This poem describes an unusual tide that follows an irregular rhythm of five beats, with three beats for the rising tide and two for the falling tide. As the tide retreats, it creates small sounds like voices, animals, and weather. Along the shore, the poem adds sixteenth notes resembling rain on tin roofs and thunder for the retreating tide. The rain and waves described do not seem real, instead falling on an island that is a gentle shadow, as the speaker totters on stilts before a dancing Hydra in the shallows.
This poem describes an unusual tide that follows an irregular rhythm of five beats, with three beats for the rising tide and two for the falling tide. As the tide retreats, it creates small sounds like voices, animals, and weather. Along the shore, the poem adds sixteenth notes resembling rain on tin roofs and thunder for the retreating tide. The rain and waves described do not seem real, instead falling on an island that is a gentle shadow, as the speaker totters on stilts before a dancing Hydra in the shallows.
This poem describes an unusual tide that follows an irregular rhythm of five beats, with three beats for the rising tide and two for the falling tide. As the tide retreats, it creates small sounds like voices, animals, and weather. Along the shore, the poem adds sixteenth notes resembling rain on tin roofs and thunder for the retreating tide. The rain and waves described do not seem real, instead falling on an island that is a gentle shadow, as the speaker totters on stilts before a dancing Hydra in the shallows.
an uncommon time of five beats: three for the curling upslope and two for the retreat. a falling away beset with aspirations, tiny voices, murmurings of creatures rendered small by distance or unvoiced fleeting rattles of weather. and now, here, along the shore, up another slope you add a skirmish of sixteenth notes that could be rain pelting corrugated tin, then, for the downslope, a rumbling ossia of thunder. so rain that could never be rain falls upon waves that could never be waves, on an island that is not an island but a gentling of palmate shadows. and now, out in the shallows, you totter on stilts before a Hydra on her tiptoes who has just asked you to dance. Antilles Fantastique by John Elkerr 17 x 22 Ink on paper