David Donlon - poem


A weekend at the beach, guided by two centuries of poetry

There it is still, the old human roarer, the ocean
Churning loosened phlegm on the earth,
Dominating attention, defying reason.

I see Whitman's sea, with its dead giants
Floating passive in the dark maternal embrace.

And there is Swinburne's fatal prostitute, marking his body
To the limit, until transported by pain he ascends.

I see Joyce's sea, fishing up something dead
For dogs to sniff -- the carcass of the old reality.

Stevens the improv shows how each sea is
Uniquely one's own -- the sea in itself is not there.

I would prefer Roethke's sea, with the one wild Rose
Still clinging to the rocky shore, despite it all, if I could believe.

But they all turn and mix into one another, and the sea escapes,
A glistening bluegreen efflux of significance,
Something more than the human spirit can probe.

unframe this page