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By the sea...

I was better with the sound of the sea

Than with the voices of men

And in the desolate and deserted places

I found myself again.

Hugh MacDiarmid
 
Wind, seas, and siren songs may keep
you, but I breathe asphodel,
loom the day, unravel the night.
You know currents
and cormorant cry, but I know
hearth-heat.

Susan Terris
 
Fata Morgana said:
I was better with the sound of the sea

Than with the voices of men

And in the desolate and deserted places

I found myself again.

Hugh MacDiarmid
Click to expand...
i can relate to this
if only people would stop talking quite so much
we'd all hear so much more
 
Let my edges that cut be stroked by sand and salt
let my slick surface coarsen till it’s crushed to bits
let my colors soften as they scrape the bottom
let the waves love me in their rough way
let me be changed by that love
let me not forget I held another
yet fully inhabit my particularity
let me be smooth enough to be rubbed by small fingers
and slipped inside a pocket or a bowl
let me prove that beauty is born when something breaks

Gwynn O’Gara
 
Somewhere beyond the sea
Somewhere waiting for me
My lover stands in golden sands
And watches the ships that go sailing

Sung by Bobby Darin
 
One Christmas was so much like another, in those years around the sea-town corner now and out of all sound except the distant speaking of the voices I sometimes hear a moment before sleep, that I can never remember whether it snowed for six days and six nights when I was twelve or whether it snowed for twelve days and twelve nights when I was six.


All the Christmases roll down toward the two-tongued sea, like a cold and headlong moon bundling down the sky that was our street; and they stop at the rim of the ice-edged fish-freezing waves, and I plunge my hands in the snow and bring out whatever I can find. In goes my hand into that wool-white bell-tongued ball of holidays resting at the rim of the carol-singing sea …


Dylan Thomas, from "A Child’s Christmas in Wales"
 
What could I give you back but slate-toppling waves
white-cropped now like you, wearing in and onward,
steady as the manhood of the heart? Friend, slaked
by dippers of words you’ve drawn for thirty years, I
find myself yet pulled by aching thirst for bursts
against the sunlit shore, that deeper black cold
welling up from somewhere bottomless like hurts
we’ve hidden under memory. You’ve the great feel
of things, broken faces, glint of what’s best said by
gull-swoop, glance, the look down in that’s a cry
unmade but by the delicate tongue of the gifted.
In me the chapped, sloshed underpool holds the sway
your singing makes, my gift to listen and to nod.


Dave Smith
 
If you were me, what would you do?
Don't tell me — I don't need you to
It won't help me now...
 
I throw out love like an anchor and wait where the long house lights of strangers tickle the river’s back.

Isn’t it right to drag the rivers for the bodies not even the nets could catch? I won’t lie, I want you to lie with me on the tumbling surface of love.

Dave Smith
 
But when the light hits us from behind
the granite cliffs, all I can muster is to lie with you
on the monastery floor, guide your fingers to the door-
ways of my weary heart, so you can feel it too—
the ocean that travels with me; how it gathers and breaks,
gathers and breaks; like love, how it stills, then parts.

Tishani Doshi
 
You broke the ocean in
half to be here.
Only to meet nothing that wants you.

Nayyirah Waheed, “Immigrant"
 
After the wave there’s the tide-pool in the ribbed
cup. Now I own what you left me and I’m
salt-rimmed, stained, lit by small hands trying
to feel their way inside, floating on the black
ocean beneath pelvic blood-stars. Because
I’m trying not to lose any, I sleep
against you to be the child on your back,
to be the fur on your skin, the eyes of your
shoulders. If I am the wolf drinking the milk
of darkness around your head, then you are
the lamb; or if I am the lamb then you are the wolf,
howling all night in my ear for the ordinary life.
I say to you: let your seed sprout from my lungs,
let me bear the strange animal of our love.


Anne Marie Macari
 
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