2009.04.11 - The Sound of Water - Sort of. A Poem

Near the end of January, Kimberly Keith challenged the poetry group, with which we share membership, to write a poem about noise/sound words. How did she put it?

"Let's hear what you have to say with sound words...crash, boom, splat!!"

(For those of you waiting for the final installment of the STV rumination, it is in the works.)

Well, that turned out to be a very hard thing to do. I have been thinking of it since then, sat down to write something several times, and always my thoughts turned to water. As soon as they did, I would, like the fool trying to push water up river, push my thoughts in other directions. But to no avail. So, I gave in and wrote the following. Near the end of its composition, I stumbled into the music of Adham Shaikh (or try his 'MySpace' space). I suggest that you might enjoy listening to Somptin Hapnin with Kinnie Starr while reading the poem.

Each time I turn thought towards sound,

I sound in my mind sound sound words, and

     invariably,

          inevitably,

              inexorably they gurgle, chuckle, giggle, 

            murmur, echo 

                    down streams of endless 

                         eau.

Water, water everywhere.

Water chortling down thick think tank drains

     and stainless steal sinks — 

     sinkholes in geyser guises,

burbling onomatopoeically into rills, and a 

     fulgent humour

     found sibilant in sweet Aphrodite's 

          wind

                 blown

                       spume.

I hear wind talking through stays 

and masts 

and rigging

like owls in an empowered parliament

     bemusing wisely of mute mice

          and man

               walking

                    walking on a sound of salt water

                         and jellied fishes.

Then within a breadth of breath,

     in a snap of

      breath, gasp of

      breath, dearth even death of breath,

my thoughts turn to baby wavelets of water lapping,

     like lazy lions' tongues, 

          against hulls of barnacled

               white and faded

                    red and stalwart

                         blue.

Then blue faced, true-blued face, 

wet race-thrilled face,

I hear sheets of hemp and silk sail howling lines,

     trilling their thrilling striven

     pulling strain against stanchions sound, 

steadfast

     and safe;

and inside my head, in waves,

     vibrant,

          pounding,

               pulsing,

                    booming bass drum

                         thrumming kettle drum

                              waves great 

                              and small 

                              and too

                                       too tiny and tall. 

I feel the icy spindrift needles sending 

endlessly

sea sharp ended points

in a fruitless effort to efface placid black keyboard riffs, 

creating anew faces etched with rifts, 

     crevices

          of cold sweating

               tango dancing

                    wing-wind prancing

                         teary eye-lined squinted

                                    eye lines.

And all the while, voice is lost, puff-gusted out

     blown back

          down the throat backs

               of sailing boat racers

                    unsoundly racing their sail boats

                         o'er water, under

                              and through it.

Race, fingers, race to mine the mind

of unsounded soundless sound,

flat screened face aglow

     bent backed

          and fingers bent too to

tip tap tippity tap tappity tip tap tap tapping.

How far is that, in reality, from

     drip drap, drippity drip drip drappity

          drip

          drip

          drip drop           

                  drip-drop

                            drip?

Water, water, everywhere,

     washing, 

          washing,

               every sound thick and thin

                    far away ways in mind, 

                         unsound, sound

                              and mindless.

Addendum:

I would like to publicly thank CBC Radio2's Pat Carrabré of 'The Signal' for introducing me to the great great find of Adham Shaikh. And, for those curious about the title 'Somptin Hapnin with Kinnie Starr,' I suggest you listen to Kinnie Starr's engaging little CBC-Recorded concert. 

Good night.