"headland" poems
Three times now
when I have sought solace in solitude
over the headland on the rocky shore
I have displaced my insistent inner voice
with a simple quest:
"I will find a starfish".
And each time I have done this,
gingerly rockhopping away from it all
towards the kelp-caressed wavelets
I have found one
under the first stone I turn over.
But no matter how diligently
I continue the search
I have never found a second.
Oct 28, 2012
Oct 28, 2012 at 8:57 AM UTC
A GLEAM -- a gleam -- from Ida's height,
By the Fire-god sent, it came;
From watch to watch it leapt, that light,
As a rider rode the flame!
It shot through the startled sky,
And the torch of that blazing glory
Old Lemnos caught on high,
On its holy promontory,
And sent it on, the jocund sign,
To Athos, Mount of Jove divine.
Wildly the while, it rose from the isle,
So that the might of the journeying Light
Skimmed over the back of the gleaming brine!
Farther and faster speeds it on,
Till the watch that keeps Macistus steep
See it burst like a blazing Sun!
Doth Macistus sleep
On his tower-clad steep?
No! rapid and red doth the wild fire sweep;
It flashes afar on the wayward stream
Of the wild Euripus, the rushing beam!
It rouses the light on Messapion's height,
And they feed its breath with the withered heath.
But it may not stay!
And away -- away --
It bounds in its freshening might.
Silent and soon,
Like a broadened moon,
It passes in sheen, Asopus green,
And bursts on Cithaeron gray!
The warder wakes to the Signal-rays,
And it swoops from the hill with a broader blaze.
On, on the fiery Glory rode;
Thy lonely lake, Gorgopis, glowed!
To Megara's Mount it came;
They feed it again
And it streams amain--
A giant beard of Flame!
The headland cliffs that darkly down
O'er the Saronic waters frown,
Are passed with the Swift One's lurid stride,
And the huge rock glares on the glaring tide.
With mightier march and fiercer power
It gained Arachne's neighboring tower;
Thence on our Argive roof its rest it won,
Of Ida's fire the long-descended Son!
Bright Harbinger of glory and of joy!
So first and last with equal honor crowned,
In solemn feasts the race-torch circles round. --
And these my heralds! -- this my SIGN OF PEACE;
Lo! while we breathe, the victor lords of Greece
Stalk, in stern tumult, through the halls of Troy!
3.7k
The gloo, gullet, bottle
Of the bubbling sea
With its waves and the wind spreading out.
The sea - its sparse immensity,
Which rounds the headland heading home,
And hungry - my body,
Which slips into its liquid cool,
With a twisting, turning, arc 'n curve,
As i go under,
Where the white-fibred shadows
Of the cerebral dance of sunlight
Flit the sandy floor,
Where i scrape the barrel of the ocean's bones,
The grit and gravel,
Then the bursting lungs
Falling out on the evening air,
In love,
With the silent walker's seashore path,
The trailing dog, and the city lights.
Apr 6, 2016
Apr 6, 2016 at 4:53 AM UTC
The long waves glide in through the afternoon
while we watch from the island
from the cool shadow under the trees where the long ridge
a fold in the skirt of the mountain
runs down to the end of the headland
day after day we wake to the island
the light rises through the drops on the leaves
and we remember like birds where we are
night after night we touch the dark island
that once we set out for
and lie still at last with the island in our arms
hearing the leaves and the breathing shore
there are no years any more
only the one mountain
and on all sides the sea that brought us
2.9k
God of our fathers, known of old—
Lord of our far-flung battle line—
Beneath whose awful hand we hold
Dominion over palm and pine—
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!
The tumult and the shouting dies—
The Captains and the Kings depart—
Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice,
An humble and a contrite heart.
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!
Far-called our navies melt away—
On dune and headland sinks the fire—
Lo, all our pomp of yesterday
Is one with Nineveh and Tyre!
Judge of the Nations, spare us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!
If, drunk with sight of power, we loose
Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe—
Such boastings as the Gentiles use,
Or lesser breeds without the Law—
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!
For heathen heart that puts her trust
In reeking tube and iron shard—
All valiant dust that builds on dust,
And guarding calls not Thee to guard.
For frantic boast and foolish word,
Thy Mercy on Thy People, Lord!
Amen.
2.9k
Hunters, where does Hope nest?
Not in the half-oped breast,
Nor the young rose,
Nor April sunrise—those
With a quick wing she brushes,
The wide world through,
Greets with the throat of thrushes,
Fades from as fast as dew.
But, would you spy her sleeping,
Cradled warm,
Look in the breast of weeping,
The tree stript by storm;
But, would you bind her fast,
Yours at last,
Bed-mate and lover,
Gain the last headland bare
That the cold tides cover,
There may you capture her, there,
Where the sea gives to the ground
Only the drift of the drowned.
Yet, if she slips you, once found,
Push to her uttermost lair
In the low house of despair.
There will she watch by your head,
Sing to you till you be dead,
Then, with your child in her breast,
In another heart build a new nest.
2.6k
I do not think of you lying in the wet clay
Of a Monaghan graveyard; I see
You walking down a lane among the poplars
On your way to the station, or happily Going to second Mass on a summer Sunday--
You meet me and you say:
'Don't forget to see about the cattle--'
Among your earthiest words the angels stray.
And I think of you walking along a headland
Of green oats in June,
So full of repose, so rich with life--
And I see us meeting at the end of a town on a fair day by accident,
after the bargains are all made and we can walk
Together through the shops and stalls and markets
Free in the oriental streets of thought.
O you are not lying in the wet clay,
For it is harvest evening now and we
Are piling up the ricks against the moonlight
And you smile up at us -- eternally.
2.5k
Strolling along
By the teeming docks,
I watch the ships put out.
Black ships that heave and lunge
And move like mastodons
Arising from lethargic sleep.
The fathomed harbor
Calls them not nor dares
Them to a strain of action,
But outward, on and outward,
Sounding low-reverberating calls,
Shaggy in the half-lit distance,
They pass the pointed headland,
View the wide, far-lifting wilderness
And leap with cumulative speed
To test the challenge of the sea.
Plunging,
Doggedly onward plunging,
Into salt and mist and foam and sun.
2.4k
Headland and Flounders
drift alongside the edge
and what is excluded
bitter vetch, its famine vouch.
Life was then hewed
on a cusps of Moon,
their points return as
Libertines and Rakes.
Born from the same ideal
with choice to inform
and saddle the consequences.
Nov 26, 2012
Nov 26, 2012 at 3:07 PM UTC
a bedtime story
In the distance stands a lighthouse
seeing all with cyclops eye
once a beacon, now a hollow,
dead in misted moonlit sky.
Proudly once she ruled the headland,
warning all of crag and shoal
trusted friend to salt scoured sea dogs,
smugglers caught within her glow.
Beauty lived as Keepers mistress
'till one day her love did bloom
walking clifftops with her lover
brought her ending, far too soon.
Bloodied, torn by cliff face ragged
screaming for the life she craved,
Beauty held her rounded belly
As fury deep hit waters grave.
Beauty stands alone in darkness
there above the tempest sea
bloated souls of those who perished
now her only company.
When the moon is high above us
wrapped in rags and witching stare
Beauty stands atop the catwalk
weeds 'a winding through her hair.
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 5:15 PM UTC
As the stormy weather passes;
Shadowed waves along the bay.
The wind sweeps through the headland grasses,
And we breathe the violent day.
And violent days abound,
Where the sea and land collide.
And in every fishing town,
Lay the marks of those who’ve died.
They lay as stark white crosses;
Set within, green and grassy field.
And we that breathe tote the losses,
… And keep our thoughts concealed.
For what can man or woman say,
That will calm the hurt within?
For some that braved the sea today;
…. Have yet to come back in.
Ten souls are held in thrall,
By the dark and brooding seas.
And stark are the faces, one and all,
As we make our silent pleas.
Oh! Sailor set your canvas tight,
And make your actions sound.
See that the tiller is rigged alright,
And get ye homeward bound.
The church bell tolls a heavy toll,
And candles light, pane on pane.
Whilst desperate eyes search the rocky knoll,
Through high seas, and cur-sed rain.
Worried hands, wring worried hands,
And they wring out misery.
Wives fidget and spin their golden bands,
And make their silent plea.
Oh! Sailor set your canvas tight,
And make your actions sound.
See that the tiller is rigged alright,
And get ye homeward bound.
The rain sheets in across the bay,
It writhes in violent spree,
And we look anon in grim dismay
At the ferment of the sea.
And terrible it is to see that sight,
That holds fathers, sons, and lovers.
And hold the fear, that the sea just might,
Bear new crosses, ‘midst the others.
And in the silence of the rain,
As it dashes hopes upon the sea.
I walk with other souls in pain,
As we make our silent plea.
Oh, Sailor set your canvas tight,
And make your actions sound.
See that the tiller is rigged alright,
And get ye homeward bound.
The raging storm wreaks its worst,
Shadowed waves along the bay.
Our thoughts become bleak and cursed,
As we breathe the violent day.
And then a voice crisp and clear,
Shouts “Look ye to the lee”!
And there we spy the crew, so dear;
Of the good ship Karalee.
Oh, Sailor set your canvas tight,
And make your actions sound.
See that the tiller is rigged alright,
And get ye…
Homeward bound.
Jul 25, 2010
Jul 25, 2010 at 6:06 AM UTC
Next week, I’ll be 61 years
working the same 93 acres.
The furthest field back
and the 2 joining Peter Burke’s
always been meadows.
Since before my time —
today it takes just 4 hours
to cut, bale and wrap.
Dad and the men wouldn’t’ve
half the first headland cut in that length.
I’d go back with Mom,
with tea and sandwiches;
brown bread and something sweet.
No more higher than the handle of the scythe —
I would try to swing.
Nearly took my leg off the first time.
When it was done, all saved
that was my favourite bit.
There’d be a gathering in the house.
Food, porter … the craic.
Someone would pull out a fiddle
or a tin whistle, the women would dance
it was beautiful — meaningful.
Friends, neighbours. Thankful.
The closest thing to expressing our feelings.
And us kids allowed to stay up late,
what a treat; a very rich treat.
I never did grow tall enough
to wield the scythe.
When it was my turn,
machines had been invented.
Lucky I was told I was.
They lightened the work
and lessened the men.
Horse followed horsepower.
Bigger, heavier.
But there was time for tea,
there’s always time for tea.
The scythes rotted;
the horses rotted;
kids flown into the city;
neighbours dead, don’t care or are foreign.
It’s just one man now doing all the work.
One man called John Deere
who has no time for tea.
Sep 29, 2010
Sep 29, 2010 at 5:56 PM UTC
I wish that you could this
that you were sitting here with me
watching clouds race across the sky
and whitecaps on the sea
That you too could taste the salty air
feel the spray upon your face
turn up your collar against the wind
feel the warmth of my embrace
Watching gulls above the headland
staring down the gales
and way off in the distance
the surfacing of whales
I wish that you could see this
that you were sitting here with me
you and I together
how perfect that would be
Sep 5, 2010
Sep 5, 2010 at 10:48 AM UTC
Armageddon in a bowl
Thunder gallops, waters roll
Countless wolves howl in the sky
Blow down houses, growl and cry
Matt grey sky like old stale paint
Sobs like son of slaughtered saint
Weather wails, laments the day
Soaks the cliffs in tears of spray
Sky and sea both boil in rage
Tragedy on sand strewn stage
Scrawl a picture with the storm
Carve coast into madman form
Bitter chill bites scarce seen boat
Struggling to stay afloat
Placid place this never was
Peace, serene, unknown to us
Yet still we flock to headland’s edge
Gosling spirits here will fledge
Grizzled veteran surfer sorts
Breach the brine upon their boards
We stand rigid, bodies glow
Defiant ‘gainst the hammer blow
Gripping Gore-tex, clutching cloth
Cowering from the furious froth
Backs bent crooked, faces skinned
By razor rain and whip lash wind
Apr 24, 2013
Apr 24, 2013 at 3:49 PM UTC
As the murk
in the daedal
sky endured
and the
finespun
brume upon
the headland
peaks wound
all around
in a
helicoid
shape,
the fluttering
winds carried
aloft
a bouquet
of ions
that were
immured,
but still
danced about
in an undulating
figure of eight;
and when the
distent distant
cloud could
no longer
wait,
it's rain
fell upon
my
wilted form
so desolate.
Dec 4, 2014
Dec 4, 2014 at 4:43 PM UTC
a butterball sun,
sits low in the
morning sky.
as the weekend peloton, whizzes on by and down
the hill.
in the council's headland park precinct,
the illegal nomads,
are being rousted
and evicted from, their overnight, purlioned and picturesque views.
the early fishermen,
in their dinghies,
dot the teal sea and
the sail boats,
are racing out further,
white sails, against blue sky.
in our pond,
the koi leap in a frenzy,
trying to catch,
the itty, bitty, midgey bugs.
and the old blue tongue,
comes out to settle on his
rough log .
the bees work tirelessly,
from flower to flower.
as the blue wrens,
gossip and preen,
in their lilac bower
the dragon flies dart
about in distraction.
while over at
the milkwood patch,
you can see the caterpillars,
are busy decimating,
leaf after leaf.
i sit on the porch,
coffee in hand.
newspaper forgotten
on the side table.
slowly taking this beauty all in.
as the aroma of eggs, bacon and pancakes, drift from within.
Sep 12, 2014
Sep 12, 2014 at 6:59 PM UTC
the new millennium a battle for scraps
lions released upon
difference, the poor, choices not those of the keepers.
a loaf of bread
tiles balanced on the heads of relations
keeping out rain
homeless, threadbare peasants huddled
soft rocks
under drone surveillance, workers
packages dropped by insidious machines
images unseen
cameras shoot too
the power of malevolence
micro bombs
Hiroshima Death Park
they visited there on a slave break
from the unseen threat
enacting punitive whims
keeping everything rare
at the headland the dam flows
into a filthy stream
outside gates of steel reinforced
minions guarding a winter palace.
inside, a committee of charlatans
votes on the next to go
for another course of degustation.
hobos cold, tired, thin
targets without crosshairs
and it's there outside
what people think they see
human robots misread a glance
some concentrated glare
only then
goose-steppers shoot
at a flinch of skin
another one down
Jun 15, 2016
Jun 15, 2016 at 6:11 AM UTC
Like a muscular drummer drumming,
the Big wind
It gathers itself, twirls its sticks
Then swooping suddenly lambasts its
kit
Thrashes the coast, sways the trees
and rocks the boats
Lathers into it;
Its cymbals crashing are the smash of
the sea against the rocks
The trees running amok over the
rising mountains.
II
With a draught of this air drawn in to
fill my sails
To have the big windmills of my blood
rotate
And blow me out then across the bay
Up over the headland, out over the
wide open sea
A Colossus emerging and none to
stand in my way.
Apr 16, 2018
Apr 16, 2018 at 6:13 PM UTC
Upon the headland is my place
where seabirds wheel and turn apace,
a-screeching windblown tales to me
of distant lands and distant seas,
of sparkling beaches, gleaming quartz,
of strangers and of foreign ports,
of shark and serpent, kraken, whale,
of ships that foundered in the gale,
of sunken vessels, bones picked clean,
of hagfish writhing and obscene,
of ocean currents, plankton’s bloom,
of those that spawn beneath the moon,
of coral reef and rainbow hue,
of lava and volcanic flue,
of devastating waves and tides,
of those who lived and those who died,
Yet little does this mean to me
as I stare silent out to sea,
where seabirds wheel and turn apace,
upon the headland is my place.
Jul 7, 2019
Jul 7, 2019 at 1:51 PM UTC
To Where Tyrolean aurochs
graze in cools of lapis prairie
, I have come,
In A Balthazar of star- led zeal,
my scarlet hunter flown from
urban zodiacs of anxious ports,
of ailing townships steaming in
their millioned yellow orders,
shackled
sick beneath the mountain's boot.
Through dim grimmiores
of softwood press
I sleeve,
In sympathies of woad to glean
the narrative of under_ storey,
bourne to earn my Eagle .
I chance to know the trip of wind
kissed, sinuous on beaufort scales
balanced on a fingers edge to
turn October
into wine.
Oct 20, 2017
Oct 20, 2017 at 6:53 PM UTC
I sailed right in
past all red light
I took for green
to astonishment
on faces
all at amber
my ship
took me
into the wind
way past any
headland
or waving goodbye
free again of
restraint
I sailed released
never looking back
imagination
took the lead
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 1:47 PM UTC
The night was dark, in a brooding pall
With thunderheads at its core,
But only the sound of heaving swells
Were heard to break on the shore.
The headland dark where the Lighthouse stood
With not a glimmer of light,
It hadn’t been lit for a hundred years
But a beam would stream that night.
The sea was grumbling in its deeps
Cast heaps of **** on the sand,
Much like a drunken Cornishman
Disgorging his contraband,
The swell, built up as the squalls came in
Made the sea erupt from its depths,
Casting an age old Barquentine
Up high, on an angry crest.
Shook free from its hundred year old bed
Untangled from miles of ****
The Barquentine with its forty dead
Had finally now been freed,
A flag that carried the fleur-de-lis
Hung limply down from the mast,
And tangled up in the rigging was
The body of Captain Jacques.
An aura shone round the Barquentine
In a pale, blue ghostly light,
Caught in a time warp, in-between
They rose as a man that night.
They gathered up on the rotting deck
Each cannon, covered in rust,
And glared at the lighthouse on the hill,
A light that they couldn’t trust.
A wraith of a woman, stood that night
By the keeper, looking down,
The face of a woman, creased in fear
As the Barque had come aground,
She had been the wife of Captain Jacques
Had been left ashore, and fled,
Up to the keeper of the light
Where she shared his meagre bed.
‘I didn’t think he’d be back so soon,’
She’d stood by the light, and cried,
‘If he finds us both alone up here
It’s better that we had died.’
The keeper held her trembling form
As the storm built up that night,
‘I’d never allow him to bring you harm,’
He said, as he struck the light.
The crew looked up at the Lighthouse
And they heard a woman scream,
From up on the headland, deep in fright
As the keeper lit the beam,
And Jacques looked up, and he saw his wife
Lit up by the sudden light,
‘My God,’ he cried, ‘that’s Jacqueline,
There was infamy that night!’
The pair looked down as the men had leapt
To shore, with their swords held high,
They’d waited over a hundred years
But knew that their time was nigh.
He’d struck the light when he saw their ship
Head in to threaten his *****
And watched as the ship had broken up
In Eighteen fifty-four.
There are nights when the light of former wrongs
Returns to visit the shame,
To balance eternal justice for
The centuries, left in pain,
The ghostly sailors dragged them down
To the Barquentine, at last,
And as the sea had reclaimed the ship
They hung them both from the mast.
David Lewis Paget
Aug 14, 2014
Aug 14, 2014 at 3:17 AM UTC
i detour on the way home
to the light house on the headland
such a grandiose appellation
for a stolid white box with
a light in it...
more utalitarian than romantic
but still it is nice to see it blink on
but i digress ... i am so ****** tired
beyond the bone, right down to the marrow
god this winter has been so long
and the grief i drag around,
in tattered threads... and sepia tones
leaves me cold....
my heart not in the teaching...
i feel disjointed, displaced .
i have misplaced the knack
to find the joy in youthful creativity
and am running this marathon by rote
i worry that the key won't turn in the lock
and i will be caught within
this cage...
an exhibition in the museum
to has-beens and never-were's
yet paradoxically...
my performance stellar
sometimes so good
that i fool myself...
god send spring soon....
or i fear am come undone
it has rained for a week
cold and bitter here
give strengnth to the roots
of my tidily packaged fears
and if i don't see spring soon
they will be spread and torn and ripped
and you will see the inside and
understand the grift
and there the light blinks on
sending out the saving beam
safe secure and strong
and in the shadows
you see the woman
scrabbling at the earth
burying deep in sandy loam
the thoughts birthed from
an overtired mind
the thoughts that she
must not nurture ...
that needs be left behind
buried deep, stomped hard
into the ground...
and as she stands in the lee of the light
and looks to the sea ..... she sighs heavily
the turns back into the deepening night
less heavy of heart....able to continue
the fight..... one last look...
then homeward bound....
thanking the lighthouse
and leaving sacred ground.
Aug 25, 2014
Aug 25, 2014 at 3:43 AM UTC
He sat on top of the headland in
The driving, pouring rain,
The way that the clouds were gathering,
He’d never be dry again,
He thought of the girl at Windy Tor
Who had screamed at his only sin,
‘You’d better beware of that witch’s stare
For the tide is coming in!’
And down in the river valley, there
Was a cottage, made of stones,
Where a temptress with a gleam in her eye
Was juggling spells and bones,
She called the lightning out of the sky
With a book full of ancient tricks,
And blasted the heath round Windy Tor
While lighting her candlesticks.
But up at the Tor, Myfanwy raged
And bubbled and boiled the sea,
She churned it into a raging storm
That her lover could plainly see,
He thought of warning the temptress who
Had entered his eyes and ears,
But heard instead his Myfanwy say,
‘It only will end in tears.’
He couldn’t go down to the valley, and
He couldn’t go up to the Tor,
He could feel his life unravelling
From the bliss that he’d felt before,
A wind soughed up from the valley floor
Full of tempting overtones,
But from the Tor there was something more
An ache, and a Wake of moans.
The sun went down and he turned to go,
He made his way in the dark,
The spell that he was enchanted with
Had finally made its mark,
He turned his back on the love he’d lost,
Went down to the valley floor,
But all he could hear when he got quite near
Was the sea that beat on the shore.
The sea rose up and it poured right in
As it flooded over the plain,
The tide had entered the valley, it
Would never be dry again,
And under the flood of Myfanwy’s mood
Was the cottage, made of stones,
While all that was left of the temptress was
A gaggle of spells and bones.
Myfanwy’s still up at Windy Tor
And nurses a constant ache,
While his regret hasn’t left him yet
For his foolish, one mistake,
He’d sought a spell that she’d love him well
Then fell to a mortal sin,
And always he heard Myfanwy’s words,
‘The tide is coming in!’
David Lewis Paget
Jul 30, 2014
Jul 30, 2014 at 3:30 AM UTC
Her tears are swept away
by headland winds so strong
and in this deserted moment
her heart pangs and longs
For she is the lost girl Friday
her hair sea salt with spray
for her never does come Saturday
never here, never that day
Looking fast to ocean blue
hope of silver wings on the horizon
she stands petite with wanting
to bear natures only son
Weather may change
but she will stand fast
for death to her
is a familiar friend
As long as she prevails
this world will last
hope springs eternal
yet even hope can dry
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Nov 29, 2013
Nov 29, 2013 at 2:19 PM UTC