The First to See the Sea

Funny how memories come back. What sets them off? I was at a retreat a couple of weeks ago, the Tibetan monk, a lovely man, was talking about meditation. Half way through the day I found myself writing in big letters "who is going to be the first to see the sea" What on earth made me think of that. Could it be that that long ago experience looking for the first glimpse of the sea is like a moment in meditation where you feel you have a glimmer of the vast expanse of eternity. The old awe rises up. Perhaps one must, as a child, have the experience of reverence and wonder to be able to access it later on. Actually I do believe that strongly. I was thrilled to be told the other day that there is a movement now called "slow parenting" like the slow food moment. If children are structured every minute of their lives how can they develop an inner life, a relationship to the mystery of being human. Anyway this is a poem about that first amazing view of the sea's magnificence.

The First to See the Sea.

We come off the duel carriage way into the norfolk

country side and head to the coast. with

tin buckets and spades.

Who can see the sea first?

Scrambling to the windows we stare out

of our Morris Minor, scouring the fields,

the newly harvested straw bales,

beyond village spire and copse

between gaps in the hawthorne hedge,

confusing the blue sky with a triumphant shout.

“There it is” a castigating interjection to the contrary,

and silent scan of the horizon resumed.

Daises and chicory peter out to coarser grasses

Over the humpbacked bridge

we are making it without engine trouble

My sister points in belief and disbelief

our eyes lock together on a blue distance

that moves and simmers in the sunlight

we gasp and no one claims victory

because of the vastness, the

seagull salt air and the coming towards

us of dunes and the tambourine of white

foam circling and sucking our feet.

I am telling you now, that it was a long time ago,

a childhood memory urgent for some reason

as I round the last bends in my life

with daunting expenctation of the final expanse,

Even if in a down pour, clounds low, and mist

gathering in the salt swamps

the car barely spluttering along ,

we will see it, indeed we will all see it..

Even since I was able to get BBC 4 on my computer I have not felt so bereft of English media.

I am afraid NPR pales in comparison. I love the daily program Woman's hour it is not what you think it is, some house wifey program, no it is full of amazing interviews and funny thoughts.

One came up today about the dressing table how it is on the way back into fashion. That brought memories of our exploits to mum's dressing table where we discovered mystery.

The Dressing Table...

went out of vogue with

with Germaine Greer’s bra.

Remember those sibling expeditions

in the silence of the house we explored

love letters from the middle drawer

and stand up hair extremes.

Spray that missed our childish curls

and set solid over the looking glass,

pink powder in it’s own snapping box and

unknown initials

proof of her once dodgy existence.

Lip sticks with flamboyant titles

flattened to the shape of her interior kiss.

In teenage years this was

the final evaluation to perfect

profile in three dimension,

and consider how sexy the nap of the neck.

The dressing table is back

reclaimed by a consciously

embodied feminine.

She sits before herself

in benevolent light,

illuminating the artistry of her face.

Day by day her cheekbones sculptured by

the settling in of mood mostly about love

and her complicated and sacred journey

Pocket Poetry

This one arrived after a conversation with my friend Jerry about getting old - all the things that come loose! He quoted Joseph Campbell as saying it's like pieces falling off a car. So here's the poem.

HOME STRETCH

(FOR JERRY)

There goes the fender.

A rattle in the undercarriage,

steam from the bonnet

and the number plate is loosening,

Reduce speed now!

Who cares,

hedgerows are deceptive,

they like to flash past.

You are not Toad of Toad Hall

infatuated by the throttle’s deep

throated masculinity,

you know engine’s are not infinite,

parts peels off and somersault;

a blithe reverence for Gods recklessness,

his sense of humor at your co piloting .

After 60 it is patch and patch.

As a nation we don’t darn anymore

but replace and upgrade

In the end there’s a limit to possibility,

to how serious our biography

with its unremarkable details.

Youth is not carefree in comparison

to this wild monologue.

Ah, there goes the hubcap.