by Arthur Ginsberg
To enter the world of the deep
is a return to the birthing pool–
a palette of colors evanescent
as cuttlefish, as you descend,
letting nitrogen seep into
your bloodstream, the crunch
of coral in the beaks of parrotfish
like a stone-grinder in your ears.
Gazing up, an incarnadine bloom
of algae tints the sea blood-red,
splits the sun into rainbows.
Silky sharks sleek as torpedoes
patrol the perimeter of your drift–
life itself everywhere, bracketed
by death. I am of this place, yet
apart from it, stunned by beauty
and terror. I am a man riding
on the upwelling and downwelling
currents, far from the dive boat
that dropped me into this kingdom,
past mountains and abyssal valleys,
caves and tunnels, gleaming walls
encrusted with orange Tubastraea.
My air has run out; I must surface
a short distance from being swept
by booming waves onto Darwin’s rock.
The faint sound of a motorboat
resuscitates hope, comes to pluck me
like a flounder out of the water,
that I might breathe sweet air
awhile longer, before I must give back
what has been given from this glorious
unknowable cradle. Reflecting back,
this odyssey may have been an apparition
as I lie on a cold, metal backboard, sirens
wailing in my ears, a crushing weight
bearing down upon my chest.
Arthur Ginsberg is a neurologist and poet from Seattle who has studied with Galway Kinnell, Marvin Bell, Dorianne Laux, and Sandra Alcosser. He holds an MFA from Pacific University. He teaches a class on the brain and poetry in the Honors program at the University of Washington. His books include Faith is the Next Breath, The Anatomist, Brain Works, Holy the Body, and Piercing the Long Night. Anthologies include Blood and Bone and Primary Care. He is married and has four grandchildren, skis, and does underwater photography.
Hawaii Pacific Review 