Tuesday Open Thread ~ See How the Light Dances on the Sea
“I have been feeling very clearheaded lately and what I want to write about today is the sea. It contains so many colors. Silver at dawn, green at noon, dark blue in the evening. Sometimes it looks almost red. Or it will turn the color of old coins. Right now the shadows of clouds are dragging across it, and patches of sunlight are touching down everywhere. White strings of gulls drag over it like beads. It is my favorite thing, I think, that I have ever seen. Sometimes I catch myself staring at it and forget my duties. It seems big enough to contain everything anyone could ever feel.”
~ Anthony Doerr, All the Light We Cannot See
Welcome to Tuesday’s Open Thread. Well, I had planned to drive up the coast with a few friends on Memorial Day Weekend and spend some time in Big Sur and Monterey, but that was cancelled months ago when a highly contagious virus descended upon our land. Disappointing to say the least. Had my bucket and pail all ready to go. Back in the old days, when I was but a young lass, I used to do a lot of sunbathing. These days not so much. But I do like to sit under an umbrella and listen to the sound of the waves tumble on the shore. Altogether soothing and mysterious, I’ve always had great awe for the secrets of the sea, but much prefer to do my musings on land. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all up for a sunset cruise around the harbor in a sailboat with champagne and friends, but traversing across the open seas for days on end leaves me feeling very vulnerable. The sea is a world unto itself. Beautiful, powerful, primal and unforgiving. It’s been a part of us from the beginning of time. Maybe that’s why so many artists are drawn to it?
Nathanial Hawthorne ~ 1804 - 1864
The Ocean has its silent caves,
Deep, quiet, and alone;
Though there be fury on the waves,
Beneath them there is none.
The awful spirits of the deep
Hold their communion there;
And there are those for whom we weep,
The young, the bright, the fair.
Calmly the wearied seamen rest
Beneath their own blue sea.
The ocean solitudes are blest,
For there is purity.
The earth has guilt, the earth has care,
Unquiet are its graves;
But peaceful sleep is ever there,
Beneath the dark blue waves.
To the Sea
Philip Larkin ~ 1922 - 1985
To step over the low wall that divides
Road from concrete walk above the shore
Brings sharply back something known long before—
The miniature gaiety of seasides.
Everything crowds under the low horizon:
Steep beach, blue water, towels, red bathing caps,
The small hushed waves’ repeated fresh collapse
Up the warm yellow sand, and further off
A white steamer stuck in the afternoon—
Still going on, all of it, still going on!
To lie, eat, sleep in hearing of the surf
(Ears to transistors, that sound tame enough
Under the sky), or gently up and down
Lead the uncertain children, frilled in white
And grasping at enormous air, or wheel
The rigid old along for them to feel
A final summer, plainly still occurs
As half an annual pleasure, half a rite,
As when, happy at being on my own,
I searched the sand for Famous Cricketers,
Or, farther back, my parents, listeners
To the same seaside quack, first became known.
Strange to it now, I watch the cloudless scene:
The same clear water over smoothed pebbles,
The distant bathers’ weak protesting trebles
Down at its edge, and then the cheap cigars,
The chocolate-papers, tea-leaves, and, between
The rocks, the rusting soup-tins, till the first
Few families start the trek back to the cars.
The white steamer has gone. Like breathed-on glass
The sunlight has turned milky. If the worst
Of flawless weather is our falling short,
It may be that through habit these do best,
Coming to the water clumsily undressed
Yearly; teaching their children by a sort
Of clowning; helping the old, too, as they ought.
Award Winning Oral Poetry by Brave New Voices