BEACHGLASS
By Richard Cambridge
I am a collector of beachglass
and have been one for many a season.
I can tell from a shard no larger
than my thumbnail--from the arc of its curve,
from its shape, weight and thickness, even
from the angle of its breaking--its origin
on a bottle: base, body, neck or rim.
And with each piece I find, I like to stop
and rest for a while as I turn it over
carefully between thumb and forefinger
noting its color: amber, green or clear;
its source: soda, beer, whisky, winebottle;
and its size: nip, pint, fifth, quart or magnum.
But the luster--its all in the luster!
Its got to be frosted like gumdrops:
no shine or clarity, but opaque.
And if its not perfect--
if there is a shine or a glitter
or if a rough edge catches my finger--
then I toss it back to the sea
as I would an undersized lobster
to be buffeted by the waves and sand
and harvested in another season.
These bits of colored glass that I find
are more dear to me than rubies, diamonds,
emeralds or semi-precious stones, and
I like to think what I would do with them:
I would make a necklace for a gypsy bride;
smith them in silver bracelets and send them
to every woman I have ever loved;
or make a mosaic of unknown design
in thanks for every poem I've ever written
and offer it to the wind, the sea and the sun.
This aimless path that I walk between bits
of broken glass is the only thing I know--
the only thing I hold on to. I will
be back for another seasons harvest.
Reprinted with permission from Richard Cambridge
Richard
Cambridge
|
_____________________________________________
Beach Glass
by
Amy Clampitt
While you walk the water's edge,
turning over concepts
I can't envision, the honking buoy
serves notice that at any time
the wind may change,
the reef-bell clatters
its treble monotone, deaf as Cassandra
to any note but warning. The ocean,
cumbered by no business more urgent
than keeping open old accounts
that never balanced,
goes on shuffling its millenniums
of quartz, granite, and basalt.
It behaves
toward the permutations of novelty--
driftwood and shipwreck, last night's
beer cans, spilt oil, the coughed-up
residue of plastic--with random
impartiality, playing catch or tag
ot touch-last like a terrier,
turning the same thing over and over,
over and over. For the ocean, nothing
is beneath consideration.
The houses
of so many mussels and periwinkles
have been abandoned here, it's hopeless
to know which to salvage. Instead
I keep a lookout for beach glass--
amber of Budweiser, chrysoprase
of Almadén and Gallo, lapis
by way of (no getting around it,
I'm afraid) Phillips'
Milk of Magnesia, with now and then a rare
translucent turquoise or blurred amethyst
of no known origin.
The process
goes on forever: they came from sand,
they go back to gravel,
along with treasuries
of Murano, the buttressed
astonishments of Chartres,
which even now are readying
for being turned over and over as gravely
and gradually as an intellect
engaged in the hazardous
redefinition of structures
no one has yet looked at.
From The Collected Poems of Amy Clampitt,
published by Alfred A. Knopf. Copyright © 1997. Used with permission
from :
Daniel Kile
Knopf Promotion
299 Park Avenue 4th Floor
New York, NY 10171
|
_______________________________________
Beach Glass
by
Steven F. White
There are two ways to heaven: one through you
and another that I really don't need.
Beauty is looking for you in the sand,
the pieces of your original light,
your broken and breaking being from waves
that keep surpassing space, condensing time,
in the foam that surges around my toes.
In the blue of I know you have no eyes,
in the white of your nonexistent bones,
in the green of I even loved you green,
in the blood-fossil-absence of your red,
in the brown arms of your earthen abyss,
there is no doubt about your presence,
since I hear you breathe in yellow silence,
taste your golden eclipse through my fingers.
Reprinted with permission from Steven
F. White
Professor of Spanish
Dept. of Modern Languages
St. Lawrence University
Canton, NY 13617
|