' juste, war, love and beauty,
We can hold onto.
So many barriers to search through to access
its real issue, hidden under the wave, the wise dome of a rock,
who would, in war knock out my wisdom to me,
or to tether me to crests being thrown. point out where I have been missing the rope.
I have been altered to educate my senses, called into action my will
and made perfect a 7th wave to bring us into its swift and close collision, to a final reach
to let me hold onto how I solve my passion,
in this critical moment when I measured my romance.
Who are they but thieves holding onto me, in acts of love, their knots letting go.
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Here we are again,
waiting for the inevitable,
with pockets full of borrowed money,
and not a tavern in sight.
The master and his mates
made off in the lifeboats,
leaving us hanging on to wreckage
and little hope of salvation.
The only certainties in our lives
are rising peaks of brine,
the steady wind that pushes them
and the sun’s companionship.
We know setting sail is a risky venture,
but we’ve seen the mansions of success
and feel ourselves as well deserving,
willing to sell everything for a promise.
The waves grow higher as we’re driven
into deeper, darker waters,
but still we grip the broken mast and wait
for the coming storm, because we can’t let go. |
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Are we buffeted
or carried?
Bludgeoned
or lifted?
The sea knows,
organizes its waters
into series of waves.
Number nine builds,
joins other nines,
rushes in.
A menace or a chance?
No roguish freakiness this.
Give yourself up to the ride.
Watch from the raft,
hold onto the side.
Rest in the trough.
Rise with the crest.
Wait for wave ten.
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table of wings
bread of mourning
hands of fire
smoky veil
mercury tongue
music of snow
wind word
whale spout
ladder of daydreams
spirits of rainbow
strew of stars
smear of mist
sacred currents
inner rocking
handful of dust
a blue wait
like snow
like swallowed
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Some folks live their lives
speaking the language
of Narcissus, staring down
at salted reflections, bathing
in tongues
Some folks live their lives
being a curiosity, conversations
sneaking in like the waves of a ship
wreck, a captain standing erect
as a bed post
Some folks live their lives
waiting for a sequel;
they live their lives
praying for the tenth wave
to pour upon their existence
as they cling to the wreckage
of loneliness |
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I haven't been counting, have you
the peaks and the valleys
the crests and the troughs
it seemed so easy to rise on one
so inevitable to slip down the lee side
I haven't been counting, have you
though we could go back and inumerate
find the first one so seemingly small
so normal on a fresh new sea
the splash hardly noticed when we crested
I haven't been counting, have you
the number of sails ripped in the gales
though most were small gales
tears we could sew back together
even as the wind carried us on
I haven't been counting, have you
how many tides the moon shifted
more than we anticipated
and were nearly left aground
before we could raise an anchor
I haven't been counting, have you
how many doubts arose
when the wind died between ports
and we were dead in the calm
bored and not knowing what to do
I haven't been counting, have you
how many flying fish passed us by
with such ease and such grace
that seemed to fail us both
as we swam rough waters
I haven't been counting, have you
those frustrating nights
the rigging had gone afoul
as one of us had not payed attention
to the details of the day
I haven't been counting, have you
how long it has been
since the crew took shore leave
to remember their days in their youth
and their afternoon delights
I haven't been counting, have you
how many times we have crested
and whether we have passed over
the ninth wave
and have slid down beyond reality
e 081011 |
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The open waters breed the calmness of God and mimic His wrath
A deep breath of water and sea salt floods a pair of young, healthy lungs
Somewhere on shore there is a woman in a downpour of grief
The quiet town, lit up with a vibrant evening sky, tries to sleep before landfall
The ship swells skyward as if it could form a union with the divine
The heart of man sinks into his stomach, and all it signifies is digested
shortly before the world is turned upside-down
When there's nothing left to do but pray, the soul is already damned |
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The ninth wave, wild hair of spray, rises up
and walks across the sea toward us, poor souls
cold and wet upon our cross of woe.
And if it passes, another nine awaits.
How we long for the old catastrophe
unseen and unanticipated
that wrecked us, reduced us to counting.
How careless we were then, thinking just
of ourselves, of everything we wanted
or meant to be, not possessing proper
contriteness for all that life has offered.
Only now do we appreciate the sun
serene above the power of the sea.
Only now do we treasure the mundane
round certainty of sleeping and waking.
Only now do we regret our sins
list them again and again, nine times nine
and cast them toward the distant sun
as she sets her seal with vague disinterest.
At night, we will not see the wave approach
merely feel its crushing weight of water
pressing us down to eternity.
Still, despite her rebuke, she’s all that remains
the transcendent glow that flees before us.
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Ten years adrift on the ebb and flow
Some days went fast
Too many went slow
Love on waves ten miles high
Bottom feeding
On dreams that died
Wave after wave of confused emotion
Ten years surfing
In a teardrop ocean
Falling in love on a smile or a kiss
Wave after wave
All comes down to this
So easy to run
Impossible to hide
A hole in my pocket
Through which slipped pride
Faces in colour
Memories abused
Reaching for heaven
Admission refused
Fighting to stay on the crest of the wave
Worshiping failure
Emotional slave
Swimming in circles
Treading deep water
Old romantic
Moth to the slaughter
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I
The lure of its briny zest, half-stinging
half-tickling the fresh young recesses
of my nose
notwithstanding
the ocean overwhelmed the landscape
of my childhood terrors.
The play of light dancing
on its ever-shifting surface
deceived hypnotically, with rhythmic promises
of primal delight, all the while
shepherding unseen deadly force
in its depths.
Even the sandy beachhead on
which it bedded, grabbed ominously
at my feet, so very long and narrow,
they sliced through the surface,
sinking me to my ankles, retarding
my forward progress and treacherously
Distancing me from the clan I trailed
in mute desperation, as if
culling me for the kill.
The skeletal spareness of my girlhood also stripped
my young limbs and torso of buoyancy –
by design, I was made more to sink than to float.
Beaming and laughing, as if
the seaside were reason enough to rejoice,
they cajoled me into entering the water
where, with ferocious hidden force,
the ocean worked to consume me.
II
With time and the growth
of greater body mass,
I learned from summer beach companions how
to ride the rolling waves to shore
on my belly, how to count out the sets of three.
It was the last wave of
the third set that caught me off guard.
Curling early and crashing
with such particular power
it churned my submerged body
in the murky water
stretching out while grasping upward toward the surface air
my fingers unexpectedly struck heavy, wet sand
Suppressing panic and reversing direction
my head barely broke through the surface
before the tenth wave crushed me back
underwater
Forcing eyes open against the astringent salt water
and clawing my way upward first
and then to shore,
I fell toward the safety of my towel, splayed
over the sand
while mates frolicked on in the surf
oblivious to my personal epic struggle.
III
Ocean waves recurrently crashed
the dreams of my early twenties
the ruinous ocean waters
lurking always at their edges,
waiting to beset me.
On the boardwalk, a calm-seeming ocean suddenly
blackened its mood, ambushing me with a rush
of rising waters that threatened to sweep
me off my feet and drag me protesting into the watery deep
where touch of ground forever
would be lost
Or massive tidal swells would find me
hiding inland, their creeping salt seepage
swamping the foundations of my safe place,
ruining the treasured contents of my life.
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* still working on this -- just a wip . . . .
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waves pull clothes with water grips
who can survive ten waves like this
grey mist from the curling crests
even when pastel skies far off lend a crutch
no solid note to push it against
no concrete on these streets
from China seas to Cape to home
lash you boys to masts and drive them on
into the sunset before raw salt ridden lips touch
together one last time hissing breath
bodies soon enough wilting |
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Evening issues
an invitation
and another moth
dissolves in fire
the sea dreams
in her blue death,
wave upon wave
of recollection
in late summer
we sometimes
forget there is
more than one
way to enter
a kingdom
more than one
song and so
a woman alone
takes to her bed
for consolation,
her hands her
undoing; her
window darkens
and her private
song begins again
She calls for stars
to witness her body
dissolving in fire,
wingless, into yet
another lonely night |
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That's where you said you'd take me,
To a sea you knew how to navigate.
I had told you I can't swim... remember?
At the first wave
you laughed and with a twinkle in your eyes
promised me I would be ok.
Then a second wave came.
I wasn't afraid of the gentle rocking
while smiling back at you.
The third wave was more forceful,
a sort of invitation
as your mouth touched mine.
Passion rolled over us
synchronized with the next two waves,
maybe that's why we did not feel them.
By wave six I did not care anymore.
The rocking increased, more dangerous now
but in the heat of the moment my judgment was impaired.
Seven took me by surprise.
Beautifully powerful it held me up for a while,
then let me fall back to where I should have reconsidered.
Wave eight, was the last warning but I did not see it coming,
I was too busy looking into your eyes
to understand what was happening.
A wall of cold rolled over me when I realized
I had let you take me to a sea where my heart could not swim...
That's when the ninth wave came and I drowned in your sea. |
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When Jilly first saw a sunset over Southwest London her heart sank. The flashes of color, the reds, and oranges, blues and greens casting shadows over architecture tinged her heart. The general gaiety of the crowd compounded her mood, for when she reached for his hand, she was alone.
After that, she took particular pains never to be alone at sunset. She avoided a full moon rising over the Nebraska plains whenever her husband and children were not near. Avoided gazing at the rich and textured hues setting in the west while the simple golden streaks lit up the east. Avoided dropping her basket of laundry in amazement with a “well would you look at THAT” to know no one.
Except of course Frisky Cat.
But life and family took her first to Florida and then to Hawaii and she saw the sun setting over oceans. A fan of the long walk, Jilly never again minded about seeing a sunset alone. She arranged matters so she could put on her beach shoes and trot along the shore by herself. Something this beautiful she should savor in solitude.
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Everything teaches us about ends,
the seasons, fellow creatures, friends
and families, the plants. Only the sun
never dies, not in this eternity.
The sun only shows us how to go
to bed and rise in the morning.
No one will see its fiery crash.
Or the oceans’ final great heaving
sigh, the tidal rattle, a miserable
slow strangulation, so gradual
someone will write of it a moral
about fire and water, laced in many guises.
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warmth like a licking tongue on the face
light in washes as a crest rises then disappears
so far out on the ocean that birds do not live here
this is no man’s calling, but still we are here
ship shattered, arms bloating, ropes holding all hope
red falling and rising in one desperate hand
others, past desperate, groan with strained knots
for a rose on the water, I would give all my tears
in joy, but there is only light and dark, and the knots
of my straining arms holding on for sunset
this one more day most in love with life—what I want
warm arms to drag me from the surf—so I hold
for now, here; it may be I will see another sunset
chance riding a tenth wave come
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desperate moves within the churning sea
lost is the hull and deck
left with the mast and sails
we climb limb over limb.
tumultuous shades of green swallowed
by the black chaotic waters.
towering white capped waves
red tinged a reflection of the scarf I carry.
your face becomes clear amidst the thunder
and my soaked body becoming more limp
our last moments together on the dock
extending into the bay underneath the
full moon, the promise I made to carry
this with me and the ring I promised to bring back.
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casual warmth like a cat’s tongue licking my hand
light drags across me in washes as crests rise and disappear
so far out on the ocean that birds do not live here
this is no man’s calling, but still here we are
ship shattered, arms bloating, ropes holding all hope
a red kerchief rising and falling in one desperate’s hand
others, past hopeless, groan in strained ropes
for a rose on the water—for that I would give all my tears
in joy—but there are only bored shadows and the knots
of my straining arms holding on for an un-promised sunrise
one more day in love with grasping to be alive, and the possibility
of warm arms finally dragging me from the hurt, so I hold
here; it may be I will see another sunset, and chance riding a tenth wave
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I raised my head and spoke for the first time in years
to my god. Tears burst from my eyes like flower petals
dripping down my face and into the ocean. My fellows and I
gripped the mast that once tore a great hole in the deck
of our lives, and knew that we needed it to survive.
We gave thanks for the rain that dripped drink down our throats.
We looked at each others’ faces and eyes
that stood wide with words beyond reason—we spoke
to each other, and told stories that began waves ago. |
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Who are they but thieves holding me, a crucifixo
acts of love, XOXO their knots not letting go
Not are all good, heir’s of nature are for Art
“Art thou good and worth saving?”
King of kings are you moved,
by the savage leagues of freedom,
where slaves in red caps corrupts trading places with you
right as rain in its saving mastitis, for Nations of all the Nations.
Who puts war above a dove atop me
and going nowhere white flags surrender,
for Love, whose slaves are drowning,
in many sad and funny ways.
You will attract the cannon fire,
your arms cross over as Orion’s
a perfect wave, a perfect 10
Greatly and divide me, its rounds find
into all those memories quickly.
and watch me to pull up hatchets,
and help pull man's hand upon to brand me, as a private brand.
skulls and crossbones,
in my trawling
sky spills out en mass
to free man
burned eyes into sea waves
offshore to cry, hearing passing gulls
“I'm seeing madness.”
Paddle, fail, cheaply and quickly, see…
universal offshore
Peddle, dragged down, and deeply, see…
rations of rain strap
diddle, dished, doo she
lose her momentum and choose me to jump with.
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the water grips.
who can survive ten waves like this?
salt crusting curling crests making for sputtering mouths—
pastel sky is so far off,
and there is no solid plank
to push against—only the broken mast;
so lash you boys to what we have
before raw salt coats your lips
with one more hissing breath. |
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The mist of the lake
so much like the press
of your skin on mine
a tender lie
of captured light,
lyrics unashamed
tiny waves of skin:
seven, eight, nine
dusk and mist
blend into
a private poem
everything eventually
settles in opal water
When the heart pulses,
reasons sway
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I raise my head and speak for the first time in years
to my god. Tears burst from my eyes, drifting down
like fallen sunflower petals, dripping eventually into the ocean.
My shipmates and I grip the mast that tore a great hole in the deck
of our lives; we know we need it to survive. We give thanks
for the last storm rain that drips drink down our throats. We look
into faces and eyes that stand wide in shock beyond reason—we speak
to them, and tell stories that began waves ago. |
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Majestic azure area
You are walking your wavy reflections
Your white hair twirling in the wind
Your languishing sighs have a relaxing feeling
Your great age cannot be revealed
But your strength always renewed
Carries fishermen, soldiers or merchants
How many women have you left in torment?
Untamed Queen, your praises are sung
By troubadours your stories are narrated
Of fearless men, lovers or insolents
Whom like me fell in love of your fiery heart
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