Photo used by permission. https://www.armstreet.com
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That was my golden hair, similitude
to past enchantments and
Persephone,
conducting the blending
aquamarine
with flashing heads,
spirited dolphins’ broods
with pools of tide,
fragmented sea-scored shell
that broke the wave upon
the shore of death:
a carcass of the whale
was there in breadth,
the length of a ship, its
past hulk of hell.
The symphony of water and
earth vast
as the panorama of
gemstone’s fire
torments these blue
lovers, bound in tumult
to future’s marriage
ring: no ending last,
hidden jewel of nature’s
cleft, to sire
their tryst with sea, and
their poet, the salt.
Miranda was seen offshore
in a storm,
the tumult was evidenced
of the tide
of spray against the
lighthouse, ghostly-eyed
in moonlight, through the
wee hours of the morn.
A sun would rise, its
reddened rays would pierce
fog of misperception,
waiting for you:
become a conceptual
woman, too
tired by the wind and its
haze, coerced
no longer by manipulative
hands,
the elements demand that
you survive
in deference to them and
their dark wails.
To the brine muse these
were effortless rants,
she had no evil notions
to contrive,
she effaced them with her
green siren’s tail.
In the depths below where
the mer-castle
lay, there was a siren
queen with refined
melodious lines and
beings, benign
starfish fibula made wool
oracles.
From a mermaid’s nautilus
shell emerged
in marine blue, carded
yarn, like a dream.
The mermaids held her
baby son supreme,
from the rule of Tristan
not now submerged.
The queenly mother sang,
harmonious
the salt waters drifted
by, eventide
in laser cut brass and
soft enamel:
whisperings of the
seahorse to the gust
of salt and lash of navy.
Sunset’s bride:
moon will rise at twelve
and ride in purple.
Deserts beneath the sea
were sandy, coarse,
with scarlet crustaceans
in number
to seduce those golden
torn asunder
and the bottom’s tap of
thunder was remorse.
The conductor continued
at the reigns
of the sea house deep
beneath the turquoise;
it was a mermaid’s lair
and with my eyes
I saw the brittle
castle’s coral veins.
Flanked by equestrian
horses in red,
I plumbed the deeps of
oceanic bliss
and sky aglow with
setting lucid teints.
O’er the cliffs the rival
raptors circled.
I wore linen (and was of
sea born lips),
the highlight of my crown
was ruby painted.
Beautiful marine chord
resound—
O Linen: undertunic of
the sand,
tri-coloured, penchant,
hanging from the land;
our stiches have re-clothed
you, and we found
you hanging by a
mermaid’s silver thread.
The haggard stones of
earth your tomb laid bare,
archaic doctrines speak
of mermaid’s lair,
the simple life of stone
on stone for bed.
Their pillow lies beneath
my head, for dire
is the hard life of those
who work not play
for bread of kale, and
crusty Irish moss.
The jewels of the mind
and heart, the wire
therein the caverns of
the sea doth weigh
of blood on fire. The
eldest simple cloth.
Fine and unusual sleeves
in garnet,
the embroidery meanders
mouline,
pendants of magic and
solstice earring
wear themes of the wind’s
silken clarinet.
This is your favourite
white tunic—a dress
so long it would drag on
the castle floor;
but executioner is at the
door—
life is over with its clumsy
caress.
He seeks a chopping of
your golden locks;
his orders are clear:
you’ll have no trial.
You look already dressed
in acclaim’s bills
of mermaid songs and
runes among the rocks,
the shores have woven
memory in style
but what is that to the
lame hills.
A bright dominant chord
sounds in ocean’s nave,
each home of
pearl-fringed shell is icy kind,
but is there not a tear
behind the smile?
The sea is calling, knows
your ancient cave.
The mer-Queen waits for
Tristan to come home
each night by window roped
in black velvet;
even though the stars are
far away, sits
she by the casement, wary
of his throne.
This bonnet in kind is
made of fine lace,
is the baby’s helmet and
the sea salt
stirs. Rivers of the deep
flow, currents down,
where Medea pours oils
upon the face
of beggarly poor who
heavenward call—
salt mines of poetry
beneath the ground.
Emily Isaacson
Eclipsed poem: with material from the line Sea Born
by Armstreet Clothing. Used by permission.
