Captured by the Sea

 

—Poetry by Lynn White, 

Blaenau Ffestiniog, North Wales

—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 

 

BEACH COMBINGS

On each beach they’ve been different.
at home there, though
washed up gently by lapping waves
or thrown by high seas.
Now they’re at home
in my house.
Each beach together.
Pretty shells from a bay in Menorca,
where the sea was freezing
and the sun bright hot above.
I remember the exhilaration of my swim there.
Then there are the large curving shells
dived for in Sochi by the son of a Russian family
who became good friends.
Captured memories now.
Those bits of wood from a Scottish loch side
now decorate the wall behind this computer.
Remember those midges? Oh my!
And now all joined by these from the Basque
Country.
Beautiful oysters that seemingly tried to swallow
stones.
Beautiful oysters decorated with barnacles and
wormy fossils.
Now lying on the slate of my hearth.
I’ll remember that beach with the waves lapping
gently
and the first sight of something strange.
Half hidden.
I remember.

(prev. pub. in Visual Verse, October 2017)

 

 

 

 

 


EXPECTATIONS

I had never been to the seaside.
I knew what to expect, though.
I had a book about it.
There were lots of pictures of rock pools
and the strange creatures living there.
My favourites were the hermit crabs.
I was looking forward to those the most.
I had a little bucket to collect them in.

But there were no rock pools,
at this seaside.
Just flat sand with a thin distant line
of cold grey sea.
Why?
No one said.

I found some shells
to put in my bucket.
I liked the tiny pink ones best.
But most were broken
and not worth collecting.
Why?
No one said.

No shells, no hermit crabs, but
they showed me how to put damp sand
into my miniature bucket.
with my miniature spade
and how to pat it down
and tip it out to make ‘sand pies’.
I was supposed to like doing this.
Why?
No one said.

They gave me some paper flags
on thin wooden sticks.
I could stick them in
the top of my sand pies.
I was supposed to like doing this.
Why?
No one said.

I thought I’d save up my flags
until I’d climbed the mountain
at my auntie’s.
When I got to the top
I’d arrange them into my initials
so everyone would know I’d been there.
I started to practice this.
But they said the mountain
was a slag heap, not a mountain
and therefore out of bounds.
Why?
No one said.

We stayed on the beach a long time.
Then we went to a toy shop.
My father bought me a doll
with real hair, they said.
But it was made of nylon.
I called her Gloria.
That was the best bit.
but nothing was
as it had been
inside my head.


(prev. pub. in Silver Birch Press,
Beach and Pool Series, 2016)

 

 

 

 

 

MY OLD BLUE PUMPS


I kept them on,
my old blue pumps.
You see,
I could see a broad band
of sharp shells
and pebbles
and other flotsam
between me and the sea
so I kept them on,
my old blue pumps,
until I’d crossed over.
I eased them off carefully
but even so the sharp sand
grazed my heels.
Never mind,
the sea would sooth them,
wash away the pain
with the ingrained sand.
And it did
as I swam.
But at the end
they were no longer waiting for me
on the shoreline,
my old blue pumps.
No longer waiting when I emerged
healed and refreshed,
no longer waiting
but captured by the sea
and washed away with the rest.



(prev. pub. in Event Horizon Issue 8, 2019)

 

 

 

 

THE FISHERMEN


The wall ran all along one side of the bay,
steps up from the port at one end,
down to the beach at the other.
I climbed up the steps
and looked over.
So many fish.
Huge fish.
Swirling silver moons in a day-blue sky.
A net would have scooped them up
and broken with the weight.
The fishermen were there with their rods set up,
like the fish almost touching,
so many and so close,
making
parallel black lines against the sky
like a blue print for lunch provision.
I walked down the steps to the beach.
Few people were there so early.
Morning was the fisherman’s time
of day,
not the sunbather’s.
I went back along the wall
when the fishermen were packing up,
heading home for lunch.
Carrying their fish,
I thought.
But no,
it was a delusion
to imagine
they would eat fish for dinner.
Not those fish, anyway.
All were returned to the sea.
Such is the sport of the fisherman.



(prev. pub. in Scarlet Leaf Review, January 2018)

 

 

 

 

 

DREAMS AND PLASTIC SMILES

The accordion player was from Eastern Europe.
He was there each morning
on the promenade in the south of Spain,
He plays popular songs
with an unremitting plastic smile.
A little further along
sits the beggar with no legs.
He is also from Eastern Europe.
He sits there every day
with an unremitting plastic smile
and a cardboard sign
written in English and Spanish.
I wonder what lit the fuse
to set them off on their incredible journey
into the unknown.
I wonder if the smiles fade on the way back
to their new homes.
I wonder if the dreams have faded
or whether they scrape along
as the men scrape along.
Or perhaps they’re as vibrant as ever,
full of hope,
surviving in the mild winters,
ready to blossom like the cherry trees
in the spring.


(prev. pub. in New Reader Magazine, March 2018)

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

We have come this far walking on the seashells of our dreams.

―Avijeet Das

_____________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Lynn White from North Wales for her fine poetry today!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For more about National Poetry Month,
including ways to celebrate, see
https://poets.org/national-poetry-month.
And sign up for Poem-a-Day at
https://poets.org/poem-a-day/, plus
read about Poem in Your Pocket Day
(this year, April 27) at
https://poets.org/national-poetry-month/poem-your-pocket-day/.

For upcoming poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
in the links at the top of this page.
 

Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.

Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!