The Sea
And then came a primordial sea,
by imposing waves and raging foam,
a grave incessant howl its battle cry,
an annihilatory storm its chariot,
the cyclone’s eye its charioteer,
to overwhelm and submerge
all that we’d been erecting
thinking it would never crash,
as if none of it deserved to stand.
And when finally the wind abated
the sea suddenly reverted home,
the once richly fashioned land
perfectly smooth and blank,
the one big trace of its passage.
To us not even our dream was left.
Seawombound
Awash in the blue
I’d float on for good
till back in the wave
that spurted me out.
Swash
The wave speeds up, the wave drops down,
no matter how fast or slow it seems to be,
it always ends up breaking on the beach.
The crest increase, the crest decreases,
no matter how high or low it seems to be,
it always ends up flattening onto the beach.
We love to think our life is like the sea,
with passing days like breaking waves,
yet what our life is but one wave.
No matter what we think the beach could be.
Surfing
With the mouth full of foam
and sprays of brine in the eyes,
the sun at its zenith
and flat horizons all around,
tired but not fed up,
every single muscle stressed
but still reactive,
the mind removed from the body
adrift who knows where
across infinity,
it’s the most terrific challenge,
and the most terrifying one at once,
to balance on the crest of a wave,
until the elements decide
that you’ve had enough.
Waves
A wave will always come to aid,
be it support or thrust we need,
whatever vault expands above
and soil or void extends below.
A teen afraid of swash and depth
I found release from such ill fears
by throwing stones in quiet ponds
to browse the ripples circling out.
The way of sound was no surprise,
but light transmission posed a knot,
so did each brand of broadcast bits,
before abstraction cracked the nut.
Withal the sea produces those
no doubt I still revere the most,
in awe of their relentless crash,
of their incessant up and down.
And even subtler ones there are,
in action where we least expect,
so hard to spot, conceive, detect,
whereas a lot results from them.
The moment comes to let them wane,
remembrance, hope desire, the past,
and yet somehow they shall persist,
then vibrate, shaking off the blues.
An image never leaves my head,
that little child from distant years
along the strand to count the crests,
and Mom on watch ten yards behind.
It's waves that keep all things alive,
existence, matter, thought, and time,
as they proceed through any means,
a neutron star, and space, and love.
Alessio Zanelli is an Italian poet who writes in English. His work has appeared in over 200 literary journals from 18 countries. His sixth collection, titled The Invisible, was published in 2024 by Greenwich Exchange (London). For more information please visit www.alessiozanelli.it.
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