Godefroy Dronsart: ALL POEMS END IN THE SEA

And all are born right

———————————-now,

all the poems, born

of their small poem-eggs, salt-grey, and all

begin their turtlish crawl

—————————————–toward

—————————————————–the sea,

———except

——————–this one.

This poem

fumbles,

sits up, puzzled,

a frown in his messy fluff.


And the sea, the instinct, the voice of tradition

seeps up the sandy trail her siblings left behind,

comes flooding in, and says —


But all poems, all poems end in the sea :

Homer’s ended in the sea, and Ashbery’s

ended in the sea, and Koch’s poems ended

in the sea, all poems end with me, all

poems must return to their imperfect birth,

their diluted salt-stain, their fatal depth —


Such was the mer-murmur,

the great omnicidal tide, beautiful

—————-————————————–and ineffable.


The poem pouts.

—————————Who says?

Let me lick this fur into shape.

Who says?


So all poems end there. Have ended. Who says?

You are no mirror. I might be a dandelion, or a bee

thinking I’m a dandelion. These legs look workable, if the rest

of this body follows suit, why not grow some cat wings, or a pebble tail?


I’ll take snake eyes over your dead pearls.


I think I hear the comic roar in me.

I’ll be the first pirate poem! I’ll sail

on your surface, above my submerged kin, over

your partial accounts, the flotsam of your myths.

Fly the rough flag of my hide, make a ruckus.


I bet you’ll tell me to read Hegel next.


Stay down. I’ll return to the Dead Sea

when I’m dead, to the Red Sea when I’m red,

until then I have no use for your pacifiers. Old man,

the sounds of your past froth full in my anger.

maybe I’ll vomit you out my rhythm for a laugh.

Stay down!


So the poem shakes off shell flakes

from her damp scruff, yawns,

retches the hairball of her new childhood

out of her digestive system,

sticky red nose. It is not a pretty sight.


Losing interest, the poem dawdles

toward the hill, shoulders to the sea,

looking to test her hunger.