Rio

Rio de Janeiro. Gil Prates.

Rio de Janeiro. Gil Prates.

 

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Water

By Robert Lowell

It was a Maine lobster town—
each morning boatloads of hands
pushed off for granite
quarries on the islands,

and left dozens of bleak
white frame houses stuck
like oyster shells
on a hill of rock,

and below us, the sea lapped
the raw little match-stick
mazes of a weir,
where the fish for bait were trapped.

Remember? We sat on a slab of rock.
From this distance in time
it seems the color
of iris, rotting and turning purpler,

but it was only
the usual gray rock
turning the usual green
when drenched by the sea.

The sea drenched the rock
at our feet all day,
and kept tearing away
flake after flake.

One night you dreamed
you were a mermaid clinging to a wharf-pile,
and trying to pull
off the barnacles with your hands.

We wished our two souls
might return like gulls
to the rock. In the end,
the water was too cold for us.

 


In the Water

Ana Regina Nogueira by Gil Prates

Ana Regina Nogueira and Gil Prates

Ana Regina Nogueira by Gil Prates

Ana Regina Nogueira and Gil Prates


Today Is The Tomorrow You Were Promised Yesterday

Today is the Tomorrow you were Promised Yesterday. Victor Burgin. 1976.

Today Is The Tomorrow You Were Promised Yesterday. Victor Burgin. 1976.

The early morning mist dissolves. And the sun shines on the Pacific. You stand like Balboa the Conquistador. On the cliff top. Among the last of the Monterey Cypress trees. The old whaler’s hut is abandoned now. But whales still swim through the wild waves. Sea otters float on the calmer waters. Cracking abalone shells on their chest. Humming birds take nectar from the red hibiscus. Pelicans splash lazily in the surf. Wander down a winding path. Onto gentle sands. Ocean crystal clear. Sea anemones. Turquoise waters. Total immersion. Ecstasy. 


After The Storm

By Derek Walcott

There are so many islands!
As many islands as the stars at night
on that branched tree from which meteors are shaken
like falling fruit around the schooner Flight.
But things must fall, and so it always was,
on one hand Venus, on the other Mars;
fall, and are one, just as this earth is one
island in archipelagoes of stars.
My first friend was the sea. Now, is my last.
I stop talking now. I work, then I read,
cotching under a lantern hooked to the mast.
I try to forget what happiness was,
and when that don’t work, I study the stars.
Sometimes is just me, and the soft-scissored foam
as the deck turn white and the moon open
a cloud like a door, and the light over me
is a road in white moonlight taking me home.
Shabine sang to you from the depths of the sea.


Melancholy

Melancholy. Edvard Munch. 1894-96.

Melancholy. Edvard Munch. 1894-96.


Diachronic/Synchronic Time

Concerning diachronic/synchronic time: above, on, under (with mermaid). John Baldessari. 1976

Concerning Diachronic/Synchronic Time: Above, On, Under (With Mermaid). John Baldessari. 1976