We were swimming off the cliffside beach
When the storm darkened the sky
Made the sea as black as night
I was confused, in the way that one will be
When danger suddenly rears from nowhere
And you must act
Or be killed
I was knee deep in the water
I rushed for you
Screaming your name,
Waving my arm, go back! go back!
You turned, thank god, you understood
And charged through the water
That splashed black and cold against your thighs
I took no thought for the water around mine
Be safe, be safe, be safe, I prayed
Let him be safe
And the first flash of lightning
The first blast of icy wind
And the first crack of thunder
And then the black water at my thighs pulled back
Threatened to topple me with its racing force
I steadied myself against it, wheeling
And looked over my shoulder
A black mountain of water rose at the horizon,
High as the stormy sky
A seam of white seawater broke on its crest
And it raced
The water still rushing around me,
Trying to draw me out to sea, to the black mountain
I turned to face it, braced against the rushing black river at my ankles, and raised my hands, palms out:
I always had a touch of magic
I had always been able to call it in times of distress
And I called it then to stop the tide
The water at my ankles was gone now
Only wet sand under my feet
As the ocean reared up
like a demon of the deep
White crest, the black mountain
I did not know if it would work
But I could not save you otherwise
The mountain roared as it broke
It rushed into an invisible wall
Power like lightning flowed from my palms
And I held it back, I held back the black tide
The thunder roared loud and the lightning streaked white
And I held it back, I held back the tide
I turned my head
You had escaped the sand
You made your way to the black stone cliffs and began to climb
Let him be safe, I prayed
You cut your precious hands on the stone and my heart leapt
Let him be safe, I prayed
Keep him alive
The sea drew back again, more ferocious than before
And crashed against my magic wall
And the wall stood like a stone door
The sea drew back again, black-green and furious
I braced myself and felt it strike my magic again
And the wall stood like a stone door
I turned my head and saw you, halfway up the cliff,
And I’ll admit I took pride
You had known of my magic, of course,
You had seen me charm shopkeepers and waitresses before
You had seen me speak to birds and talk to bumblebees and what’s more
You had felt my magic in your heart when that girl had called you names
And I did all I could
To make you feel loved again
I’ll admit, I was proud that you saw me, saw me holding back a storm
But even I do not know where my magic comes from
And it withered in an instant,
And the wall fell
And the sea drew back
It hit me once
Drove me knee-deep into the soft sand
I thought I heard you call my name before
The waves buried me, threw me on my back
Filled my nose with black-brown seawater
Rushed down my throat into my lungs
And rushed back out
I coughed and struggled
Pulling at my legs to free them
And the water rushed back in
Jerking my arms above my head, filling my nose, my throat, my lungs
And you watched the sea that I once held down
Rear back a third time, and you watched me drown
I don't think I breathed
I don't think I breathed through this furiously spellbinding drama. It gripped, it heaved, it crashed, it triumphed, it devastated, and all with an awe-inspiring mastery of language.
I didn't just envision "A black mountain of water" that "rose at the horizon" but I felt its pummeling assault, smelled the salty breath of its monstrous side, experienced the cyclone of terror until, for a while, the mage seemed victorious.
The build-up to the showdown with the stunningly personified sea, the enemy, was one dizzying literary feat, but the bold ending was pure gold.
Bravo and Bravo!
I don't know if I even have
I don't know if I even have sufficient words adequate to the compliment that this magnificent poem deserves!
That said, I will offer a comparison. In the Fascimile And Transcript of the original manuscripts of T. S. Eliot's poem, The Waste Land, the fourth section, the Death By Water section, contains a long poem (until Pound stupidly deleted it) about a sea voyage, a horrific sea voyage that ends in a ghastly tragecy as relentless winds drive a fishing trawler northward to crash against a huge ice floe on which ravenous polar bears are waiting. When I first read the Fascimile in the summer of 1977, I was fascinated by the whole thing---but enormously horrified by the every effective language of the Death By Water section. Your poem---despite its different narrative voice and setting---reminds me of the horrific power of Eliot's nautical poem, and I mean that to be a sincere and admiring compliment to your verbal skill.
But . . . you have done something that Eliot did not apparently think to do. In your poem, the sea is as much a character as the narrator and his friend; and that is a brilliant strategy to deploy in this poem. At first, I was a little put off by the magic references, and then I realized that this may very well be a poem in the genre of Magic or Marvelous Realism, so upon my second look at the poem it fit right in. And like Eliot's narrator in the Death By Water, the speaker is revealed to be already dead. If you have read the Fascimile, the pattern of allusion is excellent; if you have not read it, then the coincidence goes to the brilliance of your talent, which sought the same kind of resolution of the narrative that Eliot did. And, regardless of direct allusion or happy coincidence, the Poem is not only one of the finest of yours that I have read, it is one of the finest nautical poems that I have read in a very long time. Until this afternoon, I did not think I would ever see a poem as great, as beautifully horrific, and as much of an end-shock as the original Death By Water. But your poem has proven that another seaside poem is as great as Eliot's; and I am grateful to have been around long enough that our paths at postpoems have intersected, and that I have been privileged to read this wonderful and poignantly dramatic poem.
Starward
It is a happy coincidence,
It is a happy coincidence, not an allusion. I feel that special feeling that comes with discovering a new style and I am excited to explore it and happy that the change of pace has moved you.
As always, I am very grateful for your encouragement and praise. I am thinking of creating a series for it to sit in and I hope that the follow up poems inspire you similarly
I look forward to the
I look forward to the emergence of that series.
Starward
Jaw-dropping strong force
I felt so empty yet so heavy reading this, as if a hot air balloon being tugged down by anchors.
bananas are the perfect food
for prostitutes
Thanks! I was very much
Thanks! I was very much trying to capture that feeling.