Steven Price: A Poem
Steven Price
THE EXCURSION
Once on shore we shuddered to see it: like panic pouring over the dead
shale, the shellfused
rockpools, it oozed
its hooded head
under a barnacled block
in a smooth crush
of coils, was flushed
black-muscled back
through the cold flail
of its beak, a soft vent
murking a current;
then gulped a bell
of ink against the glassed
surface and fell
still. Each slow gasp welled
up strange to us
where we crouched. Smaller than
we'd thought it, it
slewed, limbs knotted
like knuckled hands
wrung white, a sight
we saw and shrank from --
who had not come
for this. The sea light
wimpled like banged steel
in the beyond.
We rose. Reeled stunned
in a reeking squall
of sandflies, saltburnt decay;
then, like appalled
reflections of half-recalled
lives, turned away.
"What was it?" asked
one; "a fish?" "Not
a fish," we replied; "not
that." And thought: ghost.
That soft horror pulsed
on in its rockpool
like an ember
of darkness; we left it
there. And, slow, trudged
down the rock-ledge
our low craft lifted
in the shadow of, lifted
and fell from. The light
was failing. Our guide
hunched astern, hooded,
knuckling white oars.
He lifted his face.
It seemed we did
not know this place;
and if we woke
we would remember
none of this.
from Omens in the Year of the Ox, Brick Books 2012. Reprinted with permission.
Hear Steven Price read this and other poems at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q1NoXkZfGwU
Read our conversation here.
THE EXCURSION
Once on shore we shuddered to see it: like panic pouring over the dead
shale, the shellfused
rockpools, it oozed
its hooded head
under a barnacled block
in a smooth crush
of coils, was flushed
black-muscled back
through the cold flail
of its beak, a soft vent
murking a current;
then gulped a bell
of ink against the glassed
surface and fell
still. Each slow gasp welled
up strange to us
where we crouched. Smaller than
we'd thought it, it
slewed, limbs knotted
like knuckled hands
wrung white, a sight
we saw and shrank from --
who had not come
for this. The sea light
wimpled like banged steel
in the beyond.
We rose. Reeled stunned
in a reeking squall
of sandflies, saltburnt decay;
then, like appalled
reflections of half-recalled
lives, turned away.
"What was it?" asked
one; "a fish?" "Not
a fish," we replied; "not
that." And thought: ghost.
That soft horror pulsed
on in its rockpool
like an ember
of darkness; we left it
there. And, slow, trudged
down the rock-ledge
our low craft lifted
in the shadow of, lifted
and fell from. The light
was failing. Our guide
hunched astern, hooded,
knuckling white oars.
He lifted his face.
It seemed we did
not know this place;
and if we woke
we would remember
none of this.
from Omens in the Year of the Ox, Brick Books 2012. Reprinted with permission.
Hear Steven Price read this and other poems at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q1NoXkZfGwU
Read our conversation here.