The Seafarer

Norman Rockwell - "Boy and old Sea Captain"

Norman Rockwell, “Home Sweet Home” (1923)

Johnny Collins with Jim Mageean + Co

Poor old Horse (Man)

"This 124-line poem is often considered an elegy, since it appears to be spoken by an old sailor looking back on his life and preparing for death. He discusses the solitariness of a life on the waves, the cold, the danger, and the hardships. As such, the poem captures the bewitching fascination the sea holds for us, but also its darker, more unpredictable side. Ezra Pound produced a loose translation of the poem in the early twentieth century." - Dr. Oliver Tearle

 

THE SEAFARER

Anon

	Mæg ic 2: be me sylfum	I can 1: make a true song
	1: soðgied wrecan,	2: about me myself,
	siþas secgan,	tell my travels,
	hu ic 2: geswincdagum	how I 1: often endured
	3: earfoðhwile	2: days of struggle,
	1: oft þrowade,	3: troublesome times,
4a	5: bitre breostceare	4: [how I] have suffered
	4: gebiden hæbbe,	5: grim sorrow at heart,
	gecunnad in ceole	have known in the ship
	cearselda fela,	many worries [abodes of care],
	atol yþa gewealc,	the terrible tossing of the waves,
	þær 4: mec 2: oft 3: bigeat	where 1: the anxious night watch
	1: nearo nihtwaco	2: often 3: took 4: me
	æt nacan stefnan,	at the ship's prow,
8a	þonne he be clifum cnossað.	when it tossed near the cliffs.
	Calde geþrungen	Fettered by cold
	wæron mine fet,	were my feet,
	forste gebunden	bound by frost
	caldum clommum,	in cold clasps,
	þær þa ceare seofedun	where then cares seethed
	hat ymb heortan;	hot about my heart --
	hungor innan slat	a hunger tears from within
12a	merewerges mod.	the sea-weary soul.
	Þæt se mon ne wat	This the man does not know
	þe him on foldan	for whom on land
	fægrost limpeð,	it turns out most favourably,
	hu ic earmcearig	how I, wretched and sorrowful,
	iscealdne sæ	on the ice-cold sea
	winter wunade	dwelt for a winter
	wræccan lastum,	in the paths of exile,
16a	winemægum bidroren,	bereft of friendly kinsmen,
	bihongen hrimgicelum;	hung about with icicles;
	hægl scurum fleag.	hail flew in showers.
	þær ic ne gehyrde	There I heard nothing
	butan hlimman sæ,	but the roaring sea,
	iscaldne wæg.	the ice-cold wave.
	Hwilum ylfete song	At times the swan's song
20a	dyde ic me to gomene,	I took to myself as pleasure,
	ganotes hleoþor	the gannet's noise
	ond huilpan sweg	and the voice of the curlew
	fore hleahtor wera,	instead of the laughter of men,
	mæw singende	the singing gull
	fore medodrince.	instead of the drinking of mead.
	Stormas þær stanclifu beotan,	Storms there beat the stony cliffs,
	þær him stearn oncwæð,	where the tern spoke,
24a	isigfeþera;	icy-feathered;
	ful oft þæt earn bigeal,	always the eagle cried at it,
	urigfeþra;	dewy-feathered;
	nænig hleomæga	no cheerful kinsmen
	2: feasceaftig ferð	1: can comfort
	1: frefran meahte.	2: the poor soul.
	Forþon him gelyfeð lyt,	Indeed he credits it little,
	se þe ah lifes wyn	the one who has the joys of life,
28a	gebiden in burgum,	dwells in the city,
	bealosiþa hwon,	far from terrible journey,
	wlonc ond wingal,	proud and wanton with wine,
	hu ic werig oft	how I, weary, often
	2: in brimlade	1: have had to endure
	1: bidan sceolde.	2: in the sea-paths.
	Nap nihtscua,	The shadows of night darkened,
	norþan sniwde,	it snowed from the north,
32a	hrim hrusan bond,	frost bound the ground,
	hægl feol on eorþan,	hail fell on the earth,
	corna caldast.	coldest of grains.
	Forþon cnyssað nu	Indeed, now they are troubled,
	heortan geþohtas	the thoughts of my heart,
	þæt ic 2: hean streamas,	that I 1: myself should strive with
	3: sealtyþa gelac	2: the high streams,
	1: sylf cunnige --	3: the tossing of salt waves --
36a	monað modes lust	the wish of my heart urges
	mæla gehwylce	all the time
	ferð to feran,	my spirit to go forth,
	þæt ic feor heonan	that I, far from here,
	2: elþeodigra	1: should seek the homeland
	1: eard gesece --	2: of a foreign people --
	Forþon nis þæs modwlonc	Indeed there is not so proud-spirited
	mon ofer eorþan,	a man in the world,
40a	ne his gifena þæs god,	nor so generous of gifts,
	ne in geoguþe to þæs hwæt,	nor so bold in his youth,
	ne in his dædum to þæs deor,	nor so brave in his deeds,
	ne him his dryhten to þæs hold,	nor so dear to his lord,
	þæt he a his sæfore	that he never in his seafaring
	sorge næbbe,	has a worry,
	to hwon hine Dryhten	as to what his Lord
	gedon wille.	will do to him.
44a	Ne biþ him to hearpan hyge	Not for him is the sound of the harp
	ne to hringþege	nor the giving of rings
	ne to wife wyn	nor pleasure in woman
	ne to worulde hyht	nor worldly glory --
	ne ymbe owiht elles	nor anything at all
	nefne ymb yða gewealc;	unless the tossing of waves;
	ac a hafað longunge	but he always has a longing,
	se þe on lagu fundað.	he who strives on the waves.
48a	Bearwas blostmum nimað,	Groves take on blossoms,
	byrig fægriað,	the cities grow fair,
	wongas wlitigað,	the fields are comely,
	woruld onetteð:	the world seems new:
	ealle þa gemoniað	all these things urge on
	modes fusne	the eager of spirit,
	sefan to siþe	the mind to travel,
	þam þe swa þenceð	in one who so thinks
52a	2: on flodwegas	1: to travel far
	1: feor gewitan.	2: on the paths of the sea.
	Swylce geac monað	So the cuckoo warns
	geomran reorde;	with a sad voice;
	singeð sumeres weard,	the guardian of summer sings,
	sorge beodeð	bodes a sorrow
	bitter in breosthord.	grievous in the soul.
	Þæt se beorn ne wat,	This the man does not know,
56a	sefteadig secg,	the warrior lucky in worldly things
	hwæt þa sume dreogað	what some endure then,
	þe 2: þa wræclastas	those who 1: tread most widely
	1: widost lecgað.	2: the paths of exile.
	Forþon nu min hyge hweorfeð	And now my spirit twists
	ofer hreþerlocan,	out of my breast,
	min modsefa	my spirit
	mid mereflode,	out in the waterways,
60a	ofer hwæles eþel	over the whale's path
	hweorfeð wide,	it soars widely
	eorþan sceatas --	through all the corners of the world --
	cymeð eft to me	it comes back to me
	gifre ond grædig;	eager and unsated;
	gielleð anfloga,	the lone-flier screams,
	hweteð on hwælweg	urges onto the whale-road
	hreþer unwearnum	the unresisting heart
64a	ofer holma gelagu.	across the waves of the sea.
	Forþon me hatran sind	Indeed hotter for me are
	Dryhtnes dreamas	the joys of the Lord
	þonne þis deade lif	than this dead life
	læne on londe.	fleeting on the land.
	Ic gelyfe no	I do not believe
	þæt him eorðwelan	that the riches of the world
	ece stondað.	will stand forever.
68a	Simle 2: þreora sum	Always 1: and invariably,
	1: þinga gehwylce	2: one of three things
	4: ær his tiddege	3: will turn to uncertainty
	3: to tweon weorþeð:	4: before his fated hour:
	adl oþþe yldo	disease, or old age,
	oþþe ecghete	or the sword's hatred
	2: fægum fromweardum	1: will tear out the life
	1: feorh oðþringeð.	2: from those doomed to die.
72a	Forþon biþ eorla gehwam	And so it is for each man
	2: æftercweþendra	1: the praise of the living,
	1: lof lifgendra	2: of those who speak afterwards,
	lastworda betst,	that is the best epitaph,
	þæt he gewyrce,	that he should work
	ær he on weg scyle,	before he must be gone
	fremum on foldan	bravery in the world
	wið feonda niþ,	against the enmity of devils,
76a	deorum dædum	daring deeds
	deofle togeanes,	against the fiend,
	þæt hine ælda bearn	so that the sons of men
	æfter hergen,	will praise him afterwards,
	ond his lof siþþan	and his fame afterwards
	lifge mid englum	will live with the angels
	awa to ealdre,	for ever and ever,
	ecan lifes blæd,	the glory of eternal life,
80a	dream mid dugeþum.	joy with the Hosts.
	Dagas sind gewitene,	The days are gone
	ealle onmedlan	of all the glory
	eorþan rices;	of the kingdoms of the earth;
	nearon nu cyningas	there are not now kings,
	ne caseras	nor Cæsars,
	ne goldgiefan	nor givers of gold
	swylce iu wæron,	as once there were,
84a	þonne hi mæst mid him	when they, the greatest, among themselves
	mærþa gefremedon	performed valorous deeds,
	ond on dryhtlicestum	and with a most lordly
	dome lifdon.	majesty lived.
	Gedroren is þeos duguð eal,	All that old guard is gone
	dreamas sind gewitene;	and the revels are over --
	wuniað þa wacran	the weaker ones now dwell
	ond þæs woruld healdaþ,	and hold the world,
88a	brucað þurh bisgo.	enjoy it through their sweat.
	Blæd is gehnæged,	The glory is fled,
	eorþan indryhto	the nobility of the world
	ealdað ond searað,	ages and grows sere,
	swa nu monna gehwylc	as now does every man
	geond middangeard.	throughout the world.
	Yldo him on fareþ,	Age comes upon him,
	onsyn blacað,	his face grows pale,
92a	gomelfeax gnornað,	the graybeard laments;
	wat his iuwine,	he knows that his old friends,
	æþelinga bearn	the sons of princes,
	eorþan forgiefene.	have been given to the earth.
	Ne mæg him þonne se flæschoma	His body fails then,
	þonne him þæt feorg losað	as life leaves him --
	ne swete forswelgan	he cannot taste sweetness
	ne sar gefelan	nor feel pain,
96a	ne hond onhreran	nor move his hand
	ne mid hyge þencan.	nor think with his head.
	Þeah þe 3: græf 1: wille	Though he 1: would 2: strew
	4: golde 2: stregan	3: the grave 4: with gold,
	broþor his geborenum,	a brother for his kinsman,
	byrgan be deadum	bury with the dead
	maþmum mislicum,	a mass of treasure,
	þæt hine mid wille,	it just won't work --
100a	ne mæg þære sawle	nor can the soul
	þe biþ synna ful	which is full of sin
	gold to geoce	preserve the gold
	for Godes egsan,	before the fear of God,
	þonne he hit ær hydeð	though he hid it before
	þenden he her leofað.	while he was yet alive.
	Micel biþ se Meotudes egsa,	Great is the fear of the Lord,
	forþon hi seo molde oncyrreð;	before which the world stands still;
104a	se gestaþelade	He established
	stiþe grundas,	the firm foundations,
	eorþan sceatas	the corners of the world
	ond uprodor.	and the high heavens.
	Dol biþ se þe him his Dryhten ne ondrædeþ:	A fool is the one who does not fear his Lord
	cymeð him se deað unþinged.	-- death comes to him unprepared.
	Eadig bið se þe eaþmod leofaþ;	Blessed is he who lives humbly
	cymeð him seo ar of heofonum.	-- to him comes forgiveness from heaven.
108a	Meotod him þæt mod gestaþelað,	God set that spirit within him,
	forþon he in his meahte gelyfeð.	because he believed in His might.
	Stieran mon sceal strongum mode,	Man must control his passions
	ond þæt on staþelum healdan,	and keep everything in balance,
	ond gewis werum,	keep faith with men,
	wisum clæne.	and be pure in wisdom.
	Scyle monna gehwylc	Each of men must
	mid gemete healdan	be even-handed
112a	wiþ leofne ond wið laþne	with their friends and their foes.
	* * * bealo.	?
	þeah þe he hine wille	? though he does not wish him
	fyres fulne	? in the foulness of flames
	oþþe on bæle	? or on a pyre
	forbærnedne	? to be burned
	his geworhtne wine,	? his contrived friend,
	Wyrd biþ swiþre,	Fate is greater
116a	Meotud meahtigra,	and God is mightier
	þonne ænges monnes gehygd.	than any man's thought.
	Uton we hycgan	Let us ponder
	hwær we ham agen,	where we have our homes
	ond þonne geþencan	and then think
	hu we þider cumen;	how we should get thither --
	ond we þonne eac tilien	and then we should all strive
	þæt we to moten	that we might go there
120a	in þa ecan	to the eternal
	eadignesse	blessedness
	þær is lif gelong	that is a belonging life
	in lufan Dryhtnes,	in the love of the Lord,
	hyht in heofonum.	joy in the heavens.
	Þæs sy þam Halgan þonc	Let there be thanks to God
	þæt he usic geweorþade,	that he adored us,
	wuldres Ealdor	the Father of Glory,
124a	ece Dryhten,	the Eternal Lord,
	in ealle tid. Amen.	for all time. Amen.

Stormy Weathers & Second Coming

‘Smooth between sea and land’ 

by A. E. Housman (1859-1936)

Smooth between sea and land

Is laid the yellow sand,

And here through summer days

The seed of Adam plays.

Here the child comes to found

His unremaining mound,

And the grown lad to score

Two names upon the shore.

Here, on the level sand,

Between the sea and land,

What shall I build or write

Against the fall of night?

Tell me of runes to grave

That hold the bursting wave,

Or bastions to design

For longer date than mine.

Shall it be Troy or Rome

I fence against the foam,

Or my own name, to stay

When I depart for aye?

Nothing: too near at hand,

Planing the figure sand,

Effacing clean and fast

Cities not built to last

And charms devised in vain,

Pours the confounding main.

A. E. Housman

 author of A Shropshire Lad (1896)

Click here for analysis

A Thunderstorm

by Emily Dickenson

The wind begun to rock the grass

With threatening tunes and low, -

He flung a menace at the earth,

A menace at the sky.

The leaves unhooked themselves from trees

And started all abroad;

The dust did scoop itself like hands

And throw away the road.

The wagons quickened on the streets,

The thunder hurried slow;

The lightning showed a yellow beak,

And then a livid claw.

The birds put up the bars to nests,

The cattle fled to barns;

There came one drop of giant rain,

And then, as if the hands.

That held the dams had parted hold,

The waters wrecked the sky,

But overlooked my father's house,

Just quartering a tree.

Emily Dickenson

"Full Fathom Five" by William Shakespeare

"Full Fathom Five"  

(from The Tempest)

by William Shakespeare

Full fathom five thy father lies; 

Of his bones are coral made; 

Those are pearls that were his eyes; 

Nothing of him that doth fade, 

But doth suffer a sea-change 

Into something rich and strange. 

Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell: 

Hark! now I hear them—Ding-dong, bell.

William Shakespeare

V. Innocentia Veritas Viat Fides

Circumdederunt me inimici mei 1

by Sir Thomas Wyatt (1503-42)

Who list his wealth and ease retain,

Himself let him unknown contain.

Press not too fast in at that gate

Where the return stands by disdain,

For sure, circa Regna tonat.2

The high mountains are blasted oft

When the low valley is mild and soft.

Fortune with Health stands at debate.

The fall is grievous from aloft.

And sure, circa Regna tonat.

These bloody days have broken my heart.

My lust, my youth did them depart,

And blind desire of estate.

Who hastes to climb seeks to revert.

Of truth, circa Regna tonat.

The bell tower showed me such sight

That in my head sticks day and night.

There did I learn out of a grate,

For all favour, glory, or might,

That yet circa Regna tonat.

By proof, I say, there did I learn:

Wit helpeth not defence too yerne,

Of innocency to plead or prate.

Bear low, therefore, give God the stern,

For sure, circa Regna tonat.

Sir Thomas Wyatt

an English poet of the Renaissance

1. The Latin title adapts Psalm 16.9: "My enemies surround my soul."

Wyatt's name ("Viat") in the title is surrounded by Innocence, Truth,

and Faith.

2. "It thunders through the realms," Seneca, Phaedra, 1.1140.

The first two stanzas paraphrase lines from that play.

[Note: It is generally thought Wyatt wrote this poem after witnessing

the execution of Anne Boleyn and her "accomplices" from the window

grate of his cell in the Bell Tower at the Tower of London.]

Stormy Sea

by Scarlet

I’m stuck in a stormy sea

wave after wave

crushing me

drowning me

each breath shorter than the last

I start to think I see a calm coming

but I was fooled

for it was a new storm coming in

wave after wave

they crash against me

barely giving me time to breath

I start to think that each breath might be my last

but then I think I see a calm coming

but once again I was fooled

for it was once again a storm coming in

I can see the calm

I know it will eventually reach me

but for now I’m trapped under these waves

wave after wave

breath after breath

I keep looking for that calm

searching for that calm

I see it

but as it moves towards me

it becomes a storm

as it gets closer it gets tougher

tougher to catch my breath

for the waves become rougher and rougher

wave by wave

I start to lose it

lose sight of that calm

for it just keeps moving back

moving away from me

leaving me trapped

trapped by wave after wave

stuck thinking that breath after breath

it could be my last

for I will soon sink in this stormy sea

for soon I will take my last breath

then I will sink

sink deeper and deeper

slowly reaching a calm

different calm

a permanent calm

maybe that is the only calm for me

Scarlet

Sunday, April 22, 2007

Amoretti: Sonnet LXXV

by Edmund Spenser

One day I wrote her name upon the strand,

But came the waves and washed it away:

Again I wrote it with a second hand,

But came the tide, and made my pains his prey.

‘Vain man,’ said she, ‘that dost in vain assay,

A mortal thing so to immortalize;

For I myself shall like to this decay,

And eke my name be wiped out likewise.’

‘Not so,’ (quod I); ‘let baser things devise

To die in dust, but you shall live by fame:

My verse your vertues rare shall eternize,

And in the heavens write your glorious name:

Where whenas death shall all the world subdue,

Our love shall live, and later life renew.’

Edmund Spenser

Click her for Analysis

The Thunder Mutters

by John Clare (1793-1864)

The thunder mutters louder & more loud

With quicker motion hay folks ply the rake

Ready to burst slow sails the pitch black cloud

& all the gang a bigger haycock make

To sit beneath—the woodland winds awake

The drops so large wet all thro’ in an hour

A tiney flood runs down the leaning rake

In the sweet hay yet dry the hay folks cower

& some beneath the waggon shun the shower.

John Clare

*Known as a Romantic, nature, and great English poet

Second Coming

by R.E. Slater

Tall wheat heads bend

    to hot wind's heavy breath

Rippling across golden fields.

Heads bending, stalks swaying,

    falling back, moving forward,

In unison, together.

Bent before the broad storm

   rumbling it's coming wake

Across croplands of waking hearts.

Shaking slumbering, ripe fields

    waking fell airs stirring alive

Unbowed author to life's deepest longings.

R.E. Slater

May 9, 2021

Rev. May 10, 2021

@copyright R.E. Slater Publications

all rights reserved

Stormy 

(an Italian Sonnet)

by Gert Strydom

With pouring rain as many other days,

with clouds in the sky the sun seems dead,

as if for weeks from the earth it has fled

where of it there is not even a small trace,

yet radiant with smiling beauty are your face,

where very few words between us is said,

where against each other we lie in our bed

and with a own music the rain outside plays,

where here we are in a hot and happy home,

outside in the pine forest the wind does not rest,

while very turbulent is the surging of the deep,

where in tempest the ocean does break and foam,

with you right here hot and tender it seems best,

where our love and promises to each other we keep.

by Gert Strydom

Thursday, November 1, 2018

© Gert Strydom

Stormy Weather

by Sandra Feldman

There is no song for loneliness,

Just storming clouds of sadness,

The skies are gray, and lightning rays,

Illuminate the darkness.

There is no song for Love that's gone,

And you, you keep on caring,

Your heart becomes a jaded cage,

From then on all despairing.

Sandra Feldman

Saturday, April 19, 2014

The Waste Land Part V –

What the Thunder said

by T.S. Eliot

V. What the Thunder said

After the torchlight red on sweaty faces

After the frosty silence in the gardens

After the agony in stony places

The shouting and the crying

Prison and palace and reverberation

Of thunder of spring over distant mountains

He who was living is now dead

We who were living are now dying

With a little patience

Here is no water but only rock

Rock and no water and the sandy road

The road winding above among the mountains

Which are mountains of rock without water

If there were water we should stop and drink

Amongst the rock one cannot stop or think

Sweat is dry and feet are in the sand

If there were only water amongst the rock

Dead mountain mouth of carious teeth that cannot spit

Here one can neither stand nor lie nor sit

There is not even silence in the mountains

But dry sterile thunder without rain

There is not even solitude in the mountains

But red sullen faces sneer and snarl

From doors of mudcracked houses

If there were water

And no rock

If there were rock

And also water

And water

A spring

A pool among the rock

If there were the sound of water only

Not the cicada

And dry grass singing

But sound of water over a rock

Where the hermit-thrush sings in the pine trees

Drip drop drip drop drop drop drop

But there is no water

Who is the third who walks always beside you?

When I count, there are only you and I together

But when I look ahead up the white road

There is always another one walking beside you

Gliding wrapt in a brown mantle, hooded

I do not know whether a man or a woman

– But who is that on the other side of you?

What is that sound high in the air

Murmur of maternal lamentation

Who are those hooded hordes swarming

Over endless plains, stumbling in cracked earth

Ringed by the flat horizon only

What is the city over the mountains

Cracks and reforms and bursts in the violet air

Falling towers

Jerusalem Athens Alexandria

Vienna London

Unreal

A woman drew her long black hair out tight

And fiddled whisper music on those strings

And bats with baby faces in the violet light

Whistled, and beat their wings

And crawled head downward down a blackened wall

And upside down in air were towers

Tolling reminiscent bells, that kept the hours

And voices singing out of empty cisterns and exhausted wells.

In this decayed hole among the mountains

In the faint moonlight, the grass is singing

Over the tumbled graves, about the chapel

There is the empty chapel, only the wind's home.

It has no windows, and the door swings,

Dry bones can harm no one.

Only a cock stood on the rooftree

Co co rico co co rico

In a flash of lightning. Then a damp gust

Bringing rain

Ganga was sunken, and the limp leaves

Waited for rain, while the black clouds

Gathered far distant, over Himavant.

The jungle crouched, humped in silence.

Then spoke the thunder

DA

Datta: what have we given?

My friend, blood shaking my heart

The awful daring of a moment's surrender

Which an age of prudence can never retract

By this, and this only, we have existed

Which is not to be found in our obituaries

Or in memories draped by the beneficent spider

Or under seals broken by the lean solicitor

In our empty rooms

DA

Dayadhvam: I have heard the key

Turn in the door once and turn once only

We think of the key, each in his prison

Thinking of the key, each confirms a prison

Only at nightfall, aetherial rumours

Revive for a moment a broken Coriolanus

DA

Damyata: The boat responded

Gaily, to the hand expert with sail and oar

The sea was calm, your heart would have responded

Gaily, when invited, beating obedient

To controlling hands

I sat upon the shore

Fishing, with the arid plain behind me

Shall I at least set my lands in order?

London Bridge is falling down falling down falling down

Poi s'ascose nel foco che gli affina

Quando fiam ceu chelidon – O swallow swallow

Le Prince d'Aquitaine ? la tour abolie

These fragments I have shored against my ruins

Why then Ile fit you. Hieronymo's mad againe.

Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata.

Shantih shantih shantih

T.S. Eliot

from Collected Poems 1909-1962 (Faber, 1974),

by permission of the publisher, Faber & Faber Ltd.

R.E. Slater - Fallen Beauty

Fallen Beauty

by R.E. Slater

At times I feel

a great sadness within

as if there is nothing

I can do; leaving me

helpless,

a bit wistful,

somewhat discouraged,

maybe frightened,

before wandering away.

Whether morning or evening,

it creeps in unawares

not staying long

just long enough to feel

it's pain

it's empty loss

it's grey presence

unlifted an hour of

morbid thought.

Then slips away to

some hidden time

in the stillness of day

or early waking hour

as if some hidden love

holds me... when not;

just a deep sadness

which cannot be shook

leaving all grey.

A sometimes unwanted

companion when all

seems gay and well;

or a foreboding which

carries deep care;

perceiving far-flung

worlds lost to grasp

which are, and are not,

till it's ache lets me go.

An utter helplessness,

unmet by love or hope,

a loss of fellowship

or an emptiness

unmet, if ever,

gripping my will

its hollow vacancy

before ebbing away

uncheered its absence.

R.E. Slater

May 9, 2021

@copyright R.E. Slater Publications

all rights reserved

A Potpourris of Poems

  

What Can Happen in a Second

by Annie Valkema

I.

the perch closes its mouth on the worm

my hand jerks the pole

lungs swell quickly on a gasp

water wrinkles as fins protest heave

fish surrenders

guilt surfaces

II.

air pushed through open lips

a sigh, a puff of disappointment

or a clipped whistle

at the dog who ran

too far down shore

III.

there is a green aura

where the sun touches the water

on the horizon

we cannot help but call

out this science to strangers

all facing the fading heat

while waves break

and wind pushes

we anticipate the mystery

absorb it like humidity

on our goose-pimpled flesh

when it is over

in a second

we smile shyly at those

same strangers trudging

through sand

back to car campers

differently warm

by Annie Valkema

April 13, 20213

After Mary Oliver

by Travis West


Christmas morning came and went
and still our pond is peppered with geese,
the sky alternately filled with their
rusty-hinge wings and their incessant honks,
harsh and exciting.

If Mary Oliver was right, and their
south-bound invitation is simply to
love what you love, perhaps it’s okay to
love the north, the cold, and winter too.

The soft crunch of boot on snow.
The magic of visible breath.
The sudden pink-on-blue of morning.
The wild wind reminding you as urgently
and frantically as the geese that
you are, in fact, in this moment,
alive.

Travis West

April 27, 2021

The Hardest Part is Starting

by Travis West

The explosive flutter of quail taking flight;
the plastic twist of hummingbird gossip;
the frantic grate of a hummingbird warning
to a trespassing blue jay.

The sharp pain of exquisite beauty:
the sun rising as the moon sets;
the gentle embrace of verdant hills.

The slimy tracks of early-morning snail commutes
that silently call us from our sleeping tombs
to greet the day and face our fears once more.

But how can I do this
without community, without worship, without routine?
I am trapped in a cage of my own making:
excuses, rationalizations, fear.

And just like that a hummingbird brings me back to myself
to this moment
to the swirling sound of insect song
to the truth:

We have all we need.

Travis West

April 27, 2021

Liminal Space
by Linnea Scobey

“When you are between your old comfort zone and any possible new answer … the sacred space where the old world is able to fall apart, and a bigger world is revealed …” — Richard Rohr

It’s Sarah and Abraham, every dragging year
between the promise and the child.
It’s Israelites at the foot of the mountain
waiting for Moses’ return.
Leaving Eden, leaving Egypt;
Isaac bound upon the altar.
Joseph barred by prison doors,
Jonah crushed by whale ribs,
Hagar in the wilderness, withering.
Empty stomachs, hands, nets.
Every year hobbling through the desert;
every night water pummeled the ark.
Mary and Martha at the grave of their brother;
disciples hidden in a locked room; 
stone in the mouth of the tomb.

It’s the layover, the stoplight,
the waiting room. The era between tests
and results. The dark womb
of sky before the dawn. The interlude 
between chorus and verse, the space
between two bodies. The inhale
of each wave before 
it overtakes the shore. 
The time between blossom 
and berry, between a star’s birth 
and visible light.
It’s a dial tone, then ringing, before
there’s an answer. It’s standing at 
the knocked door, waiting
for it to open.

Linnea Scobey

April 20, 2021

Lovesongs

by Annie Valkema

I.

We go together

like Methodists and poker,

like bars and bad marriages.

II.

The goodness of spouses,

black coffee and confession

are underrated.

III.

I imagine receiving postcards

from the afterlife:

I don’t miss you but I’m waiting for you.

I’m counting the days

but I can’t tell you the number.

Your dad says hi. He’s playing softball.

I joined the choir.

IV.

Thick-ankled girls dance in cotton skirts

like cotton candy clouds,

Tilt-a-Whirl waltzes.

Dance with a Dutch girl

and your sleep will be easy.

Annie Valkema

April 13, 20212

Amaryllis
by Julia Spicher Kasdorf

He who plants the ear, shall he not hear?

- Psalm 94:6

Who set the heart like a bulb
in the chest, shall He not bless

the blade that tears brown
husks, parts dirt, thrusts

a green budded shaft
to blast this blossom

horn straining toward
the window’s bright pane,

transparent plain between
gaping scarlet and snow?

Oh, whoever lit this winter
sun must also love love.

Julia Spicher Kasdorf

April 6, 2021