Untitled Document

The Language of Waves
Martin Burke

There was the glittering clack of language on the tongue,
words that told
their truths and evasions were marching over the laws
of decorum
and propriety usurping every fallow verb and ploughing
the ground
with the seeds of their own amazement. The rights of
anyone
to walk and talk there were ignored. The words continued
to be concerned
only with themselves. I was, of course, neither indifferent to
nor unconcerned
by this. I also had my rights –but what were they and what
strength
did they possess in such a situation? I was enamoured
none the less
and charmed and followed where they led even if I did not
recognise
the territory they were marching over. And that's the way
it began,
the way the words marched ahead of themselves and insisted
I follow
and I did –but would you believe me if I said that I knew
nothing
of the outcome. It was as much a surprise to me as it will be
to you
and that there are boundaries I know nothing of in advance.
And this is the way
it happens every time, the pace that is followed, the tempo
I attempt
to keep pace with –and which, succeeding or failing, write
out
the results and find myself among this strange cadence.

2

Like the sea on the stones on a beach of stones and shells
or the way
the marvellous words of moonlight shone out in the dark
so they covered
the ground they spread themselves about. There was starlight
in the dark-
this much I remember but what exactly the words drew their
strength from
was something which even then eluded me. And so I moved in
that ignorance
which was also a delight and to which I gave myself as one
would
to one's lover –which is to say without reticence or hesitation
though
let it be said I was also anxious for the outcome –not directing
it
but following where it led until it leads to these words on this
page
you hold in your hands and try to follow where I lead.

3

A nd where do I lead if not back into the cave of words as I
know it
and attempt to shine a light on that dark which is life giving
and naming?
Yes, this is what the mind bows to and accepts and says that
it
is the true giver of wholesome light. Yes, words on the stones
of the beach
I've walked so many times I am familiar with it even in the dark
and also in
the sunrise which will come. Juan de la Cruz has also walked
there
and knew it better that most –but this does not alarm me. I must
walk
in the dark that is particular to me and draw the words my tongue
calls forth
and offers up to the sightless world. We each move in dark. The
lighthouse flashes
its code and the darkness appears and reappears. And so the words
come
out of that and I must catch them while I can as they glitter on the
tongue
and offer their content and verve. Yes, the moonlight is all, the
lighthouse
beyond is part of the beauty of night –the one that language moves
towards
and from which it begins to sing the subtle praises of itself.

4

And as they clacked they told out a marvellous story which can
be indicated
but not repeated: how each wave was in itself an epic of water
flowing over
the indentations of each stone to lodge and change forever the
course
the stone was set upon. I can tell you no more than this and so
will repeat it
endlessly to myself and to whoever will listen –and do you listen
or is this
not to your liking? Yes, the words were marching over the
laws
of decorum and proprietary and had nothing but themselves
to answer to
and satisfy –that is if they choose to answer at all. And they
didn't.
Their one concern was their own cadence and strange meanings
I
was growing closer to but could not interpret in any tongue
that iscommon to us all unless it be that tongue which says what
the waves
said to the stones and in which the stones replied

5

as the lighthouse beam pierced the dark again and the world
drew substance
from that. That sudden illumination was everything the night
aspired to
and to which, by these words, I also aspired. I was night walking
the shore
which in daylight I'd walked so many times but never before in
this particular
light. And it was beautiful. Yes, beautiful even among the passions
of silence
which swept up the beach to counter the words but failed to dent
the cadence
the words swung to. And yes, I was also swinging out on the
lighthouse
light and waiting for it to return and tell me all that it saw and
and then left
in the sudden dark I was back in but not in an unfriendly way
and drew
substance from that –offered here in these words and in this cadence
which I say
mirrors the sea and attempts to know the language of the wave

Martin Burke is a poet and playwright, born in Ireland, but living now in Brugge, Belgium.
He has had poem published in UK: Stride, Shearsman, Scriberazone, The Richmond Review, Aesthetica, Proof, The Surface, Peer Poetry Magazine, Other Poetry, Projected Letters, Transference, etc
USA : Verse, Drunken Boat, off course, Tryst, Slow Trains, Terrain, the muse apprentice guild, Kookamonga Square , Poetry Magazine.com, The Aurora Review, Free Verse, Gypsy etc
Ireland : Virtual Writer, Crannóg, Electric Acorn, The Dublin Quarterly, Dead Drunk in Dublin
Austria: Poetry Salsburg Review
Sweden : Ars Interpres
Recent Publications The Other Life -FootHills Publishing, NY (2004) The Weave That Binds Us - Inner Circle Publishing , Iowa (2004)
Forthcoming: The Easter Ballad - Wordsonthestreet, Ireland
E-books Triptych -Scare Publications Go -Slow Trains Publications Winter Journal - Tamafyhe Mountain Poetry A Leaping Spark - Tamafyhe Mountain Poetry
Plays Six Scenes From A War -New Theatre Publications, UK (2004) The Rose -a short play performed by the Manhattan Playwrights Group (2004) The Oresteia, a play reading, Brussels , Belgium , (2005)
Forthcoming Thebes Trilogy, Gent , Belgium (2006)
"Burke is the eloquent essayist of the sublime" Projected Letters