A True Account of Talking to the Sea on Some Beach
A True Account of Talking to the Sea on Some Beach
An Imitation of Frank O’Hara’s “A True Account of Talking to the Sun at Fire Island”
By Brinn Wallin
The Sea woke me this morning cold
and fierce, saying “Hey! I’ve been
trying to wake you up for thirteen
minutes. Don’t act so wise, you are
only the sixth poet I’ve ever chosen
to speak to personally
so why
aren’t you more attentive? If I could
freeze you from the shore I would
to wake you up. I can’t wait on you
all day.”
“I’m so sorry, Sea, I couldn’t
sleep last night. I was ruminating with Plath.”
“When I woke up Whitman he was
a lot more eager” the Sea said
disappointedly. “Most people are up
already waiting for me to
put in an appearance for them.
I tried
to reconcile “Thanks for waking me.”
“That’s better” he said. “And thank you
for hearing me out.” “You may be questioning
why I’m glistening so bright?”
“Yes” I said knowing my skin was wet
and salty with the desire to glisten
back.
“I guess I should say
I like your poetry. I’ve seen a lot
in my time and you’re okay. There are
plenty of fish in the sea, but
you’re different. Now, I’ve heard some
say you’re mad, they being excessively
ignorant themselves, and other
loony poets think that you’re a whiny
imitator. Not me.
Just keep on
like the ships and I do, confidently. You’ll
find that people always will complain
about the ocean, either too warm
or too cold too clear or too murky, waves
too small or too tall.
If you drown
and wash up on shore one night they
pity you and love it. Just keep swimming.
And don’t worry about your legacy
poetic or natural. The Sea soars across
the Pacific, you know, the Atlantic
the Arctic the Mediterranean. Wherever you were
I felt it and saw you moving. I was
simply watching you live.
This poem was created and written by Brinn Wallin.
Please do not steal or copy without permission. *All Rights Reserved*And now that you
are going with the flow, so to speak,
even if no one reads or sees you
you’ll be okay. Not
everyone knows how to swim, even in puddles.
“They want to float still.”
“Oh Sea, I’m so grateful for you!”
“I know, and I’m grateful for you too. It’s
easier for me to listen to you out
here. I don’t have to flood into
your brain between plastered walls to get to your heart.
I know you love your home, but,
you ought to wander away more often.
And
always embrace things, people earth
sky stars, as I do, freely and with
a gentle strong fluidity. That
is your inclination, known in the heavens
and you should follow it to hell, since,
if you kill yourself, you’ll end up there.
Maybe we’ll
touch again in Hawai’i, of which I too
am especially fond. Go back to shore now,
Brinn, even if you don’t want to, and I may leave a tiny poem
in that soul of ours as a lifeline.”
“Sea, don’t go!” I was awake
at last. “No, ebb and flow I must, they’re calling
me.”
“Who are they?”
Rising he said “Some
evening you’ll know. They’re calling to you
too.” Darkly he rose, and then I slept.
Brinn W.