muid féin ag titim chun píosaí
“when the sea cries who will listen” asks the seagull to the rock.
a fish listens in, bemused by the concern.
” I listen” he jauntily replies; ” I will always listen”
The seagull looks on at the sea as it howls and spits out trees.
The rocks wait for time to pass.
Time does pass.
The fish waits at the shore for the seagull.
The seagull does not appear.
A tree emerges beaten by the sea.
” Tell me a story” asks the fish, bold and impatient.
The tree sighs, a long sustained breath, looks longingly at the fish and in silence, crashes itself to the rock.
The fish looks on, a little jealous at their close union.
The rocks offer no comfort to the beaten tree, only a surface on which to rest until the sea comes dashing back to claim its prize.
the pulse that rose
and fell in its abyss,
the cracking of the blue cold,
the gradual wearing away of the star,
the soft unfolding of the wave
squandering snow with its foam,
the quiet power out there, sure
as a stone shrine in the depths,
replaced my world in which were growing
stubborn sorrow, gathering oblivion,
and my life changed suddenly:
as I became part of its pure movement.
( Neurda )
The sea watches me.
It does not speak
It will not speak.
Casting trees.
Holding trees.
The treasure of seaweed.
Falling, always falling, the gaze beyond.
” The world is nowhere, my love, if not within” ( Rilke)
They stand at the foot of the mountains.
And there she embraces him, weeping.
He climbs alone, on the mountains of primal grief.
And not once do his footsteps sound from his silent fate.
But if the endlessly dead woke a symbol in us,
see, they would point perhaps to the catkins,
hanging from bare hazels, or
they would intend the rain, falling on dark soil in Spring-time. –
And we, who think of ascending
joy, would feel the emotion,
that almost dismays us,
when a joyful thing falls. ( Rilke)
The seagull has watched the whole thing, the lady is wet now, sodden and cold and the tree floats on the waves. Maybe she cries a little. The sea gull cannot tell as the rain comes now. The lady or girl, or human retreats back into the caves and tries to become a fish so that she can join the tree.
the waves have been listening.
The rocks have been listening.
the waves depart, leaving a calm sea now.
The seagull shudders at such commotion.
The rocks wait, sometimes they contain to bare witness to so much sadness they weep as the sea, sometimes they bare witness to so much beauty they grow flowers.
The rocks will always wait.
( muid féin ag titim chun píosaí / Tá mé ach aoi ar an sail seo. is an ongoing conversation with the landscape of Devon. All images and film copyright to Beatrice Jarvis and may not be reproduced without permission.)
Urban re:passages 