What do they long for, as I long for
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People that build their houses inland,
People that buy a plot of ground
Shaped like a house, and build a house there,
Far from the sea-board, far from the sound
Of water sucking the hollow ledges,
Tons of water striking the shore,-
What do they long for, as I long for
One salt smell of the sea once more?
People the waves have not awakened,
Spanking the boats at the harbour's head,
What do they long for, as I long for,-
Starting up in my inland bed,
Beating the narrow walls, and finding
Neither a window nor a door,
Screaming to God for death by drowning,-
One salt taste of the sea once more?
~ "Inland" by Edna St. Vincent Millay
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This poem reminds me of a picture book: Pockets by Jennifer Armstrong, with illustrations by Mary GrandPré (yes, of HP fame). It's one of my most favourite picture books. The language is beautiful and lyrically nautical and it's such a joy to read aloud (I read it to my children's lit class, to start off my censorship presentation a few weeks ago). The illustrations are breathtaking; they dance and shimmer, and shiver and sigh. And it brings the sea to life, in the middle of a becalmed prairie. (The book is sadly out-of-print, but you can check for it used at places like [Alibris].)
Sometimes, I miss the sea. Which is silly because in theory I'm not that far from an ocean. If I have time, I can go downtown and sit beside the Tidal Basin on the Potomac, which breathes the Atlantic in and out, in and out. And that's lovely. And farther afield there are "shores" (not "beaches"). The water is cool, not freezing like the Pacific. I'm not fond of frolicking on the beach, but I do love the ocean. The sound of the waves. The taste of salt on the air. The breeze that teases the waves "when both contend which is the mightier." I didn't go down to the sea that often when I was home, but it was there, and you could feel it, and it was so easy to get to. It's much harder here. And it's a different flavour.
People that build their houses inland,
People that buy a plot of ground
Shaped like a house, and build a house there,
Far from the sea-board, far from the sound
Of water sucking the hollow ledges,
Tons of water striking the shore,-
What do they long for, as I long for
One salt smell of the sea once more?
People the waves have not awakened,
Spanking the boats at the harbour's head,
What do they long for, as I long for,-
Starting up in my inland bed,
Beating the narrow walls, and finding
Neither a window nor a door,
Screaming to God for death by drowning,-
One salt taste of the sea once more?
~ "Inland" by Edna St. Vincent Millay
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
This poem reminds me of a picture book: Pockets by Jennifer Armstrong, with illustrations by Mary GrandPré (yes, of HP fame). It's one of my most favourite picture books. The language is beautiful and lyrically nautical and it's such a joy to read aloud (I read it to my children's lit class, to start off my censorship presentation a few weeks ago). The illustrations are breathtaking; they dance and shimmer, and shiver and sigh. And it brings the sea to life, in the middle of a becalmed prairie. (The book is sadly out-of-print, but you can check for it used at places like [Alibris].)
Sometimes, I miss the sea. Which is silly because in theory I'm not that far from an ocean. If I have time, I can go downtown and sit beside the Tidal Basin on the Potomac, which breathes the Atlantic in and out, in and out. And that's lovely. And farther afield there are "shores" (not "beaches"). The water is cool, not freezing like the Pacific. I'm not fond of frolicking on the beach, but I do love the ocean. The sound of the waves. The taste of salt on the air. The breeze that teases the waves "when both contend which is the mightier." I didn't go down to the sea that often when I was home, but it was there, and you could feel it, and it was so easy to get to. It's much harder here. And it's a different flavour.