Lindsey Bellosa lives in Syracuse, NY. She has an MA in Writing from the National University of Ireland, Galway and has poems published in both Irish and American journals: most recently The Comstock Review, IthacaLit, The Lake and Nine Mile Press. She has won awards for poetry in the Red Poppy Review summer poetry competition and the CNY Pen Women competition. Her first chapbook, The Hunger, was published with Willet Press in 2014.
It shines this morning
though you know it has been going all night;
swells kick up, fall away, swallow.
It is brimming at the window.
A fresh day, but not too fresh
for a boat. Scatter of waves.
We’ll get out today- luck, weather.
The boatman fields calls from islanders
wanting plans, certainty. He offers none.
Watch the skies, check the forecasts.
In the morning, everyone looks out:
brimming blue with hope.
Today is a day for going out. Stock up for days
when the swell rises to treacherous heights,
and sea scatters its furious depths at your window,
and plans dissipate, like mist clouding the mainland.
“Return to Galway”
Swimming through time,
I make my way to the Claddagh
familiar at corners of my memory.
My feet are here again;
they pad the cobbled streets:
a current we rushed through
then. I am finding that time again;
beginning to get lost in it. Someone
stops me; I’ve dropped a book.
I remember: this is what you once
loved about me. The way I was always
lost in another world, another time—
I am not that girl anymore. I swim
through a crowd of blue-shirted schoolboys
and think of our sons.
This world, once so familiar, is all
still here! Lost in it, I follow
imaginary channels of time.
“Early Morning Run: Clare Island”
Rain pimples the beach—
shivers of morning light.
Sea washes over rocks,
like bodies turning in sleep.
The sea is time. It whittles us
down to the bare rock
of what we need—
what is it? Nothing lasts.
Words drain into empty air.
They hiss, fizz of waves.
Fingers of sea grasp at land,
retract, then grasp again.
I am running against wind,
sharp from the sea, pushing
like a hand. I am compelled
to go on; distance must be covered.
This is the only thing to do.
Eyes bore into the landscape:
looking and looking ahead.
We want to know all the answers.
This morning, I begin to suspect
there are none. There is only the erosion
of everything—houses, remains of boats.
This moment is relevant.
The rest of the world drowns
in the sea. Cliffs tumble into
the gaping shrine of water,
as if they were never there at all.
“The Sea’s Song”
Curled like a snail in your ear,
collapsing over dreams,
it leaves treasures on your shore:
shells, lobster pots, bones—
careless what it heaves.
Collect them. Mull over their use,
history: shards of thoughts,
lost times. Everything we lose
comes back in sleep’s undertones—
dreams, covered in moss.
In the middle of the dance floor,
the youngest Pinder boy
jumps, and bats a purple balloon
which patiently floats, aloft with light.
But he was only a baby! Mustn’t
that be the oldest Pinder boy?
No. The oldest Pinder boy
sips beer by the bar, in a crisp
purple shirt. Incredulous, I watch
the boy and the balloon, and the light.
Time is a purple balloon.
We are all just dancing under it,
trying to keep it suspended.
Walking the edge of the sea,
wet as the skin of a whale,
the world’s gums reveal.
Waves are swallowing;
belly of the sea calls: depths,
swivels of unknown tails.
White din— possibilities
shock our feet. Beauties glitter;
the world is a predator.
Our eyes can’t swallow it, any more
than we can grasp death. Like water,
slipping, we lose each moment.
Happiness is simply marveling
at the world, at ourselves,
at the way the ocean unfurls.