Tuesday, January 27, 2015

the storm

this level reach of blue is not my sea;
here are sweet waters, pretty in the sun,
whose quiet ripples meet obediently
a marked and measured line, one after one.
this is no sea of mine. that humbly laves
untroubled sands, spread glittering and warm.
i have a need of wilder, crueler waves;
they sicken of the calm, who knew the storm.

so let a love beat over me again,
loosing its million desperate breakers wide;
sudden and terrible to rise and wane;
roaring the heavens apart; a reckless tide
that casts upon the heart, as it recedes,
splinters and spars and dripping, salty weeds.

- dorothy parker, sunset gun: poems