Hatteras Calling

Elizabeth Magill

Hatteras Calling

Southeast, and storm, and every weather vane

shivers and moans upon its dripping pin,
ragged on chimneys the cloud whips, the rain
howls at the flues and windows to get in,

the golden rooster claps his golden wings
and from the Baptist Chapel shrieks no more,
the golden arrow in the southeast sings
and hears on the roof the Atlantic Ocean roar.

Waves among wires, sea scudding over poles,
down every alley the magnificence of rain,
dead gutters live once more, the deep manholes
hollow in triumph a passage to the main.

Umbrellas, and in the Gardens one old man
hurries away along a dancing path,
listens to music on a watering-can,
observes among the tulips the sudden wrath,

pale willows thrashing to the needled lake,
and dinghies filled with water; while the sky
smashes the lilacs, swoops to shake and break,
till shattered branches shriek and railings cry.

Speak, Hatteras, your language of the sea:
scour with kelp and spindrift the stale street:
that man in terror may learn once more to be
child of that hour when rock and ocean meet.


Conrad Aiken 

Stormy weather here lately. 

child of that hour when rock and ocean meet.

The Seafarer

Christian Krohg, "Fisherman"


The Seafarer 

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. 

Anon. (Version by Ezra Pound)

Long and depressing, but I love it. It has all the verve and energy of Beowulf, nevermind the same style. It would seem that the seafarer is complaining of his terrible life, of all his struggles, and how other people have it so easy, but it also shows how he is irresistibly drawn to it. He wants to be at sea, he wants to be moving, even if it is torturous. Even if it takes everything. And his word choice belies his complaint - he is as full of life as a warrior, his language is one of battle, his world is one of deep darkness and deadly opponents (loneliness, physical deprivation and toil to name a few), but there is a ferocious delight and an undeniable sense of glory in the contest. This rings true. Sometimes the only satisfaction is in a grim determination to fight on.

                                         


                                                           

105

Christian Schloe

105

cruelly, love

walk the autumn long;

the last flower in whose hair,

thy lips are cold with songs

for which is

first to wither, to pass?

shallowness of sunlight

falls and, cruelly,

across the grass

Comes the

moon

love, walk the

autumn

love, for the last

flower in the hair withers;

thy hair is acold with

dreams,

love thou art frail

- walk the longness of autumn

smile dustily to the people,

for winter

who crookedly care.

E.E. Cummings

"Thy lips are cold with songs." "Love thou art frail." I couldn't tell you what this poem means, but the phrases cling to my mind. "The last flower in the hair withers." I read it and think maybe Cummings has arranged the whole thing backwards, and what would the words look like in their proper order? But I want it the way it is. The changing of the seasons is personal in Cummings poetry, more than just outward and physical, it is an expression of inner loss and transition. And that phrase "thy hair is acold with dreams" is wonderful, it is one of those things poets do - show us beautiful mysteries. He leaves us with wonder.

Drifting Off

Colin See-Paynton "Round of Wren"

Drifting Off

The guttersnipe and the albatross

gliding for days without a single wingbeat

were equally beyond me.

I yearned for the gannet's strike,

the unbegrudging concentration 

of the heron.

In the camaraderie of rookeries,

in the spiteful vigilance of colonies 

I was at home.

I learned to distrust
 the allure of the cuckoo

and the gossip of starlings,

kept faith with doughty bullfinches,

leveled my wit too often

to the small-minded wren

and too often caved in

to the pathos of waterhens

and panicky corncrakes.

I gave too much credence to stragglers,

overrated the composure of blackbirds

and the folklore of magpies.

But when goldfinch or kingfisher rent

the veil of the usual,

pinions whispered and braced

as I stooped, unwieldy

and brimming,

my spurs at the ready.

Seamus Heaney 

I wonder if this could be called a self-portrait too. We had Robert Graves describe his face, Arthur Rimbaud ascribe different characters to himself, and Heaney now, seems to be telling us his place in the world by means of birds. He's not a lone flyer or patient hunter, he likes the comaraderie of colonies, he's made some mistakes of judgment, fell for a good sad story or two, believed a little too much in some characters, but when the moment came - he was ready. Ready for what? Attack? Defense? What bird is he? He doesn't say. All this makes me smile.


 

Perhaps the World Ends Here

Phoebe Wahl

Perhaps the World Ends Here

The world begins at the kitchen table. No matter what, we must eat to live.

The gifts of the earth are bought and prepared, set on the table. So it has been since creation, and it will go on.

We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe at the corners. They scrape their knees under it.

It is here that the children are given instructions on what it means to be human. We make men at it, we make women.

At this table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts of lovers.

Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms around our children. They laugh with us at our poor falling-down selves and as we put ourselves back together once again at the table.

This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella in the sun.

Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place to hide in the shadow of terror. A place to celebrate the terrible victory.

We have given birth on this table, and have prepared our parents for burial here.

At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow. We pray of suffering and remorse. We give thanks.

Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table, while we are laughing and crying, eating of the last sweet bite.

Joy Harjo

This poem got me thinking of how much of my life centers around the kitchen table. I almost picture it like a magnet - each of us in the family coming to it, moving away, swinging back in, circling it, changing its position, its seating, but all of us somehow perpetually attracted and drawn to it, adding and subtracting others... What a powerful symbol. All of life a sitting at the table. (The title really gets to me.) It reads quite matter-of-fact, but every sentence is full of after-images and reverberations. This table. My portion of life.


 

https://soundcloud.com/user-978696454/perhaps-the-world-ends-here

Let Evening Come

Herbert Waters, "Les Smith's Barn"

Let Evening Come

Let the light of late afternoon

shine through the chinks in the barn, move

up the bales as the sun moves down.

Let the cricket take up chafing

as a woman takes up her needle

and her yarn. Let evening come.

Let dew collect on the hoe abandoned

in long grass. Let the stars appear

and the moon disclose her silver horn.

Let the fox go back to its sandy den.

Let the wind die down. Let the shed

go black inside. Let evening come.

To the bottle in the ditch, to the scoop

in the oats, to air in the lung

let evening come.

Let it come, as it will, and don't

be afraid. God does not leave us

comfortless, so let evening come.

Jane Kenyon

A friend shared this poem with me the other day. I fell instantly in love. It reads like a benediction. The words fall assuredly into place, the images clear in my mind's eye. Its as if there could have been no other words chosen, these are so true and fitting. Kenyon may have meant it to be about aging, but I don't feel that so much as I feel its call to just Be. That word "let" in itself - at once an imperative and a submission, a command and an acceptance - is compelling.  Every image is restful. Things left undone, things taken up again, quietness, darkness - and behind it all this sense of assurance in spite of unknowns to come. Beautiful. I could go on and on.

 

Anthem

Jan van der Kooi

Anthem

The birds they sang
at the break of day
Start again
I heard them say
Don't dwell on what
has passed away
or what is yet to be.
Ah the wars they will
be fought again
The holy dove
She will be caught again
bought and sold
and bought again
the dove is never free.
Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack in everything
That's how the light gets in.
We asked for signs
the signs were sent:
the birth betrayed
the marriage spent
Yeah the widowhood
of every government --
signs for all to see.
I can't run no more
with that lawless crowd
while the killers in high places
say their prayers out loud.
But they've summoned, they've summoned up
a thundercloud
and they're going to hear from me.
Ring the bells that still can ring ...
You can add up the parts
but you won't have the sum
You can strike up the march,
there is no drum
Every heart, every heart
to love will come
but like a refugee.
Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack, a crack in everything
That's how the light gets in.
Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack, a crack in everything
That's how the light gets in.
That's how the light gets in.
That's how the light gets in.


Leonard Cohen 

There was a time when the words "ring the bells that still can ring" gave me the strength to look death in the face and not retreat from life. Thank you, Leonard Cohen. You will be missed.



 

Ecclesiastes 3

Hilary Paynton "Tree With a Long Memory"

Ecclesiastes 3:1-8

 

 To every thing there is a season, 
 and a time to every purpose under the heaven:

 A time to be born, and a time to die; 
 a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;

 A time to kill, and a time to heal; 
 a time to break down, and a time to build up;

 A time to weep, and a time to laugh; 
 a time to mourn, and a time to dance;

 A time to cast away stones,
 and a time to gather stones together;

 A time to embrace, 
 and a time to refrain from embracing;

  A time to get, and a time to lose; 
 a time to keep, and a time to cast away;

 A time to rend, and a time to sew; 
 a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;

  A time to love, and a time to hate; 
 a time of war, and a time of peace...

 He has made everything beautiful 
 in its time.
 
 
 A poem so repetitive it seems simplistic. (And so famous I don't know if anyone "hears" it anymore.) For me it has gone deep. What it clearly says to me is that there is balance. We can expect good times and bad times, and there will be time for both. There will be pain, and we need to give it its time, acknowledge it, feel it, mourn it. And then we need to let it go. Holding it beyond its time is neither helpful or honest. There are new seasons, new things that need time and our attention. There will be happy times, but both the struggles and the joys have meaning and purpose and are important.

Sea-Weed

Ewa Karpinska

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sea-Weed

Sea-weed sways and sways and swirls

as if swaying were its form of stillness;

and if it flushes against fierce rock

it slips over it as shadows do, without hurting itself.

D.H. Lawrence

This is so beautifully true. This is exactly how sea-weed moves. And how lovely, how very subtly and yet directly true are the things it intimates. This is the fascinating thing about poetry, how you can say one thing truly and it prisms into many true things.

 

from Childhood

Andrew Wyeth

4) from Childhood

I am the saint at prayer on the terrace like the

peaceful beasts that graze down to the sea of Palestine.

I am the scholar of the dark armchair. Branches

and rain hurl themselves at the windows of my library.

I am the pedestrian of the highroad by way of

the dwarf woods; the roar of the sluices drowns my

steps. I can see for a long time the melancholy wash

of the setting sun.

I might well be the child abandoned on the jetty

on its way to the high seas, the little farm boy following the lane, it's forehead touching the sky.

The paths are rough. The hillocks are covered

with broom. The air is motionless. How far away

are the birds and the springs! It can only be the end

of the world ahead.

Arthur Rimbaud

I don't have a lot to say about this poem. Each image has a distinct feeling. Saint, scholar, pedestrian, abandoned child, there is a different perspective for each stanza - as if there were different persons in us, and ages and circumstances. It could almost be a portrait, like Graves's of a few posts ago, only instead of a face, of a mood or feeling for which there are no precise words. I had a difficult time finding a painting to go with it, but Wyeth's Helga seems to me to possess the qualities of saint/scholar/pedestrian/child, all these.