Wallace Stevens
She sang beyond the genius of the sea.
The water never formed to mind or voice,
Like a body wholly body, fluttering
Its empty sleeves; and yet its mimic motion
Made constant cry, caused constantly a cry,
That was not ours although we understood,
Inhuman, of the veritable ocean.
The sea was not a mask. No more was she.
The song and water were not medleyed sound
Even if what she sang was what she heard,
Since what she sang was uttered word by word.
It may be that in all her phrases stirred
The grinding water and the gasping wind;
But it was she and not the sea we heard.
For she was the maker of the song she sang.
The ever-hooded, tragic-gestured sea
Was merely a place by which she walked to sing.
Whose spirit is this? we said, because we knew
It was the spirit that we sought and knew
That we should ask this often as she sang.
If it was only the dark voice of the sea
That rose, or even colored by many waves;
If it was only the outer voice of sky
And cloud, of the sunken coral water-walled,
However clear, it would have been deep air,
The heaving speech of air, a summer sound
Repeated in a summer without end
And sound alone. But it was more than that,
More even than her voice, and ours, among
The meaningless plungings of water and the wind,
Theatrical distances, bronze shadows heaped
On high horizons, mountainous atmospheres
Of sky and sea.
It was her voice that made
The sky acutest at its vanishing.
She measured to the hour its solitude.
She was the single artificer of the world
In which she sang. And when she sang, the sea,
Whatever self it had, became the self
That was her song, for she was the maker. Then we,
As we beheld her striding there alone,
Knew that there never was a world for her
Except the one she sang and, singing, made.
Ramon Fernandez, tell me, if you know,
Why, when the singing ended and we turned
Toward the town, tell why the glassy lights,
The lights in the fishing boats at anchor there,
As the night descended, tilting in the air,
Mastered the night and portioned out the sea,
Fixing emblazoned zones and fiery poles,
Arranging, deepening, enchanting night.
Oh! Blessed rage for order, pale Ramon,
The maker's rage to order words of the sea,
Words of the fragrant portals, dimly-starred,
And of ourselves and of our origins,
In ghostlier demarcations, keener sounds.
*
The Siren
Prologue
The mermaids moved along the shore in pale silence. It was early evening and their bodies shone white in the dimness. They were unclothed and their long hair hung around their faces in all colors: black, shades of brown and red, and gold. Their legs wobbled as they walked over the sand, hand-in-hand.
One mermaid's eyes met her sister's and she smiled a secret smile. "Our other sister lives there," she whispered, gesturing to a small clapboard house on the hillside, surrounded by high weeds and rocks. Lights shone from within.
"I know," the black-haired one responded, "but the question is, how will we reach her? She has ignored our call for weeks."
The brown-haired mermaid's brows furrowed. "Her will is strong, but she cannot resist us forever. All of us must return to the sea whether or not we wish it. It is a part of our nature and it is stronger than death. Our lost ones will return to us."
The black-haired girl nodded, reassured. Her green eyes scanned the house anxiously. She hated to be parted from her loved ones. Nothing could separate them really, not love, not death. Though there were hundreds of them they were all one.
"Come," the brown-haired mermaid whispered. "Our time grows short here. We must return to the sea." They turned and walked together back to the water. Their other sisters were pale shadows on the shore, bowing as the waves washed over their thin, unsteady legs and drew them back into the water's embrace.
She sang beyond the genius of the sea.
The water never formed to mind or voice,
Like a body wholly body, fluttering
Its empty sleeves; and yet its mimic motion
Made constant cry, caused constantly a cry,
That was not ours although we understood,
Inhuman, of the veritable ocean.
The sea was not a mask. No more was she.
The song and water were not medleyed sound
Even if what she sang was what she heard,
Since what she sang was uttered word by word.
It may be that in all her phrases stirred
The grinding water and the gasping wind;
But it was she and not the sea we heard.
For she was the maker of the song she sang.
The ever-hooded, tragic-gestured sea
Was merely a place by which she walked to sing.
Whose spirit is this? we said, because we knew
It was the spirit that we sought and knew
That we should ask this often as she sang.
If it was only the dark voice of the sea
That rose, or even colored by many waves;
If it was only the outer voice of sky
And cloud, of the sunken coral water-walled,
However clear, it would have been deep air,
The heaving speech of air, a summer sound
Repeated in a summer without end
And sound alone. But it was more than that,
More even than her voice, and ours, among
The meaningless plungings of water and the wind,
Theatrical distances, bronze shadows heaped
On high horizons, mountainous atmospheres
Of sky and sea.
It was her voice that made
The sky acutest at its vanishing.
She measured to the hour its solitude.
She was the single artificer of the world
In which she sang. And when she sang, the sea,
Whatever self it had, became the self
That was her song, for she was the maker. Then we,
As we beheld her striding there alone,
Knew that there never was a world for her
Except the one she sang and, singing, made.
Ramon Fernandez, tell me, if you know,
Why, when the singing ended and we turned
Toward the town, tell why the glassy lights,
The lights in the fishing boats at anchor there,
As the night descended, tilting in the air,
Mastered the night and portioned out the sea,
Fixing emblazoned zones and fiery poles,
Arranging, deepening, enchanting night.
Oh! Blessed rage for order, pale Ramon,
The maker's rage to order words of the sea,
Words of the fragrant portals, dimly-starred,
And of ourselves and of our origins,
In ghostlier demarcations, keener sounds.
Prologue
The mermaids moved along the shore in pale silence. It was early evening and their bodies shone white in the dimness. They were unclothed and their long hair hung around their faces in all colors: black, shades of brown and red, and gold. Their legs wobbled as they walked over the sand, hand-in-hand.
One mermaid's eyes met her sister's and she smiled a secret smile. "Our other sister lives there," she whispered, gesturing to a small clapboard house on the hillside, surrounded by high weeds and rocks. Lights shone from within.
"I know," the black-haired one responded, "but the question is, how will we reach her? She has ignored our call for weeks."
The brown-haired mermaid's brows furrowed. "Her will is strong, but she cannot resist us forever. All of us must return to the sea whether or not we wish it. It is a part of our nature and it is stronger than death. Our lost ones will return to us."
The black-haired girl nodded, reassured. Her green eyes scanned the house anxiously. She hated to be parted from her loved ones. Nothing could separate them really, not love, not death. Though there were hundreds of them they were all one.
"Come," the brown-haired mermaid whispered. "Our time grows short here. We must return to the sea." They turned and walked together back to the water. Their other sisters were pale shadows on the shore, bowing as the waves washed over their thin, unsteady legs and drew them back into the water's embrace.