Marilyn Krysl: "Summer Solstice, Batticaloa, Sri Lanka"

The war had turned inward until it resembled
suicide. The only soothing thing was water.
I passed the sentries, followed the surf out of sight.
I would sink into the elements, become simple.

Surf sounds like erasure, over and over.
I lay down and let go, the way you trust an animal.
When I opened my eyes, all down the strand
small crabs, the bright yellow of a crayon,

had come out onto the sand. Their numbers, scattered,
resembled the galactic spill and volume of the stars.
I, who had lain down alone, emptied,
waked at the center of ten thousand prayers.

Who would refuse such attention. I let it sweeten me
back into the universe. I was alive, in the midst
of great loving, which is all I've ever wanted.
The soldiers of both sides probably wanted just this.

"Summer Solstice, Batticaloa, Sri Lanka" by Marilyn Krysl, from War-Scape with Lovers. © Cleveland State University Poetry Center, 1997.  

Photography credit: "Ghost Crab, Urucuca, Bahia, Brazil," by unknown photographer (originally color).

Marilyn Krysl: "Saying Things"

Three things quickly—pineapple, sparrowgrass, whale—

and then on to asbestos. What I want to say tonight is

words, the naming of things into their thing,

yucca, brown sugar, solo, the roll of a snare drum,

say something, say anything, you’ll see what I mean.

Say windmill, you feel the word fly out from under and away.

Say eye, say shearwater, alewife, apache, harpoon,

do you see what I’m saying, say celery, say Seattle,

say a whole city, say San Jose. You can feel the word

rising like a taste on the palate, say

tuning fork, angel, temperature, meadow, silver nitrate,

try carbon cycle, point lace, helium, Micronesia, quail.

Any word—say it—belladonna, screw auger, spitball,

any word goes like a gull up and on its way,

even lead lifts like a swallow from the nest

of your tongue. Say incandescent, bonnet, universal joint,

lint—oh I invite you to try it. Say cold cream,

corydalis, cotillion, cosmic dust,

you are all of you a generous and patient audience,

pilaster, cashmere, mattress, Washington pie,

say vise, inclinometer, enjambment, you feel your own voice

taking off like a swift, when you say a word you feel like

a gong that’s been struck, to speak is to step out of your skin,

stunned. And you’re a pulsar, finally you understand light

is both particle and wave, you can see it, as in

parlour—when do you get a chance to say parlour—

and now mackinaw, toad and ham wing their way

to the heaven of their thing. Say bellows, say sledge,

say threshold, cottonmouth, Russia leather,

say ash, picot, fallow deer, saxophone, say kitchen sink.

This is the birthday party for the mouth—it’s better than ice cream,

say waterlily, refrigerator, hartebeest, Prussian blue

and the word will take you, if you let it,

the word will take you along across the air of your head

so that you’re there as it settles into the thing it was made for,

adding to it a shimmer and the bird song of its sound,

sound that comes from you, the hand letting go

its dove, yours the mouth speaking the thing into existence,

this is what I’m talking about, this is called saying things.

"Saying Things" by Marilyn Krysl, from More Palamino, Please, More Fuchsia. © Cleveland State University Poetry Center, 1980.

Image: Detail from "Speaking Words of Wisdom," pastel on paper by Sandra Conley (originally color).