Like rowing,
one must traverse the peaks and troughs of each wave.
Count—
first between hand and oar,
then between oar and horizon where the boat hopes to reach.
“You must seep
into the spaces,” they say;
thus epics begin.
It’s not about being original,
and has nothing to do with real battling;
just make yourself a part of it.
The story. The interpretation.
Space pushes space—
and so comes the wave.
Wave devours wave, and the sea grows.
And as the sea opens its mouth
step forward from where we stand;
perhaps there lies the ocean.
Study Joyce—
and keep in your diary.
Yet, lest you forget or go through too much chaos,
one day you must engrave the ocean upon your skin:
Clongowes is my dwelling-place
And heaven my expectation.
