Azure, or Green, or Purple
Azure, or green, or purple when the sun
Goldens it with it a false wash of vermillion,
The sea forbids, or idles, or leads on,
Is at times the abyss, at others mirror.
I summon up, as age moves in,
That in me which would want more than the sea
Now that nothing’s there for discovery.
The great sea-captains and the crews with whom
They did the navigation of solitude
Lie far away, their reward in their gloom
Is our forgetting, our ingratitude.
Only the sea, when in storm mood
The waves are great and it is truly sea,
Seems remembering them uncertainly.
But I am dreaming…Sea is water, mere
Nude water, slave to the force, darkly felt,
Which, like poetry, comes from the moon
And at times will let fall, at others lift.
And yet, whatever descants float
Above the natural ignorance of the sea,
I still for forefeel its murmur, oozily.
Who knows what the soul is? Who can make out
What soul there is in things which appear dead -
How much, in earth or nothing, can’t forget?
Who knows whether space, the empty, is doored?
O dream, who thrust on me this duty,
To meditate so on the voice of the sea,
How meditate on you? Teach that to me.
Captains, quartermasters - all argonauts
Of every day’s landfall on unbelief -
Perhaps you heard, calling you, unknown flutes,
Their tune, elusive, unattainable.
Did your hearing perhaps follow
A being of the sea yet not the sea -
Sirens of hearing, not of victory?
One who beyond oceans without end
Has called you out towards the distance, or
One who knows there is, in our hearts of men,
Desire for good, natural, yet also more
Elusive, subtle - to the core
A thing which demands the sound of the sea,
And not to stop - far from all things still be.
If it is so, if the vast sea and you
Are something (you because you perceive, and
The sea by being) of this which I think is true;
If, in existence’s unknown profound,
There’s more soul than can reach the vain
Surface of us, as though that of the sea, -
Make me, to unknow it, in the end, free.
Give me a soul transposed, an argonaut’s,
And make me have, as the old sea-captain had,
Or his quartermaster, ears for the flute’s
Call out of the distance to our heart, -
Make me hear’ like a pardon, part
Remembrance of a teaching sunk in me,
The ancient Portuguese speech of the sea.
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