this diary is dedicated to all who suffer and grieve
image and poem below the fold
Land-Locked
by Celia Thaxter
Black lie the hills; swiftly doth daylight flee;
And, catching gleams of sunset’s dying smile,
Through the dusk land for many a changing mile
The river runneth softly to the sea.
O happy river, could I follow thee!
O yearning heart, that never can be still!
O wistful eyes, that watch the steadfast hill,
Longing for level line of solemn sea!
Have patience; here are flowers and songs of birds,
Beauty and fragrance, wealth of sound and sight,
All summer’s glory thine from morn till night,
And life too full of joy for uttered words.
Neither am I ungrateful; but I dream
Deliciously how twilight falls to-night
Over the glimmering water, how the light
Dies blissfully away, until I seem
To feel the wind, sea-scented, on my cheek,
To catch the sound of dusky flapping sail
And dip of oars, and voices on the gale
Afar off, calling low, — my name they speak!
O Earth! Thy summer song of joy may soar
Ringing to heaven in triumph. I but crave
The sad, caressing murmur of the wave
That breaks in tender music on the shore.
– – –
a personal note: My wife, Jeanne, and I are just back from a week-long vacation, and it’s been a challenge to try getting back into our normal routines.
We spent the week at a hotel in New Castle, New Hampshire. New Castle is a small spot along the smallest coastline in the country, just south of Portsmouth, and just to the north of the beaches in Rye, Hampton, and Seabrook. We ranged freely in each direction.
This photo was taken from a small rocky cove just below a place called Odiorne Point. We’re looking east, with four of the Isles of Shoals visible on the horizon. The tips of the rocks closer in are covered with cormorants and seagulls. It’s high tide in this picture. We returned to that cove several times, to hang out and enjoy the sun, to listen to the small waves and seabirds, and to engage in some serious talk about our lives together.
Jeanne and I got away, and we didn’t get away. Our hotel room had a high speed network connection, which I did not know about or expect, and I had a laptop with me (I had brought it along only to charge my iPod, I swear). So, I checked in here and at a few other sites on and off during the week.
The hotel also provided two newspapers each day – the Portsmouth Herald and USA Today – so we both scanned them while drinking coffee. I was reminded of how little news I get from newspapers and magazines. Jeanne just turned the TV on for a few minutes, a couple of times, to check on weather.
So, while we weren’t exactly unaware of what was going on in the larger world, neither did we spend too much time or effort following things.
One day at this cove, a car with three men pulled up alongside us as we were taking out our towels and books. I felt a brief small burst of resentment that we would not have the place to ourselves, as I had hoped.
When they got out of their car, I could see that each man was tall, trim, short-haired, and very fit. One asked if we knew the area.
“Somewhat,” I responded. “What are you looking for?”
“We’d like a place to go for a run,” he replied.
“Well, the beaches right along here are covered with small rocks for a few miles. If you want to run on sand, you’ll need to drive down to the parking lots at Wallis Sands or Jenness Beach. But there’s also a trail that starts right there,” pointing off to some nearby trees, “that goes through the Park at Odiorne Point. I don’t know how long it is, but that’s another option.”
The men said ‘thanks’ and got ready to decide what to do.
“Are you in the service?” I asked.
They nodded.
“What branch?”
“Marines,” one replied.
“Here’s my Marine,” I said as I extended my left arm to show them the bracelet I wear that bears the name of Alan Rowe, an officer killed in Iraq 9/3/04.
They each took a brief look. “Very good,” one said solemnly.
I wanted to say more, but didn’t know what, exactly. Stay safe? I hate this war? There really wasn’t anything else to say.
Jeanne and I walked onto the pebbled beach. The three Marines later jogged past us after emerging from the trail I had pointed out to them. They had small circles of sweat on their t-shirts, across their chests and under their arms. They stood and looked out over the water as they cooled down.
I thought about walking over and offering to take their picture together. I could have e-mailed it to any one of them that same day from the hotel. But I didn’t offer, and they didn’t ask, and I think that’s still OK.
Today’s poem is by a woman I had never heard of before, but in her day she was known all across the country. Celia Thaxter’s work and identity is very closely bound to the areas we vacationed in.
Jeanne and I attended a one-woman play, “Celia Baxter and the Isles of Shoals,” written and performed by Stephanie Voss Nugent and presented at The Pontine Theater in Porstmouth. Thaxter wrote “Landlocked” while living outside of Boston in Newtonville, Massachusetts, far from the islands she loved so much.
Even as Thaxter says that she has much to enjoy and appreciate, she grieves for what she has lost and longs for again.
