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Painting A Wave
“Painting a wave requires no system,” The painter said, painting a wave. “Systems may get you flotsam and jetsam, Seaweed and so forth. But never a wave.” There was a scroll or fine-lined curve On the canvas first, and then what looked Like hair flying or grayish nerves, Which began to move as the painter worked. “Painting the sea is a lot of trouble; It never stops still for a moment, so I try to make it internal, mental, As though I stopped it, then let it go.” Something began to pulse and tumble Out of the brushes, the ink, the chalk; A long black line commenced to tremble, Then, like a fishline, started to jerk . . . With what at the end? “I think I’ve caught it.” A drop of water hung by a hair. “If I could only stop it a minute!” The drop began to race somewhere, Spreading out in every direction, A bird of thread, caught in a storm, Trying to say, “Connection! Action!” But in the end it was very calm. Soon there was water under water, And over the sand a sun . . . a moon? Who could have seen that wave of water One night ago? Or a thousand and one? Who could have seen the lid of water With its thin mascara of buoys and corks, With its lined horizon’s distant glimmer Of maybe a skyline like New York’s? Now there will be that morning evening Tide dyeing the water’s pulse, The wave drying in ink. The Wave. Moving, momentous, motionless.