[Jan Iwaszkiewicz]

REVISION

Tied to the Sea


As though they are surprised to be awake,
the wheeling gulls scream devoirs to the dead.
Fish, like gossips, are nosing through the muck,
shags, aping crucifixion, dry their wings,
the ebb is done, the stillstand hesitates.

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 smell of diesel fumes, the breakfast smokes
sucked, hungry, deep with grunts and hawking phlegm,
the easy, liquid speech that flows half-heard.
Cracked hands that talk to nets and pots and lines,
dexterity, their currency of word.

Without my glasses all is pastel tinged
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.

The harbour holds and breathes the gift of life.
Precise in purpose the slow rush begins
like petals slowly curling out of bud.
Trawlers muscle up on the rising tide,
the day is to be taken on the flood.

The trawlers strain, each eager to be gone.
They slip their lines, wait at the river mouth,
polite in taking turns, they cross the bar.
Roll, pitch and yaw, they carve the standing wave,
and breaking free they head out to the south.

Relaxing now, everything quiets down.
Upstream, beneath the dark cicada drone,
beached on the bend there lies a burned out wreck.
Its hem of black ribs cups a rusted heart.
It’s mine, is me. No sea can wash it clean.





ORIGINAL
Tied to the Sea

As though they are surprised to be awake,
the wheel of gulls scream devoirs to the dead,
fish, like gossips, are nosing through the muck,
shags, aping crucifixion, dry their wings,
the ebb is done, the stillstand hesitates.

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 smell of diesel fumes, the breakfast smokes,
sucked, hungry, deep with grunts and hawking phlegm,
the easy, liquid speech that flows half-heard.
Cracked hands that talk to nets and pots and lines,
dexterity, their currency of word.

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 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.

[Richard G]

Hi Jan,
very much a poem of two halves, for me (once I got past the mystery of 'devoirs' - still trying to unravel 'stillstand') and I greatly enjoyed the second, from "Without my glasses ... " to the end. That flowed, whereas the opening felt effortful.

RG

[Matt Q]

I think this is really good, Jan. The imagery is strong throughout, the word choices too, and the personification is very well done. The poem pulls me in, and holds my attention. The close is strong, too. I only really have some small points.

Because S1 seems punctuated as a list, I'm not sure if it's just the gulls that seem surprised to be awake, or if that opening clause applies to the fish and shags too. The latter is how reads, but if the former, I'd put a full stop at the end of S1L2 and avoid the comma splice.

In S2, I'd suggest hyphenating "dimple-dances" for clarity. "pastel-edged" in S3, too.

In S3, I take it "Bill Poster" is a sort of personification, as if all bill posts were put up by someone with that name. I'm a bit on the fence about how well this works in context. It's maybe more comic than the rest of the poem. Anyway, it stuck out.

In the final line, I did wonder a little if there might be alternatives to "done", not sure if I can say why and I don't have suggestions.

best,

Matt

[Alex Pepple]

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

[Jan Iwaszkiewicz]

Hi Richard

It goes from observed to remembered to observed to pondered hence the differences.

‘stillstand’ is the the point between ebb and flood and between flood and ebb the point where the tide takes a breath.

Hi Matt
I think I am going to go with most if not all of your suggestions.

It was a thing we used to see often:

BILL POSTERS WILL BE PROSECUTED

I used to feel sorry for the guy couldn’t resist it here lol

I am relatively happy with the soundscape in that line but I have a glimmering of what you mean. I will ponder

Thank you.

Hi Alex

I grew up apparently short suited on punctuation and am not sure why.

“Frenchy” lol gulls are said to be impregnated with the souls of unshriven sailors hence the ‘devoirs’

Thank you I will take on board the compounding recommended by you and Matt immediately.

Jan

[Richard G]

Hi Jan,

‘stillstand’ is the the point between ebb and flood and between flood and ebb the point where the tide takes a breath.
Much appreciated.

[Jan Iwaszkiewicz]

You are welcome.

[Mark McDonnell]

I found myself completely drawn in to this, Jan. It has such a rich, sensory wash about it: I love the shags “aping crucifixion”, “ocean-blood”, “rainbows” used as a verb, “dimple dances”: the poem is full of this precise, arresting imagery. I thought of Bishop’s “At the Fishhouses” reading it.

I take the final word “when” as the speaker contemplating his mortality, wondering when his “gift of life” will be done. For me the ending felt a bit sudden, a bit out of nowhere after the leisurely pace of the poem to that point. There are hints towards this theme earlier but I wonder if you might stretch the poem to another stanza, so the description of the eager trawlers takes up 2 stanzas, maybe. This would allow the ending to emerge more slowly. Also, the 2nd line of the final stanza is only 4 beats (which may have subconsciously added to the sense of hurry at the close)

I really enjoyed it. Others may well have a different take on my sole nit.

Mark

[Julie Steiner]

Hi, Jan!

This is a beautifully detailed sketch. I salute you.

Two pedantic nits:

1) In L2, since the plural noun "gulls" is the object of the preposition "of," it cannot also be the subject of "scream." The subject is actually the singular noun "wheel." Which means that the verb should be "screams," not "scream."

2) The many breathless series of commas are very confusing at times. Better to have a bunch of period-punctuated fragments than so many comma splices that leave the reader thinking, "Wait, what's going on grammatically?" instead of the reaction it deserves: "Wow, I feel like I'm there!"

[Jan Iwaszkiewicz]

Mark and Julie thank you both. A revision posted with a changed ending.

Regards,

Han