The Oslo Fjord
Not Waving But Drowning by Stevie Smith
Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning:
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.
Poor chap, he always loved larking
And now he's dead
It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,
They said.
Oh, no no no, it was too cold always
(Still the dead one lay moaning)
I was much too far out all my life
And not waving but drowning.
The Black Sea
As any reader may have gathered by now, I used to be a student of literature. That means there might be a literature lesson or two suddenly hidden away in my blog posts. Well - maybe not a lesson - I'm not a very good teacher, neither am I one for forcing extra knowledge down people's throats. But if you really want to try and interpret the above poem, here are some suggestions: Contrasts - between the apparent humorous tone and the terrible theme. Suicide? Psychological troubles? Loneliness? Stevie Smith's poems are often read bearing her life and background in mind - which is something we probably do with most writers come to think of it - and she contemplated suicide at the age of eight.
View from my window at 18, Portland Place, Kemptown, Brighton, England -1979
Oh yes, literature for me is naturally very much tied to my studies in England, at the University of Sussex. After living on campus, then in a damp bedsit where I was stalked by another tenant 24/7, my mother came to visit and refused to leave Brighton until I was safely installed somewhere else - far from the stalker. I left no forwarding address at the former landlady's when I moved into a newly renovated flat on Portland Place - meant for tutors - which my mother had managed to acquire for me by batting her eyelids and pushing her chest forward at the letting agent. And the closeness to the sea! Each night I fell asleep to the sound of rolling waves, that soothing music of the rip and curl on the pebble beaches beneath Marine Parade.
So this is still about the ocean, still about my affinity with the sea - and not yet about literature. Well, in a way the two merge as I find myself relating to the man in the poem - he's probably being dragged under by a shark or a jellyfish or a gigantic LEVIATHAN! And desperately trying to catch someone's attention!
View from the Staten Island ferry
I said yesterday that I'd rather travel by waterways than by any other transport. In every city, town or holiday place I visit you'll spot me heading for the nearest jetty to see if there are boat trips to be had. And especially if they're actually real means of transport - then I'm blissful. "It's useful as well"! It's like peace descends on me onboard a boat - a momentarily time-out from all the land noise.
Hmmm.... where is this, I wonder....
Leaving Trelleborg, Sweden on the ferry for Sassnitz, Germany...
.... and a road trip to Bulgaria
My childhood paradise existed just outside a small Norwegian town called Kragerø. My parents bought a seaside holiday house there in 1963, when I was eight years old. I spent every summer there as a child and teenager, then as a mother with my own children, and now it's become my granddaughters' childhood paradise. My brother and sister and their children have the same experience. It is truly the one spot on this earth where we see our family bonds rolling like steady waves through the generations.
".....that soothing music of the rip and curl on the pebble beaches......" I can hear it now. Oh, those pebbles, those pebbles......and they roll even now, when we are not there. Like time, forever in movement.....
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