Tell me, tall Theudas
Where can I find untainted waters?
To make my body whole
Where do I find
The cool waters
Of blood-blessing Bethesda?
Which shall redeem the brain from brutal buzz
Coolness has betrayed me
Taps and showers
The still, lukewarm waters
Of the altar-fond
Shoveled upon my sore infant-skull
Should I follow the sea-gulls?
And their omnivorous appetite?
Where are the wrecks of the tall light-house?
The wood-held lantern-light
Of the Galilean siren-cries?
Reliced by feathers and clotted blood
Of south-bound birds
Sea-saints’ ragged sail-cloths?
Shall I meet Suzanne of the shores?
Can my blue eyes appear in her mirror?
Will my heart shrink sweetly-sea-silent
By the sedating song of his gently-swung Jewish tongue?
The mild monarch of Montreal
Will I ever hold the glacial design
The beautiful glistening icicles of my postponed, cool Arctic exile?
Will he speak to me, through my submersion?
Will his blood bouquet above the coral-reefs
Blossom from underwater- hot-springs?
Where my body lies bloated, inwrought with sea-weeds
My back, bruised upon the sharp sea-shells?
Will he speak to me sweetly?
In my swollen sea-sunk cell?
Or should I seek my submersion in Greek?
Though, Poseidon, Nereus?
You seem very distant to me
Should I swim above the archways of Atlantis
Picking dead snail-shells from chalked castles?
Tell me, tall Theudas!
Will I ever hold a sea-shell to my ear?
When far from sea
And listen to the swirling wind-roared waves
Crashing against costal rocks?
And not my own
My far-too-well-known busy blood
My ponderous heart
Blowing and beating with blistering fear?
Where are those boatmen
Who can sail my soil-sick body out of here?
Rub weeds and salt in my terrestrial tears?
Who is the Phoenician sailor?
Will he appear?
Will he speak?
Will the self-lulled mermaids of Prufrock’s sea
Will they sing
Will they sing sea-psalms to me?
Shall I meet Aristocratic Ariel?
Now speaking with such soft syllables-ends
Wriggling her virgin-fin-tail
Reassembled with her asylum-sisters
Caressing and combing their mermaid-hair
Black, chestnut, blonde and dark
The silver-crowned sea-heir
The Maritime Matriarch
Head, out of carbon-monoxide-airs
Se ahorses, circling her silver-inwrought scales
Glittering in ripples, untainted and bare
If I ever turn sea-ward
Who shall meet me there?
Theudas, soaked and tall
Will you help me out of these dusty, dry robes?
Release me to drink and rejoice in water’s rippled flesh
Till I choke?
Stir these solemn, still
Waters of Narcissus
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Poet's Notes about The Poem
Comments about this poem (Waters by Kristian Lorenzen )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(1753 – 5 December 1784)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1644 - 1694)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
Robert Louis Stevenson
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
William Butler Yeats
(13 June 1865 – 28 January 1939)
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