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History by John Burnside (1955-)
History by John Burnside (1955-)
St Andrews: West Sands; September 2001
Today as we flew the kites - the sand spinning off in ribbons along the beach and that gasoline smell from Leuchars gusting across the golf links; the tide far out and quail-grey in the distance; people jogging, or stopping to watch as the war planes cambered and turned in the morning light –
today - with the news in my mind, and the muffled dread of what may come – I knelt down in the sand with Lucas gathering shells and pebbles finding evidence of life in all this driftwork: snail shells; shreds of razorfish; smudges of weed and flesh on tideworn stone.
At times I think what makes us who we are is neither kinship nor our given states but something lost between the world we own and what we dream about behind the names on days like this our lines raised in the wind our bodies fixed and anchored to the shore
and though we are confined by property what tethers us to gravity and light has most to do with distance and the shapes we find in water reading from the book of silt and tides: the rose or petrol blue of jellyfish and sea anemone combining with a child's first nakedness.
Sometimes I am dizzy with the fear of losing everything - the sea, the sky, all living creatures, forests, estuaries: we trade so much to know the virtual we scarcely register the drift and tug of other bodies scarcely apprehend the moment as it happens: shifts of light and weather and the quiet, local forms of history: the fish lodged in the tide beyond the sands; the long insomnia of ornamental carp in public parks captive and bright and hung in their own slow-burning transitive gold; jamjars of spawn and sticklebacks or goldfish carried home from fairgrounds to the hum of radio; but this is the problem: how to be alive in all this gazed-upon and cherished world and do no harm
a toddler on a beach sifting wood and dried weed from the sand and puzzled by the pattern on a shell
his parents on the dune slacks with a kite plugged into the sky all nerve and line: patient; afraid; but still, through everything attentive to the irredeemable.
Today
St Andrews: West Sands; September 2001
Today while we flew kites the sand spun off in ribbons along the beach and the smell of gasoline from Leuchars blew across the golf course; the tide was far out and looked gray in the distance; people were jogging or stopping to watch as the war planes curved and turned in the morning light –
Today - with the news on my mind, and a quiet fear of what might happen – I knelt in the sand with Lucas picking up shells and pebbles, finding signs of life in all this debris: snail shells; bits of razorfish; smudges of seaweed and flesh on stones worn by the tide.
Sometimes I think what defines us isn't family or our given roles, but something lost between the world we have and what we dream of behind names on days like this, our kite strings are raised in the wind, our bodies steady and anchored to the shore
and even though we're limited by ownership, what connects us to gravity and light is mostly about distance and the shapes we see in water reading from the book of mud and tides: the pink or blue of jellyfish and sea anemones mixing with a child's first nakedness.
Sometimes I'm overwhelmed with the fear of losing everything—the sea, the sky, all living things, forests, river mouths: we give up so much to understand the digital that we barely notice the pull and drift of other bodies, barely notice the moment as it happens: changes in light and weather, and the quiet, local forms of history: the fish caught in the tide beyond the sands; the long sleeplessness of decorative carp in public parks, trapped and bright, hanging in their own slow-burning, temporary gold; jars of fish eggs and sticklebacks or goldfish taken home from fairs to the sound of the radio; but this is the challenge: how to be alive in this world we look at and cherish, and do no harm.
A toddler on a beach sifting wood and dried seaweed from the sand, puzzled by the pattern on a shell.
His parents on the low dunes with a kite, connected to the sky, all nerves and strings: patient, afraid, but still, through everything, paying attention to what cannot be saved.