Sunday, September 30, 2012

Flowing to the Sea

A couple of years ago, I posted the poem below, "Flowing to the Sea," on my blog In and Out with Jeff. I've revised it and posted it here because this is my poetry blog and I think this version is much better. If you want to see the old one, you can check it out here.

The differences between the two versions may not actually be worth the time spent comparing to anyone besides me, but the old version, posted on a blog that is essentially political commentary, sprinkled with an occasional family story, has gotten more page views than any other piece I've ever posted. On either blog.

I can't explain that. The old post has no labels except "poetry" and frankly there's just not a huge audience for poetry. The average post on In and Out with Jeff gets about 10 times more page views, in general, than does the average post on Outdoor Poetry Season.

If you google "flowing to the sea," you won't turn up my post. Not, at least, anywhere on the first 10 or so pages the search engine offers up. So why would this poem get more hits than a post about Octavia Butler, say, or Mary Oliver, or my dad, Bernie Epton, or a polemic about the Israeli-Palestinian conflict?

Maybe some lone computer somewhere, left unattended, got stuck in some kind of feedback loop and visited that post 250 times. Otherwise, I can't say, but, as Jimmy Cliff might say, "it's a wonder, a perfect ponder."

Flowing to the Sea

At a spot slid from memory,
a tiny bulb nestled
in a frosted glass bowl,
a glowing egg cradled
in a translucent hand,
light seeping through
a flimsy black disc,
cast only dim shadow.

A distant display,
in focus, then out,
circled and spun,
an arrangement of lights
eyed the traveller
crossing a threshold,
passing beneath a sky
dripping rain,
backlit by stars,
radiant in haze.

Passersby long forgotten,
size, face and gender unmarked,
oblivious to the figure traversing
to places unmapped,
caressed by nocturnals,
gentle as rose petals,
finally to stand
in a garment soon shed on the sand,
toes drinking the lap
of the primordial sea,
awaiting what comes.

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