Yielding: A Sequence of Modern Sonnets

A sequence of modern sonnets.  They actually constitute what’s called a crown:  each poem begins with the final line of the previous one, and the final poem ends with the first line of the first poem.  Thus, the crown–a completed circle.  Read these aloud!

Yielding

I.                                                                                                    

 

The kind of people who flock to this beach

Are those attracted to distractions, like

Infants, spellbound by color and bright lights.

Skeeball machines and go-kart tracks across

The street.  A few blocks down, a video

Arcade with its wraparound marquee

Covered in thermoformed plastic carnival

Signs.  “Life is Good,” a club’s billboard insists.

(Why the errant capitalization?)

Sunburned arms from playing miniature

Golf.  Oh yeah, did I mention that there’s

A beach?  //  Adolescence brings disdain, and

Like a sugar rush yielding to ennui,

The beach became lesser:  a sordid strip.

 

 

 

II.

 

The beach became lesser—a sordid strip

Of sand set aside for intemperance

And little else.  A sense that, somehow,

The water had waxed inane.  Laughing gulls

Had yielded much, forfeiting feeding ground

To scavenging herring gulls who, in turn,

Forced them to beg for breadcrumbs:  the oppressed

Of the postcolonial bird world.  Lost

Innocence, dead like the shredded, viscid

Chunks of sea nettle and moon jellyfish

Punctuating the beach’s declination,

Rotting in thick and pungent coastal breezes.

By the time I returned, bearing sorrow’s weight,

The beach had become a locus of despair.

 

 

 

III.

 

The beach had become a locus of despair

At its worst, and at its best, a kitschy

Relic of working-class ambition, like

Coney Island without the irony.

My parents leased a condominium

For one whole month but only stayed three weeks.

Why not, we thought, and drove I-65

South to finish what they’d started.  Bright

Yellow ginkgo leaves at the state line;

Rocket at the rest stop.  Oak and maple

Yielding to pines.  Gaudy clapboard oyster

Shacks shuttered for the annual desertion.

Sunset on an empty beach is just like

Standing alone at the edge of the world.

 

 

 

IV.

 

Standing alone at the edge of the world,

Watching waves, rolling mirrors of the deep,

Rich copper dusk—against a sliver of

Protean coastline, stubborn yet yielding

Incrementally.  Melancholia

Has its day.  Distant depths register in

The chest, like a savory homesickness.

Salty wind stirs longings—a mystery.

The restaurants have no wait.  Pesticides

Create dead zones; sea life at risk, reads

The article.  Tell that to the eagle ray,

Whose joyous leap eludes the fisherman.

I don’t feel like a redneck.  They say that’s

The kind of people who flock to this beach.

alandruebeach

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Message from the Portal

Of all the views afforded by beach and sea, the one that enchants me most is that of crashing waves.  Whether they be large, small, or barely existent, waves are always there, and that is where I fix my eyes most often.  At the time of this posting, we are there.

 

Hours are being spent in a flimsy chair, under a flimsy umbrella, staring at the incessant inflow and outflow of briny water.  Sometimes the waves crash with a deep, hollow-sounding thud, which hints at their power; sometimes they lap against the sand with a liquid whisper, showing their gentility.  But always, they are coming in and going out—for eternity, as far as I can tell.

 

The consistency of waves gives us a sense of the passage of time and a feeling that our lives are but a hiccup on a continuum.  If this makes us feel insignificant, though, it is soon countered by a profound sense of wonder at nature’s timelessness and vastness.  We just as soon feel a part of it.  For the meditative, there is an attraction found in this dichotomy of insignificance and participation.  As regards meditation, it is worth saying that the off-season invites this very state of mind.  If soul-searching is on the agenda, few settings are as conducive as an abandoned beachfront, a few feet from the water, watching a red sun emerge from pink-orange clouds and then drop beneath the horizon.

 

Some time during my meditations on this border between land and water, I had the notion of crashing waves as portal.  The portal exists in the imagination.  It inhabits the quiet and reflective corners of the mind.  It blossoms upon the minutes and hours spent staring into that rollicking, roiling churn at the beach’s declination.  The crashing waves are a passageway between this world and another—not necessarily the afterlife, but a parallel world.  We can play in the waves, but we cannot cross over.  The other world can be known only in dreams, where the soul swims through coral caverns with wondrous and mysterious creatures in a bottomless, aqueous vacuum.

 

After lengthy spells at the water’s edge, watching and listening, it becomes possible to feel transported, like the soul has been sparked.  It is similar to the sensation one gets before certain paintings or in a balcony at the symphony, when a rare lucidity grants us heightened awareness of the finer points of art and nature.  It is as though, all of a sudden, communication has been achieved with another realm, with the unknown, with God.  This is an effect of the portal.