The Sea is an anthology of poems published by Rebel Poetry for the RNLI Skerries. Thank you to the following poets who contributed to this book;

 

Michael D.Higgins, Gene Barry, Anne Irwin, Liz Quirke, Harry Gallagher, Michele Vassal-Ring, John Saunders, Knute Skinner, Adam Wyeth, Terry McDonagh, Felicia McCarthy, Matthew Geden, Roy Moller, Mike Gallagher, John Liddy, Breda Wall Ryan, Gerry Hanberry, Brian Kirk, Annette Skade, Patrick Deeley, Oonah V. Joslin, Michael Corrigan, Angela Carr, David Butler, Enda Coyle-Greene, Christine Hammond, Gearldine Corr, Seamus Cashman, Darren Donohue, Arthur Broomfield, Petra Vergunst, Fred Johnston, Res JFB, Robert Hilton, Ann Marie Foley, Frank Murphy, Stephanie Conn, Bob Beagrie, Karen Jane Cannon, Lesley Quayle, Pippa Little, George Harding, Daniel Wade, Ellie Rose McKee, Louise Hislop, Lauren Byrne, Michael Ray, Brendan McCormack, P.J. Reed, Joe Cushnan,   Barry Charman, Polly Munnelly, John Mee, Afric McGlinchey, Elaine Feeney, Miceál Kearney, Eleanor Hooker, SarahMcKenna and Caroline Gill.

 

The Sea is available to purchase at a number of Independent Bookstores nationwide. The Sea also is available for purchase via thesea.rnli@gmail.com.

 

Please email thesea.rnli@gmail.com directly for copies of this book. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In The Beginning 1

 

In the beginning was the Word

But the Word was not the beginning.

When the light faded

On the gestures of order

Fired at unbroken time

The pieces descending

Into darkness

Did not arrange themselves

Except in arbitrary shape.

 

Nor was the beginning out of order.

Nor was the word that sought order the beginning.

The word was an arbitrary shape

Beyond gaze and breath.

It was in glorious darkness

Out of Chaos

The Word came.

 

That first scream of need

Is the beginning

Of a long surrender

That is not easily borne.

The struggle for a recovered silence

Will never be complete.

That look that precedes the word

Will stay to haunt.

The breath that interceded

Will break forth at times

In a great scream of grief or love.

 

And, if in weakness

We polish the wild words

To make a prayerful set of beads

From the jagged edges of stony times,

Or cry out on a Sunday shadow sated,

Then sing our souls

Not for the fading of the light

Nor yet the ebbing sea.

Through tears,

It is a worn face.

Not white

But ebony,

We seek

Calling from the darkness

Before the Word

And the false promise of order.

 

The salt of tears

Is a deposit in memory

Of our sea beginnings.

There is lodged

The long sigh

Of all our time

Lost in endless space.

 

 

Michael D. Higgins

©Rebel Poetry Ireland