Island (Draft 1)
By the side of the sea, in the steel grey
The wind is whipping, cutting things open
And it tears the waves, from themselves
Making them roll, making them climb
One or two birds fly struggle against it
But over the silver metal rough surge
Where ships can normally be seen, delicate
Black dots of horizon iron. But not today.
Ragged V shapes fly south.
The Church is locked. They closed it
Exactly one day before my Tuesday 3:30
Ferry pulled in and bumped the dock. Where
Windswept bay swells drove water slashing
Across synthetic boardwalk. Leaving seaweed,
And two men stepped down. Old men
Huddled in maroon volunteer fired department
Jackets, weathered, and leaning over their cases of
Liquor/grocery carts. A father, holding his little boy
Who stared atthe whitecaps as I used to. And me.
Studying Russian. This ferry, unlike the others
Is enclosed, sways, is ancient metal. So I thought
Of the men of the Kursk in their dark tungsten tomb.
The house stands delicate against a driving rain.
Rising from a nap, and dreams of her, I put on
The too tight rain jacket, stretched to fit
Over Adam Siegler's fleece. Time to collect
Scrap wood in the garden cart, from renovation
Sites, and some dried drfitwood. I don't want to
Use Dad's or the Siegler's wood in the woodstove.
Sometimes pulling out nails so you don't have to sift
Them from ashes. Four boxes of pasta, unreadable
Chekhov, but not due to any fault of his, an
Ex-girlfriend's gift coffee table book on Manatees
And Dugongs in which her graduate work was cited twice.
At Pennsylvania Station, I did not have enough
To get to Vermont, but just enough for the Island.
The train, the bus, the ferry, and sixteen left over.
This precarious house on it sprecarious stilts on this precarious
Sliver of sand against the silver-mercury-cold violent Atlantic
Is 45 years old. I am as well.
The wind is picking up, rattling walls. There: I lost my virginity
On the sand, then we ran nude, in blankets, back to our bed.
The summer after Senior Year. There : three sailboats, covered
With adolescents, set off for tacking and jybing. And here :
Mom served the roast chicken, all four of us ate, watching
The sky change. Sunday afternoon before the ferry home.
Roast chicken, green beans, rice with drippings.
On the deck of the church, potted plants have been
Set on their sides. The gas grill is shrouded. A small funereal
Outdoor piano. Mary prays in stone, eyes down. The information
Board is missing letters. I'd normally pray there,
And recharge my laptop and phone (the house is the last
in town without electricity).
Wind raises the surf, it curls, looks like titanium talons.
Rain whips the house.
Birds fly south, over the mainland and over the sea.
Tomorrow I'll cross back to the continent
And go North.
The wind is whipping, cutting things open
And it tears the waves, from themselves
Making them roll, making them climb
One or two birds fly struggle against it
But over the silver metal rough surge
Where ships can normally be seen, delicate
Black dots of horizon iron. But not today.
Ragged V shapes fly south.
The Church is locked. They closed it
Exactly one day before my Tuesday 3:30
Ferry pulled in and bumped the dock. Where
Windswept bay swells drove water slashing
Across synthetic boardwalk. Leaving seaweed,
And two men stepped down. Old men
Huddled in maroon volunteer fired department
Jackets, weathered, and leaning over their cases of
Liquor/grocery carts. A father, holding his little boy
Who stared atthe whitecaps as I used to. And me.
Studying Russian. This ferry, unlike the others
Is enclosed, sways, is ancient metal. So I thought
Of the men of the Kursk in their dark tungsten tomb.
The house stands delicate against a driving rain.
Rising from a nap, and dreams of her, I put on
The too tight rain jacket, stretched to fit
Over Adam Siegler's fleece. Time to collect
Scrap wood in the garden cart, from renovation
Sites, and some dried drfitwood. I don't want to
Use Dad's or the Siegler's wood in the woodstove.
Sometimes pulling out nails so you don't have to sift
Them from ashes. Four boxes of pasta, unreadable
Chekhov, but not due to any fault of his, an
Ex-girlfriend's gift coffee table book on Manatees
And Dugongs in which her graduate work was cited twice.
At Pennsylvania Station, I did not have enough
To get to Vermont, but just enough for the Island.
The train, the bus, the ferry, and sixteen left over.
This precarious house on it sprecarious stilts on this precarious
Sliver of sand against the silver-mercury-cold violent Atlantic
Is 45 years old. I am as well.
The wind is picking up, rattling walls. There: I lost my virginity
On the sand, then we ran nude, in blankets, back to our bed.
The summer after Senior Year. There : three sailboats, covered
With adolescents, set off for tacking and jybing. And here :
Mom served the roast chicken, all four of us ate, watching
The sky change. Sunday afternoon before the ferry home.
Roast chicken, green beans, rice with drippings.
On the deck of the church, potted plants have been
Set on their sides. The gas grill is shrouded. A small funereal
Outdoor piano. Mary prays in stone, eyes down. The information
Board is missing letters. I'd normally pray there,
And recharge my laptop and phone (the house is the last
in town without electricity).
Wind raises the surf, it curls, looks like titanium talons.
Rain whips the house.
Birds fly south, over the mainland and over the sea.
Tomorrow I'll cross back to the continent
And go North.
posted by APG at 11:19 PM
2 Comments:
Struggled for over 24 hrs to find words to adequately describe my response to this poem. A writer myself, I seldom have trouble finding words for so long; this poem touches a deep spot in me, one which causes me to feel breathless and wordless.
Struggled for over 24 hrs to find words to adequately describe my response to this poem. A writer myself, I seldom have trouble finding words for so long; this poem touches a deep spot in me, one which causes me to feel breathless and wordless.
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