Still they stood,
A great wave from it going over them,
As if the earth in one unlooked-for favour
Had made them certain earth returned their love.
Robert Frost
If anything is safe
to love, it is
the jellyfish, Aurelia aurita,
that pink and silver
moon-cloud, drifting wild
in every harbour from the South
Atlantic
to the Bay of Reykjavik;
or Hippocampus,
monstrous to the Greeks,
though shaped like horses,
gentle as the wind
in August,
moving softly through
the weeds, the brood male
gathering the eggs into his pouch
like treasure, while the female swims away
to miles of seagrass; coral;
predators.
If anything is safe
to love, it has to be
the Starry Smooth-Hound,
gliding through the bright
salt water, innocent
of need, its joys
too quick to be remembered
or betrayed.
I would not choose the Bluefin
Tuna, Hector’s
Dolphin, or the Humphead
Wrasse.
Right Whale, Blue Whale, Fin
Whale, Yangtze Finless
Porpoise, and The Maltese Ray are equally
unpromising,
(they will not be here long).
In years to come,
the market will experience
a glut in holy relics, scraps of bone
and slivers of dubious tissue, hermetically sealed
in ampoules, with old diagrams
of how things would have looked
had they survived:
convenient gifts
for those who would believe
that absence is its own
reward, a cybernetic
fiefdom of Saxon
gold, the cold
dead-end
as hallows.
If anyone were safe
to love, it would be
Lazarus, awake between two worlds,
until a word recalls him from the field
where he had strayed, bereft of song and flight,
(no live birds in that place, no
parakeets or hooded orioles;
only the script of Archaeopteryx
consigned, but not reduced
to blueprint
in the marled folds
of hereafter).
The moment he turns,
he finds the world transformed,
the animals he knew, the ox, the ass,
the cattle in the fields, the flocks
of vultures over bloody Golgotha,
all gone, and in their place
a host of resurrections, long-lost
fishes, given up
for dead,
amphibians
and mammals, skipper flies
and pine voles, coming to life
forever, as he blindly makes his way
through gardens of round-leafed birch
and café marron, the fountains
teeming with Black Kokanee,
painted frogs,
Latimeria
chalumnae, Latimeria
menadoensis
and, out in the furthest shade
of the jellyfish trees,
Mahogany Gliders,
calling his name in the dark,
as if, for now,
the earth returned his love.
Send Letters To:
The Editor
London Review of Books,
28 Little Russell Street
London, WC1A 2HN
letters@lrb.co.uk
Please include name, address, and a telephone number.