lyrics | fictions | episodes ©E. Best, 2013-2020
tell me about the sea
and what it means
and what the weather’s like in Brindisi
where my people come from
who I never met
I know more about the sea
and what it means
than I do of those who made me
and summoned me from sleep
tell me about the sky
and what that means
and what it means
to live without regret
I spend my days collecting stories
and not a true one yet
1. The Death of Gulls
Like hail they fell,
in numbers uncountable,
leaving no one left to wail but me,
Godless upon an iron sea.
After the storm I was cut adrift,
me a mid-shipman,
ten days out to sea,
and never a sight of land for me,
nor woman’s touch,
but her dark eyes
swam before me all the way
to the whirlpool at the end of days
where under a glowering sky,
still beardless,
I died the death of gulls.
This sea-tale I recount,
by way of settlement
to the God that has deserted me
this seventeenth day of May,
Seventeen hundred and fifty three.
Now the Devil take me.
2. The Last Island
The storm levelled the house
and I raised sail;
made for the last island of all.
Seven days have now passed,
my boat lies broken on the beach
and I lay dying of love.
In my own blood I write this scrawl
and face my God alone:
my maker,
and my unmaker,
Lord of the Last Island.
3. The Voyage Out
On the voyage out, we were becalmed
for seven days and nights,
one for each decade of an old soak’s life.
Untouched by either current or breeze,
by degrees, I grew mad
so that when the wind did whisper to me,
it was in sea dreams I could not read;
strange alphabet, strange tongue,
not known to me, or anyone,
hieroglyphs on the pavements of a seaside town,
out of season all year round.
And there I was delayed,
incanting, have remained,
casting back these stones into the sea,
words formed in extremity,
holding back the one thing I could read:
“Oh why hast Thou forsaken me?”
I found an old jar in her kitchen
that for long had remained unused
it was like one I remembered from childhood
that I used to cling on to
the trees in my mother’s garden were many and beautiful
though she lived in a small apartment
by the sea
of the silent guest at her table
she would talk to her family
yes the trees in my mother’s garden were beautiful
but the jar
I threw into the sea
of the silent guest at her table
the sea has no memory
strands interwoven at twilight
amber at eve in a braid
we used to tell stories at bedtime
impossible stories we made
such a strange dance we were dancing
a dance we were taught by the sea
to whom do you wave on the shoreline
to whom do you wave if not me
when conversation became difficult
I made for the shelter of the trees
looking back across the sun-bleached field
to where the party was in full swing
appreciating the amplitude of tall silences
that I could navigate more easily
from there I could see you slowly circling
coming to rest
before finally heading out
navigation
ascertaining a position
calculating the most favourable route
between one point and another
even when there is no point at all
navigation
just moving around
it takes skill
practice
finesse
when even gentle waters
can seem treacherous
safer amid trees
they don’t move around
at least don’t appear to
I whispered a quiet thank you
and plotted a course back
four glass coasters
bought at Lyme Regis
when the children were young
and life was easy
life was never easy
photographing them now in sunlight
they seem fabulous beyond compare
blue from another ocean
I never knew existed
where sea urchins devour whales
amid bubbles of aquamarine
and half-formed monsters
guard a pirate treasure hardly seen
at the time
joy passes too quickly for us to grasp
life is a bauble
a theft
don’t expect miracles
when the miracle has already passed
lost in a sea
preserved in glass
on the way back to the mainland
I met a man who said he could see angels
I dismissed this as fairytale
but he was adamant
now as dark waters of night gather in
I remember him
and realise I am still crossing
the waters around the little bay
are wild and inhospitable
always I sail away again
beaten by the currents
yet always I return to my beloved shore
my rock
my continent
my dark island
[first posted 20 March 2015]
on the second night we sang songs of abandonment
and on the third night
and the fourth
and on every night
until the welcome guest said to us
why do you sing these songs to me
for these are the songs sung by the sea
and sung by the wind that shakes the trees
sing again that song you sang before
for that is the most terrible
and beautiful of all
but none of us could recall
any song that came before
tales were told at table
that night
and when it came to my turn
I said
why is it always my turn
and the answer came back
you’re the only one
here
so I recounted the days of my
youth
which I missed grievously
and told
of sorrows and lost loves
and worse things
wearing my heart wide open
recalling
the story of the whale mother
singing
to her stolen calf unceasingly
even
from another ocean
