Ocean, a verb
Pittsburgh, PA
2024, Senior, Poetry & Spoken Word
The ocean suspends
herself / between crests &
troughs / infinite sine waves extending /
into infinite blue / meeting watercolor
skies swollen / with rain—that
somewhere in the chasms / of growing up
or growing older her / children have forgotten
how to live—rather, they have learned / to live
without her. Forgotten / sea-gulls / and sea-urchins
and sea-stars / and remember the sea-monsters
/ the ones that / push them further into
land / and further from her reach / her call /
her spirit /
And so she angers: her wrath, spilling forth
from /mermaid seafoam /to Kraken
tentacles which rise / to twenty feet / which
her children call Tsunami / and the oil they
have spilled / she wraps feathered wings /
around them /and traps them/a watery
grave / but no one sees / and no one remembers
/ and so she weeps / her vapor tears rising /
higher and higher / and higher until
they condensate and begin their own / merry-
go-round / right there in the sky / they give her
names /names like Katrina & Ivan & Andrew/
but really she only / has one name / the one
they never use / the one they have / forgotten.
Her children claim they can / reach
the skies and / purify her with / a few plastic bags
and /a few drops of iodine / and conquer her shores /
and build taller, stronger buildings to / withstand
her fury / they lure anchormen who shout
louder and warn sooner / as she crashes against
land / sea against shore / man against nature / bits
of foam flecking the/salt-sea wind. Because
who needs salt? / Who needs her when swimming
pools / and bathtubs abound and / warm weather
is more pleasant anyway / it’s not like you can /
set the ocean on fire/right?
And so she simmers/
she boils from within / her temperatures soar /
and bits of her die / humus, a paper-white
snow/of marine debris / drifting down to
bottom /who knew if it/once was a dolphin/a
turtle / a chunk of reef / at least it’s cooler /
safer / down here / where the sun / never reaches.
But one day/she swears she is forgiving /
her arms will heal as quickly / as
they destroy / but her children must learn /
they must learn / to listen and to see /
and to change / and to forgive / and to remember
/and to remember/and to remember.
Reflection
As a four-year-old, I visited San Diego, California, for the first time. It was also my first time seeing the ocean. I remember hearing the roar of the waves, which sounded alien and unfamiliar, and unlike anything I had ever heard. There was something about the ocean: it was daunting yet welcoming, dangerous yet thrilling. Above all, knowing that something so great and big was here on our very planet made me stand in awe of it. My poem was inspired by this awe—and also the lack thereof: the danger of our ability to forget it so easily. More specifically, losing reverence for the ocean, and both is life-bringing and devastating power. Each day, it is a privilege to be able to believe climate change is far from us, knowing that we will ultimately all be affected by its consequences, no matter the degree. Poetry has given me a voice, and I hope to use it for good—to invoke emotion, introspection, and activism within my readers.