...~* Poetry from my heart of hearts *~...

Kätzchen · 04-15-2018, 09:38 AM

Diving Into The Wreck
-- Adrienne Rich (1972)

First having read the book of myths,
and loaded the camera,
and checked the edge of the knife-blade,
I put on
the body-armor of black rubber
the absurd flippers
the grave and awkward mask.
I am having to do this
not like Costeau with his
assiduous team
aboard the sun-flooded schooner
but here alone.

There is a ladder,
The ladder is always there
hanging innocently
close to the side of the schooner.
We know what it is for,
we who have used it.
Otherwise,
it is a piece of maritime floss
some sundry equipment.

I go down,
Rung after rung and still
the oxygen immerses me
the blue light
the clear atoms
of our human air.
I go down,
My flippers cripple me,
I crawl like an insect down the ladder
and there is no one
to tell me where the ocean
will begin.

First the air is blue and then
it is bluer and then green and then
black I am blacking out and yet
my mask is powerful
it pumps my blood with power
the sea is another story
the sea is not the question of power
I have to learn alone
to trust my body without force
in the deep element.

And now: it is easy to forget
what I came for
among so many who have always
lived here
swaying their crenellated fans
between the reefs
and besides
you breathe differently down here.

I came to explore the wreck.
The words are purposes.
The words are maps.
I came to see the damage that was done
and the treasures that prevail.
I stroke the beam of my lamp
slowly along the flank
of something more permanent
than fish or weed.

The thing I came for:
the wreck and not the story of the wreck
the thing itself and not the myth
the drowned faced staring
toward the sun
the evidence of damage
worn by salt and sway into this threadbare beauty
the ribs of disaster
curving their assertion
among the tentative haunters.

This is the place.
And I am here, the mermaid whose dark hair
streams black, the merman in his armored body.
We circle silently
about the wreck
we dive into the hold.
I am she: I am he
whose drowned face sleeps with open eyes
whose breasts still bear the stress
whose silver, copper, vermei cargo lies
obscurely inside the barrels
half-wedged and let to rot
we are the half-destroyed instruments
that once held to a course
the water-beaten log
the fouled compass

We are, I am, you are
by cowardice or courage
the one who find our way
back to this scene
carrying a knife, a camera
a book of myths
in which
our name do not appear.

04-15-2018, 09:38 AM	#34
Kätzchen Member How Do You Identify?: Femme Join Date: May 2010 Location: Sharing my life with my granddaughter, family & friends. ツ Posts: 16,155 My Photo Gallery Thanks: 29,540 Thanked 33,579 Times in 10,686 Posts Rep Power: 21474868	Diving Into The Wreck -- Adrienne Rich (1972) First having read the book of myths, and loaded the camera, and checked the edge of the knife-blade, I put on the body-armor of black rubber the absurd flippers the grave and awkward mask. I am having to do this not like Costeau with his assiduous team aboard the sun-flooded schooner but here alone. There is a ladder, The ladder is always there hanging innocently close to the side of the schooner. We know what it is for, we who have used it. Otherwise, it is a piece of maritime floss some sundry equipment. I go down, Rung after rung and still the oxygen immerses me the blue light the clear atoms of our human air. I go down, My flippers cripple me, I crawl like an insect down the ladder and there is no one to tell me where the ocean will begin. First the air is blue and then it is bluer and then green and then black I am blacking out and yet my mask is powerful it pumps my blood with power the sea is another story the sea is not the question of power I have to learn alone to trust my body without force in the deep element. And now: it is easy to forget what I came for among so many who have always lived here swaying their crenellated fans between the reefs and besides you breathe differently down here. I came to explore the wreck. The words are purposes. The words are maps. I came to see the damage that was done and the treasures that prevail. I stroke the beam of my lamp slowly along the flank of something more permanent than fish or weed. The thing I came for: the wreck and not the story of the wreck the thing itself and not the myth the drowned faced staring toward the sun the evidence of damage worn by salt and sway into this threadbare beauty the ribs of disaster curving their assertion among the tentative haunters. This is the place. And I am here, the mermaid whose dark hair streams black, the merman in his armored body. We circle silently about the wreck we dive into the hold. I am she: I am he whose drowned face sleeps with open eyes whose breasts still bear the stress whose silver, copper, vermei cargo lies obscurely inside the barrels half-wedged and let to rot we are the half-destroyed instruments that once held to a course the water-beaten log the fouled compass We are, I am, you are by cowardice or courage the one who find our way back to this scene carrying a knife, a camera a book of myths in which our name do not appear.