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Canoeing in The Russian River At the edge of noon, with Summer's glow that slips from naked shoulders and splatters the spillway, we pause, listen to the air filled with youth's laughter - Tanned bodies fly, curl, revolve in foam flowers that blossom and die scattering petals on pebbles. The three tiers call me to split unity; I want to draw back yet need to be there in wholeness for once. I kneel in shallow foam, feel a thousand hands knead my flesh, I yield to water... sucked by a multi-tongued mouth, I sink in green, white as laps and swirls pull me down into a world of bubbles; broken necklace tie my limbs. The river gathers an eternity of tears and I look into the wet eyes of death; in her hands, a clock bound to strike, a nest of glass thorns, crystal cathedral spiraling up, angels with orange lips and green wings flap over me in last pilgrimage of this body. Arms lift me. Clinging to my friend, I cough, breathe, watch horizon's nakedness traversed by a blue heron. © Paula Grenside |
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Commentary: A pastoral experience canoeing in the Russian River in California that might have turned into a tragedy. Yet, it's not this I aim at in my poem. While underwater, caught in the swirls and bubbles, I frenetically moved arms and legs to come to the surface. My eyes, open wide, kept observing the fascinating, threatening world, though. I am not sure how many seconds passed; I was on the verge of panic, but was lifted up before drinking or surrendering to the power of the water. After the relief of being out and able to look at the sky again, I kept thinking of this experience, not with fear, but love and respect for this element, water, which I love. After ten minutes, I went back swimming in quieter water, far from the spillway. I have worked on this poem for two months. Hope it transfers what I lived. Paula Grenside Bonfire contributor |