Outside Oz
Lesley Choyce and Pablo Neruda have at least one thing in common: they look to the sea for their poetry. After a morning lost in their lines, I wrote one of my own about a surf I had yesterday. Neruda gave me permission to use the word soul in all sincerity; Choyce showed me the path. I hope you dig it.
Outside Oz
Pink blaze, purple flood
Sunrise with the girls
We window-wondered together
Cotton candy, shreds of cloud
I saw a wave (I always do)
It shot as if ejected
By the headland, hidden
& then there
There to call me in
There to pull me out
I went
Down the frozen driveway
On my bike, my board
Side-saddled and glistening
-9 celcius & not a touch
Of pushy wind
High tide left a narrow path
Raw with frosted rocks
I slipped
Twice, body relaxed
To spread the shock
Around the head
No other humans, no friends
To share waves with
But a strange warmth
I found there
Below the white cliff
I botched the paddle-out
Took a cold set
On the brain, swore a little
Till I saw the light
Through a backlit crest, bottle green
Thin wedge of water
Pane of stained glass
Waiting, waiting
Circling—horizon, L town, radar tower
The crouching hamlet of Cow Bay
A crooked crowd of teeth
& smoking chimneys
My first wave rose
A distant hump, shifting
I saw my spot
Pushed hard to be there
In time to swing around
& feel the heave
Up
Planted, slanting
At the line
The wave generous, gentle
An easygoing wall
Up, down, slicing
& then my mind loosened, lost
In the sea’s electricity
Winter here is mostly rage
But there are calm pockets
Rare jewels, emeralds
To inhabit. I try to heed
The call, to soak the light
To saturate
My surfer’s soul.