Erin

10.06.10

There’s a magic isle inside o’ me,
A magic isle that’s home.
Deep, deep, deep within, yet
Not quite within reach.
’Tis an isle where rain and sunshine play
Rainbow games, as on the shell of a Nautilus—
Feel like one turned outside in;
One of those little personal treasures so well-hid,
Can’t quite remember where I put it. Or like
A pearl oyster with lockjaw.
There’s a not-quite feel to it,
Like the not-quite feel of magic yarns;
Something like the eluding earthy taste of rain-soaked earth,
The scintillatingly frustrating rhythms of unwritten poetry
Pattering a path through the twisting, snaking maze
Of the helpless brain,
The romantic scent of unopened letters, and memories…
Memories of having been there, but not quite.
And all my senses, they stretch out,
Outwards, seeking the isle within.

Sitting on the rocks before the Bay of Bengal
On a rainy day, that dreamy greyness is
Almost it. I inhale the wild sea-spray, and listen,
As I wander off, listen
For the laughing lilt of voices as I pass foreign tourists by the beach…
Catching but echoes; inebriated echoes staggering out
From within. My feet perhaps will take me there some day,
There, to the echo of the isle within.

Don’t know why, but I call it homesickness. And now,
Now, I must leave, leave all and dwell with that heavy dream
’Til we’ve drunk each other into oneness.
Something deep within, deep, deep within, sighs:
‘Here.’ But don’t want to listen. Must go, must look, must breathe,
And listen, and feel, taste, and love.
A fever, a frenzy, a burning will to soar, to seek.
Must brave the earthly seas before endeavouring
The seas within.
Something, some sort of hope says it’s out there
Somewhere—that Em’rald Isle. Perhaps not, but once there,
And if still unslaked, I might at least consider
Looking within.