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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=395831" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>In Memory of David Archer (LIV)</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">The words are always as<br>strange and dead as those<br>fragments and oddments that<br>the wave casts up on the shore:<br>I stand in the sea mist <br>gazing down at the white<br>words and old bits of wood<br>and wonder what they were for.<br>I think that they were not<br>ever intended to do<br>what, when we seek to speak,<br>we believe that they may:<br>they cannot bear us up<br>the frothy words and like<br>wings at the lame foot<br>lift us out of the clay.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">For all the reflections<br>I call up out of the sea<br>(they seem to speak as the shell<br>seems to speak for the sea)<br>are no more truly here<br>than the wind weaving sand<br>into shapes of things<br>we think that we know and see.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">When in the evening sky<br>a single star appears<br>over my head, and the moon<br>out of the cloud lifts its face,<br>when the white gull turns<br>or the high plover hovers<br>to tell me with a cry<br>I trespass in this place:</div><div style="margin:10px 0">What I see, then, with<br>that cloud my witness is<br>not shapes of the mind or wind<br>like the slow rainbowings<br>of the dolphin's skin as it dies<br>but, as though from the cloud<br>I saw my bone walk the shore,<br>the theology of all things.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The white stones and the old <br>odd bits of sea blanched wood,<br>Overstrand and the swinging<br>lighthouse glimpsed in the mists,<br>they flash in the prisms and I <br>believe for a moment I see <br>the dazzling atoms dancing<br>in every thing that exists.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The children dance on the shore.<br>The waves dies on the sand.<br>The spray blows to and fro,<br>the children dance and die.<br>What waves are these that dance<br>with the children on the sand?<br>I hear them calling, but cannot<br>hear what it is that they cry.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I neither understand<br>nor know why I am moved<br>beyond these words by the <br>odd bits of bleached wood<br>cast up on Overstrand<br>or by the black and twisted <br>October evening tree<br>dying beside the road.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">or by the child of midnight<br>so deep asleep but still<br>lost in the corridors <br>of the mansions of dust,<br>by any or by all<br>ceremonial evidence<br>attesting that we love<br>simply because we must.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I walk upon Overstrand shore<br>and the crab at my foot<br>inscribes praise in the sand.<br>The wave bursts with glory<br>because it rises up like<br>angels out of the sea,<br>and the dead starfish burns<br>on Overstrand promontory.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Why do I hear them cry<br>out from the far side of life,<br>those forms and impulses<br>unborn beyond the sky?<br>Why should they hope and seek<br>above all else to be?<br>Tonight on Overstrand<br>I know for one moment why.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=George+Barker">George Barker</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=395831" data-title="In Memory of David Archer (LIV) de George Barker" data-description="The words are always as
strange and dead as those
fragments and oddments that
the wave casts up on the shore:
I stand in the sea mist 
gazing down at the white
words and old bits of wood
and wonder what they were for.
I think that they were not
ev..."></div>
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