LOLL JUNG 

indexing sea[‘s] fret[s]

(This is a concrete poem, meaning that the negative space within the lines of the poem play a large part in its reading. The poem appears to be in two columns, punctuated by ~ and * symbols, as if two simultaneous poems are being constructed, or a call and answer dynamic, a bouncing backwards and forwards of multiple voices, or as if each line is stretched to its utmost capacity, mimicking almost the pull of the tide or the movement of a boat. 

The poem will appear first assuming the lines are to be read left to right, rather than column by column. Afterwards it will displayed in columns, where the reading of each line is open to more interpretation.)

(version 1) 

In civilisations without boats, dreams dry up[...] -Michel Foucault

Turn up that horrible weather!

I’m up for it, 

into it! 

Do you ever watch 

you know, eyes on something, 

rain or tears or waves—there’s always water

~

a life—walking, sitting, swimming—              

imagined as a world, a different space;

~*~

As the old goes, dissipates, 

our lives mean nothing 

but we all of us move, (a hallelujah) 

echoes 

in remembered spaces—

real seas, and 

real stone:memory is at work;

                        ~

they say to be at sea

is to be lost but what if it’s not?

what if landlocked 

means lost in so many ways 

it’s difficult to see the wood 

for the trees a chorus

of pines, all needles’ prick

and fir dripped pleas?

~

when there is land to the left, 

& water right, a flatness inscribed, 

child’s head turns north: a world order 

~

cuthbert’s island sits cold, indifferent to a sea

that once brought raiders 

led by dragons’ heads carved 

in oak & fir; off coasts framed 

by rock-pocked faces; the bells

wind permitting, 

toll there, too

~*~

Hymns sung low and humble: hot breath 

& neck & muscle-hooved 

limbs; the sea shifts and swings

miles of salt-coddled islands old as days. 

~

close sheep-teeth-cropped

salt-washed grell-grün grass;

dry-stacked moss-licked stone walls

placed squat, then left for later 

keeping one graze from another;

~

weird seaweed green & 

troll-tongue blue, darks know

& knowing knots;

~*~

A boat is given over to the infinity of the sea, 

from port to port, tack to tack, 

in search of the most precious treasure—

a boat is floating space 

a place without a place 

that exists by itself, is closed in on itself. 

~

here’s a boat, 

carrying a dead man’s body, 

dust particles, 

waiting patiently

til they are well sunk in grey 

stille Wasser sind tief:

~

braw, brae wind—radio waves of yours

vs. my north sea 

a vision appears—two cliffs rise, ancient 

faces from ancient 

foam—old but newborn: 

 a strange, unallowed limbo 

(version 2) 

In civilisations without boats, dreams dry up[...]

-Michel Foucault

Turn up                                                                                               that horrible weather!

I’m up for it, 

into it! 

Do you ever                                                                                         watch

you know,       eyes on something, 

                        rain or tears or waves—                                             there’s always water 

                        ~

a life—walking, sitting, swimming—              

imagined as a world,                                                                           a different space;

~*~

As the old goes, dissipates, 

our lives          mean nothing 

but we all of us move,                                                                        (a hallelujah) 

echoes 

in remembered spaces—

real seas,                                                                                             and

                                    real stone:                                                       memory is at work;

                        ~

they say                       to be at sea

                                    is to be lost                                                     but what if it’s not?

what if landlocked 

means lost                                                                                          in so many ways 

it’s difficult to see                                                                               the wood 

for the trees                a chorus

                                    of pines, all needles’ prick

                                    and fir dripped pleas?

                        ~

when there                                                                                         is land to the left, 

& water right, a flatness inscribed, 

child’s head turns north:                                                                    a world order 

                        ~

cuthbert’s island sits cold,                                                                  indifferent to a sea

that once brought raiders 

led by dragons’ heads carved 

in oak & fir; off coasts framed 

by rock-pocked faces; the bells

                                    wind permitting, 

toll there, too

~*~

Hymns sung low and humble:                                                            hot breath 

& neck & muscle-hooved 

limbs; the sea shifts and                                                                     swings

miles of salt-coddled                                                                          islands old as days. 

                        ~

close sheep-teeth-cropped

salt-washed grell-grün grass;

dry-stacked moss-licked                                                                     stone walls

placed squat, then                                                                              left for later 

keeping one graze from another;

                        ~

weird seaweed green & 

troll-tongue blue, darks                                                                      know

& knowing knots;

~*~

A boat is given over to                                                                        the infinity of the sea, 

from port to port, tack to tack, 

in search of                                                                                         the most precious treasure—

a boat is floating                                                                                 space

a place without a place 

that exists by itself, is                                                                         closed in on itself. 

                        ~

here’s a boat, 

carrying a dead man’s body, 

                                    dust particles, 

waiting patiently

til they are well           sunk in grey 

                                                                                                            stille Wasser sind tief:

                        ~

braw, brae wind—                                                                              radio waves of yours

                                                                                                            vs. my north sea 

a vision appears—                                                                              two cliffs rise, ancient 

                                                                                                            faces from ancient 

foam—old but                                                                                    newborn:

                                                                                                                    a strange, unallowed limbo