Water Magic

author’s note:

Another poem previously posted and recently tweaked.

The monster mentioned in this poem comes from a movie, made in the late 50's or early 60's.  Unfortunately, I have forgotten the title.

As I recall, a woman is hypnotized each night as part of a club act.  Her somnolence creates a monster that rises from the ocean waters to terrorize the town.

I saw this movie years ago at the New Orleans Worst Film Festival.  But I don’t consider it a “worst film”--the movie may lack artistry, but it has plenty of raw instinct.


GRIEF WATER

In the time of intense grief
I went to the water--
to a small bay
filled with oceanic feelings
all the way
to the horizon--

a wheatfield of mud water, water
soiled by the erosion
of the roiling waves--waves
beneath the surface.

I went to the bay because
emotions are not something
you can hold in your hands.
Not something you can quantify

except to say: it is more, then too much
then less--

but still something--
sometimes too much even when diminished.

Emotions usually feed as whales feed--
in large amounts on small things.
But emotion wants more
even when well-fed.

I went to the water
because I’d already been
to the wood--to the scraggily
crackling underfoot--stumbling
the clumsy root

onto the knee bone.  The dust mold drifting
through the beams shooting
down through the branches
can irritate

grief-sensitive nostrils.

I needed to be washed clean

so I wadded out into the brown water
toward the setting sun, though I knew
I could never reach the edge.  Even so

I listen to
the desire
to lessen distances.

The water rose until the coolness
touched my chest heart.
That same oil slick water
curdles duck feathers
and reflects gasoline rainbows.

Nevertheless, I cleared--

sliding through folds
of slippery copper sun paint;
assuming the chilly calm
of a water mocassin

until I realized I bordered the territory
guarded by that scaley web-foot monster--
the one that rises at night from the depths
after the lonely trembling woman
has been hypnotized rigid.

So I dredged my feet from the water muck,
I walked myself back out:
            changed now--yes, somehow
collected through dispersion; strengthened
by giving up.

I still don’t understand
how this mechanism works;
I still don’t understand
how to work this mechanism--

so--until I do--
I can’t--I won’t--take credit
for being
the person I’ve become.

© 2008, Michael R. Patton

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