Hello, Jan,
This is a captivating, lush, and immersive poem, rich with imagery that transports the reader into the maritime landscape and the lives of seafarers. The vivid sensory details are especially striking, giving the piece an almost cinematic quality.
One thing that threw me a bit was punctuation, which could be tightened for better flow—especially in the opening stanza:
Tied to the Sea
As though they are surprised to be awake,
the wheel of gulls scream devoirs to the dead,.
fFish, like gossips, are nosing through the muck,
shags, aping crucifixion, dry their wings,.
tThe ebb is done,; the stillstand hesitates.
-- The Frenchy "devoirs" is a great touch—it adds gravitas to the action described.
The oily water rainbows in the light
and dimple dances with sporadic rain.
Scuffed trawlers nod while waiting for the flood.
Strange tidings ache to slew across the flats,
and read what whelks have scribbled in the mud.
-- The personification of "tidings" is fresh and effective—it gives the sense of an unseen force at play, shaping the landscape and its stories.
The smell of diesel fumes, the breakfast smokes,
sucked, hungry, deep with grunts and hawking phlegm,
the easy, liquid speech that flows half-heard.,
Ccracked hands that talk to nets and pots and lines,
dexterity, their currency of word.
-- I'm inclined to make this stanza fully list-like. It heightens the imagery, adds a sense of momentum, and provides a narrative interlude before the first-person voice and personal shift in the next stanza.
Without my glasses all is pastel edged
yet what I cannot clearly see, I know.
Along the grey of earth-bone harbour wall,
the aging, chiselled wounds are lichen scabbed
and plastered with Bill Poster’s free-for-all.
The rusted bollards with their gleaming waists,
the iron burnished by the mooring lines,
the steel-wheeled trolleys waiting for the catch,
the concrete cracked and crazing underfoot,
the coils of mooring line, the brazen rats
and redolence of fish along the wall.
Below, the beat of ocean-blood,; the tide,
has turned in gentleness before the rush.
It sheets across the flats,; its speed belies
the seeming slowness of the tidal rise.
-- I love "ocean blood," and I think it could be even more effective as "ocean-blood," making it a striking compound word that intensifies the metaphor.
I watch the trawlers tugging at their lines.
A purpose comes to movement then
as each of them is eager to be gone.
The harbour holds and breathes the gift of life,—
my gift is done,; I ponder on the when.
-- The ending works, but I wonder if it could land even stronger—though I can’t quite put my finger on how! Maybe just a slight tweak in rhythm or a last lingering image could amplify the final note.
Good luck with this, Jan!
Cheers,
...Alex
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