Nautilus
A good poem, like a good riddle,
May take a long time to unwind,
And in that time we find its pleasure.
The old nautilus shell—spiraling,
Whorled, and iridescent—shows at once
Its bright chambers to light
And hides its cavities in shadow.
Turn the thing, and find its great eye
Watching like a riddle, or a poem,
To see whether its strange bearing can be found.
They are ancient and pearly, these things,
Found on the floors of deep waters:
Hard without, soft within, cryptic and fascinating—
A verse in a nautilus, a nautilus in verse:
The labyrinth at home in its library.
Tag: ocean
In this heat,
With the cicadas buzzing
Like chainsaws
And the dogs panting
Like lovers
There is nothing to do
But sweat
And sleep
Sweat
And sleep
Sweat
And sleep
Until you wash yourself
In the warm ocean
Until the rain falls
And turns the land green
Until the moon rises
And the heat
Like a cat
Curls up for a nap.
And then, only then,
Can you breathe.
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Sea Haikus
These are three haikus which observe a syllable count of 5 – 7 – 5 in their lines. They follow a tradition of using clear language to describe nature, then bridging to a related image.
Pearl Morning of Mist
Pearl morning of mist
Clipper ships in the harbor:
Undressing lover.
The Harbor Air
Rough, coarse, salty air,
A fragrance smelled from far-off.
Hot stew in kitchens.
Under the Sea
Undersea lie ships,
Sunken and decomposing:
A bottle’s settlings.
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Between the Wines and War
A poem about a war that approaches a pair of lovers who live along the coast.
What have we here—here between the fine wines and war?
Love. Passion. The sensual and the visceral,
The red drip of the pomegranate, the sweet taste of gold honey.
You touch your slim hand to your angular face once more,
Touching where your red lips are closed and commissural.
We have health, youth, life, tobacco, and wine, but no money.
We have enough. The breeze blows the transparent white curtain
Bringing in the scent of the sea, the jungle’s animals’ cries,
And the faint beams of moonlight, which band the wooden floor.
The outcome of the fight, the approaching war, remains uncertain.
The soldier fights for his country, then his friends, then dies,
As the wine reeks, and our lips meet, and the ocean breaks ashore.
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Blue is a poem about the first time that I ever went abroad. I went to Malaysia, then put my impressions into couplets.
Along Malaysia’s white sand lies a cerulean ocean,
blue until the water touches the blue sky.
Endless blue: water speared by luminous scales of fish blue;
shoreline women stating fashion, blue silk against brown skin;
and the wiry blue line on the fishing reel: long-sleeve, thin
white shirt, rod held swaying over water on a cobalt night.
Along beaches, at restaurants, folks hawk blue,
so even the paper lanterns glowing yellow seem sapphire.
Night and day stumble blue, snagged between purple and green,
and the sun moon tides roll between cerulean and steel-grey blue,
their waves flecked with white foam,
and even that white tinged ultramarine.
