I discovered this old poem, High Board, when I was sifting through some half-forgotten scribblings a few days ago.
Finding it was like rediscovering a faded photograph or hearing a piece of nostalgic music: it instantly transported me back in time to the circumstances that prevailed in my life when I wrote it.
Finding it was like rediscovering a faded photograph or hearing a piece of nostalgic music: it instantly transported me back in time to the circumstances that prevailed in my life when I wrote it.
Often, when faced with fearsome challenges, the only option is to make a decision based on instinct and, for better or worse, act on it.
HIGH BOARD
Beneath his feet the board seems live,
responsive to his weight, his step,
and looking down, so far beneath,
the water, like a massive eye,
ice-cold, unblinking, ocean blue,
stares back at him, so small, so high:
a diver, fragile as a bird,
fast-breathing, poised, to fall or fly
in to an eagerness of air
that courses through his wayward hair.
He pivots on the high board then
and launches out in salty wind,
through years of childhood flown away
like voices calling from below,
into some strangeness that begins
with laughter but may end in tears.
Beneath his feet the board seems live,
responsive to his weight, his step,
and looking down, so far beneath,
the water, like a massive eye,
ice-cold, unblinking, ocean blue,
stares back at him, so small, so high:
a diver, fragile as a bird,
fast-breathing, poised, to fall or fly
in to an eagerness of air
that courses through his wayward hair.
He pivots on the high board then
and launches out in salty wind,
through years of childhood flown away
like voices calling from below,
into some strangeness that begins
with laughter but may end in tears.
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