“I hate poetry,” my son said to me today. “Everyone does.” As usual I laughed about him being the knower of everyone. But walking back from the library, four poetry books in my bag - four from four shelves worth, chosen almost randomly - I wondered about it. I don’t know the land of poetry, or its history - its topography, geology, political lines. I know a few poets I like, some I love. I know I have been influenced by poets at different times in my life, where it feels like their music gets into my blood and makes my words sing like theirs. But I don’t know how to find more like them. I’m thinking I need to.
I wrote the following poem in 1976, after a magical walk on a magical beach in Wales. In my efforts to capture the occasion and how it moved me, I felt influenced by the work of Dylan Thomas.
Aberdaron
The night is silver and lace,
lace dragging mirrors
down to the sea
back to the black deep etched in foam
laced in swirling form
silver in its dance for the ruling moon.
Mirrors glint and recede -
the lace comes again to the shore
to cast them
and drag them slowly back as they
reflect the sky.
as sand reflects sky
the sky reflects sea
clouds reflect the foam
the depth of the sea reflects the moon.
The black islands say nothing, though the moon
is riding in a violet-blue carriage surrounded by rainbow
The dull, humble textured cliffs watch
while tousled clouds walk lofty
lost
in reverie
floating in a cave of wind.
Silent in the darkness
a stone
is smooth and black
with a white ring of lace around it.
©Wendy Mulhern
Late Fall, 1976
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