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
