I've grown up going down to Cornwall pretty regularly, where my dad grew up. I went a couple of weeks ago and was once again reminded of the immensely therapeutic power of the sea. Here's a poem about that.
The sea asks 'How is your life now?'
It does so obliquely, changing colour.
It is never the same on any two visits.
It is never the same in any particular
Only in generalities: tide and such matters
Wave height and suction, pebbles that rattle.
It doesn't presume to wear a white coat
But it questions you like a psychologist
As you walk beside it on its long couch.
I like how this poem describes the sea as asking you how you are 'obliquely', indirectly, as it goes about it's usual business of ebbing and flowing and waving. For me, this poem perfectly sums up how being near the sea always encourages me to be that little bit more reflective and thoughtful. Just like the sea never being the same on any two visits as described in the poem, I am never the same on any two visits either. As with the sea, my 'generalities' stay the same (my name, my appearance, etc) but my feelings, my circumstances, change and I love the personification of the sea here, questioning you, also changing, and yet being comforting too.
Living in London, I often wonder if the sea would seem quite as powerfully peaceful if I were near it all the time, or whether the relaxing influence I associate with it is linked to the fact that I'm only ever by the sea on holiday. Whatever the answer to that, I hope other people will be able to identify with the sense of calm I get from being near the sea, the way it helps me put my life into perspective. If no one reading this can identify, at least I know Elizabeth Smithers feels the same! That's one of the wonderful things about poetry; it lets you know that you aren't the only one with a particular thought or feeling.
That thought at the end reminded me of the Alan Bennett quotation about reading that I've recently seen pop up on a tube advert:
ReplyDelete"The best moments in reading are when you come across something - a thought, a feeling, a way of looking at things - which you had thought special and particular to you. And now, here it is, set down by someone else, a person you have never met, someone even who is long dead. And it is as if a hand has come out, and taken yours."
It's certainly true of reading but moreso it was the reason I shared the poetry I wrote, even if half of it was rubbish. Because, not often, but every now and again, it was my hand reaching out to a stranger.