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By the sea...

I always wondered why she sang so strangely
at the spinning wheel, why her eyes held all
the mourning of the darkest sea. And why
she held me away,
as if afraid of my skin, why my feet and
hands were webbed with translucent sea–skin.
I used to bring her armfuls of yellow
water iris to almost
see her smile. I wondered why father
never let me swim out against the waves,
never let her walk the shores alone.
He feared she might
disappear like a snatched breath on every
angry tide. And when I found the skin,
by accident, beneath the kindling, its fur
mottled as the moors
in summer, soft as milk in my twelve–year–old
hands, I brought it straight to her. I hoped
she might smile again. I couldn't guess
she might hold me close,
then shrug on that magic seal coat and swim
quickly away, enchantment broken, transformation
complete. She never saw me, waving frantic
from the shore.
So that's what she left me — webbed fingers
and toes, a lonely father, the stench of salt
and seaweed, the knowledge she had never
been herself with me.

Jeannine Hall Gailey
 
The dead love that we weep,
that we stain ourselves with
salt, that we become for a moment
indistinguishable from the sea,
that our shining faces rock with grief.

Paul Guest
 
When you shipwrecked
you sold what could be salvaged
and built a boat to sail home in.
Now there’s a man
with survival skills, I thought.

Turns out you were only good
at dealing with dead things.
I needed oxygen on a regular basis
and therefore did not qualify.

I know something of the notched wings of terns,
jellyfish ethereal like little electric floating worlds.
I understand the pull of a night sky,
stars like a nail gun taken to velvet.
But what about the single bed,
the wordlessness?
What about the endlessly receding horizon?

And then you had to sail off and die—
though I like to think of you sluicing through waves
even now, as if you just didn’t want
to be slowed down.

We could’ve just split our books,
cut the cat in half, sorted spoons.
You were the one who insisted on the Bermuda Triangle,

in love with leaving
and beautiful, steering the sailboat away.
But it was the tiller in your hands, not my shoulders.

Your face turned into the salt spray,
correcting a luff in the sail.
Your eyes, out to sea.

Courtney Queeney
 
You dream that you have let
the tide wash in;
you feel its salt lick on the back wall
of the womb –
or other pocket – one of those loose shapes
that ease into the human outline.
Soon you will forget its solitary sob,
the music of yourself
emptying.
It’s all the same now
you are sharing yourself with the sea.

Diana Bridge
 
Opposite my house, 30 yards away.

attachment.php
 
Fata Morgana said:
She arches her body like a cat on a stretch. She nuzzles her cunt into my face like a filly at the gate. She smells of the sea. She smells of rockpools when I was a child. She keeps a starfish in there. I crouch down to taste the salt, to run my fingers around the rim. She opens and shuts like a sea anemone. She's refilled each day with fresh tides of longing.

Jeannette Winterson
Click to expand...

how beautiful is that? :heart:
 
'Cargoes'

Quinquireme of Nineveh from distant Ophir,
Rowing home to haven in sunny Palestine,
With a cargo of ivory,
And apes and peacocks,
Sandalwood, cedarwood, and sweet white wine.

Stately Spanish galleon coming from the Isthmus,
Dipping through the Tropics by the palm-green shores,
With a cargo of diamonds,
Emeralds, amethysts,
Topazes, and cinnamon, and gold moidores.

Dirty British coaster with a salt-caked smoke stack,
Butting through the Channel in the mad March days,
With a cargo of Tyne coal,
Road-rails, pig-lead,
Firewood, iron-ware, and cheap tin trays.

John Masefield
 
Sea Fever
By John Masefield

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by;
And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea’s face, and a grey dawn breaking,

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull’s way and the whale’s way where the wind’s like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.
 
Shelley

The sun is warm, the sky is clear,
The waves are dancing fast and bright,
Blue isles and snowy mountains wear
The purple noon's transparent might,
The breath of the moist earth is light,
Around its unexpanded buds;
Like many a voice of one delight,
The winds, the birds, the ocean floods,
The City's voice itself, is soft like Solitude's.

I see the Deep's untrampled floor
With green and purple seaweeds strown;
I see the waves upon the shore,
Like light dissolved in star-showers, thrown:
I sit upon the sands alone,—
The lightning of the noontide ocean
Is flashing round me, and a tone
Arises from its measured motion,
How sweet! did any heart now share in my emotion.

Alas! I have nor hope nor health,
Nor peace within nor calm around,
Nor that content surpassing wealth
The sage in meditation found,
And walked with inward glory crowned—
Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure.
Others I see whom these surround—
Smiling they live, and call life pleasure;
To me that cup has been dealt in another measure.

Yet now despair itself is mild,
Even as the winds and waters are;
I could lie down like a tired child,
And weep away the life of care
Which I have borne and yet must bear,
Till death like sleep might steal on me,
And I might feel in the warm air
My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea
Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony.

Some might lament that I were cold,
As I, when this sweet day is gone,
Which my lost heart, too soon grown old,
Insults with this untimely moan;
They might lament—for I am one
Whom men love not,—and yet regret,
Unlike this day, which, when the sun
Shall on its stainless glory set,
Will linger, though enjoyed, like joy in memory yet.
 
all of you here
so easily seduced
hypnotised by the sea
its shades and bright shallows
its long voice
ruffled laughter
till it dictates your moods
reclaims you to its bosom
 
Breathe Me Alive

If I were to sink
Into the deep blue
Not knowing how life came to be
So complicated, so hard
Would you rescue me?

Would you be my lifeguard?

I know I would drown
Just to save you
Would you do the same for me?
Is it too much to ask?
I so want to believe
That you are up to the task

I can't believe I have to ask
Are you up to the task?

Because I'm not
If this is to be all for naught
That's right, you heard what I said
I just can't seem to bear the thought
Of getting in over my head
It's a fight that can no longer be fought
Leaving me consumed with suffocating dread

Where do we go from here?
What's in store for us?
What's comes next after this?

Have we come together to the end of the pier
Only for you to get on a bus after sharing
A final kiss?

Darling,
I wish I had the courage to take the plunge
And soak in all your love like a coral sponge
If only I knew that after I made my dive
You would be there to rescue me
Keep me afloat

And breathe me alive
 
One for Kat

My body is made up of saltwater and wishes, and a thousand star fish that try to mimic the constellations. And sometimes, that’s all I ever want to do: imitate the sky so that you can find a home somewhere within me. You make me want to tug at the horizon and pull it closer to me, let in sink into my spine and curve along my ribs. And then I’d let you rest in the hollow spaces between my neck and my collar bones, becoming a part of my skin. But you also make me feel divided: I’m always here when you are gone, always longing for something I can never touch. And I feel empty hoping for something a million light-years away, half the world away.

Megan Madgwick
 
http://i9.photobucket.com/albums/a97/foxkitsune/gulpofthesea_zps68f6f6b0.jpg

You are eating the sea, that’s it, only the sensation of a gulp of sea water has been wafted out of it by some sorcery, and you are on the verge of remembering you don’t know what, mermaids or the sudden smell of kelp on the ebb tide or a poem you read once, something connected with the flavor of life itself.

Eleanor Clark, The Oysters of Locmariaquer
 
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