High Tide exists in two separate forms under two different names: (1) the prose poem High Tide and (2) the poem, Though Lovers Be Lost. The title of the poem comes, of course, from Dylan Thomas.
High Tide
High tide in the salt marsh and now you are a river flowing silver beneath the moon, your body filled with shadow and light. I dip my hands in dappled water. Twin gulls, they fly down stream then perch on an ice floe of half-remembered dreams. An eagle with a broken wing, I am trapped in this cage of flame. When I turn my feathers to the sun, the black and white of a convict’s bars stripe my back.
Awake, I lie anchored by what pale visions fluttering on the horizon? White moths wing their snowstorm through the night. A feathered shadow ghosts frail fingers towards my face. Butterflies stutter their kisses against the closed lips of shuttered eyes and mouth. Hands reach out to grasp me. A candle flickers in the darkness and I am afraid.
Who mapped in runes the ruins of this heart? Eye of the peacock, can you touch what I see when my eyelids close for the night? Black rock of the midnight sun, blocking the sky’s dark cave, when will I be released from my daily bondage? Last night, the planet quivered beneath my body and I felt each footfall of a transient god.
The prose poem shortens the verse poem and turns it into a rushing hurly-burly of breathless words strung together by metaphor and magic. They flash and twist this way, that way, like minnows in shallow waters, allowing no time for pause, no time for thought. When I have read the passage in public, the listeners have always looked slightly stunned, bemused, battered almost by the storm of emotion tied into the piece.
The prose poem was published in Fundy Lines (2002) but it was originally conceived as a poem written in stanzas and took this form when published in Though Lovers Be Lost (2000). When the poem is set out in stanzas, it is shaped by the spaces that surround each line. These spaces slow the poem down, allowing the reader to permit the listener, to dwell on each group of words. Obviously, in a silent and private book reading, each one of us will read poetry and prose in our customary way. That said, in a public reading, I usually read the prose slightly faster than I do the poetry. The metaphoric nature of the language stands out in the longer version, and instead of the rush of words (prose), we have a measured resonance that shapes meaning. Impact in prose versus depth of meaning in poetry: I think both forms work in different ways.
In addition, the prose poem has been very selective and has abandoned several of the images and themes that appear in the poem. This increases the sense of urgency and unity while diluting the strength of the metaphors. Although the words are basically the same, the shapes and forms make for two different works, two distinctive appearances.
Though Lovers Be Lost
1
Once,
you were a river,
flowing silver
beneath the moon.
High tide
in the salt marsh:
your body filled
with shadow and light.
I dipped my hands
in dappled water.
2
Eagle with a shattered wing,
my heart batters
against bars of white bone.
Or am I a killdeer,
trailing token promises
for some broken god to snatch?
Gulls float downstream.
They ride a nightmare
of half-remembered ice.
Trapped in my cage of flame,
I return my feathers to the sun.
3
Awake,
I lie anchored by
what pale visions of moths
fluttering on the horizon?
A sail
flaps canvas wings
speeding my way
backwards into night.
A feathered shadow
ghosts fingers over my face.
Butterflies
stutter against
shuttered windows.
Strange hands
reach out to grasp me
and again I am afraid
of the dark.
4
When was my future
carved in each sliver of bone?
A scratch of the iron pen
jerks the puppet’s limbs
into prophesied motion.
Who mapped in runes
the ruins of this heart?
Above me,
a rag tag patch of cloud
drifts here and there,
shifting constantly;
like this body of water
in which I sail.
5
Eye of the peacock,
can you touch
what I see when
I close my eyelids
down for the night?
Black rock of the midnight
sun, rolled up the sky,
won’t you release me
from my daily bondage?
Last night, the planet
quivered beneath my body
and I felt each footfall
of a transient god.
6
Thunder knocks
on the door of my dream
and I am afraid.
I no longer know my way
through night’s dark wood.
Who bore her body
out in that rush of rain?
Could she still sense
the sigh of wet grass?
Could she still hear
the damp leaves whisper?
7
A finger of fog
trickles
a forgotten face
down the window.
The power of water,
of fire, of frost;
of wind, rain, snow,
and ice.
Incoming tide:
stark waters.
Rising.
I would welcome any comments you may have (a) on the difference between the two forms, as they impact you; (b) on the perceived differences between the prose poem and the poetry; and (c) on the perceived revision and thought process that turns poetry into prose, and vice-versa.
rogermoorepoet 