In The Shipping News, one of the issues explored is the devastating effect the sea can have on one's life. Jack Buggit's son, Dennis, came very close to losing his life to the sea; Jesson Buggit lost his battle with, and his life to, the sea. For centuries, many Newfoundlanders have battled with the sea for their livelihood. Unfortunately, the sea has sometimes won the battle, and men have lost their lives. The devastating effects of the sea are more deeply explored in one of my favourite poems, E. J. Pratt's Erosion (below).
It took
the sea a thousand years
A thousand
years to trace
The granite
features of this cliff,
In crag
and scarp and base
It took
the sea an hour one night,
An hour
of storm to place
The sculpture
of those granite seams,
Upon a
woman's face
Erosion shows the true power of the sea. It only takes one storm
to take a life
and forever
change many more.
Another Pratt poem, Newfoundland, (below) shows the interplay between Newfoundland people and the sea. It reflects the fact that the sea has been an integral part of Newfoundland life for centuries. The people depended on the sea for their livelihood; they also had a respect for the sea and recognized that the sea had the power to take lives.
Here the
tides flow
And here
they ebb;
Not with
that dull, unsinewed tread of waters
Held under
bonds to move
Around
unpeopled shores - -
Moon-driven
through a timeless circuit
Of invasions
and retreat;
But with
a lusty stroke of life
Pounding
at stubborn gates,
That they
might run
Within
the sluices of men's hearts,
Leap under
throb of pulse and nerve,
And teach
the sea's strong voice
To learn
the harmonies of new floods,
The peal
of cataract,
And the
soft wash of currents
Against
resilient banks,
Or the
broken rhythms from old chords
Along
dark passages
That once
were pathways of authentic fires.
Red
is the sea-kelp on the beach,
Red
as the heart's blood,
Nor
is there power in tide or sun
To
bleach its stain.
It
lies there piled thick
Above
the gulch-line.
It
is rooted in the joints of rocks,
It
is tangled around a spar,
It
covers a broken rudder,
It
is read as the heart's blood,
And
salt as tears.
Here the
winds blow,
And here
they die,
Not with
that wild, exotic rage
That vainly
sweeps untrodden shores,
But with
familiar breath
Holding
a partnership with life,
Resonant
with the hopes of spring,
Pungent
with the airs of harvest.
They call
with the silver fifes of the sea,
They breathe
with the lungs of men,
They are
one with the tides of the sea,
They are
one with the tides of the heart,
They blow
with the rising octaves of dawn,
They die
with the largo of dusk,
Their
hands are full to the overflow,
In their
right is the bread of life,
In their
left are the waters of death.
Scattered
on boom
And
rudder and weed
Are
tangles of shells;
Some
with backs of crusted bronze,
And
faces of porcelain blue,
Some
crushed by the beach stones
To
chips of jade;
And
some are spiral-cleft
Spreading
their tracery on the sand
In
the rich veining of an agate's heart;
And
others remain unscarred.
To
babble of the passing of the winds.
Here the
crags
Meet with
winds and tides --
Not with
that blind interchange
Of blow
for blow
That spills
the thunder of insentient seas;
But with
the mind that reads assault
In crouch
and leap and the quick stealth,
Stiffening
the muscles of the waves
Here they
flank the harbours,
Keeping
watch
On thresholds,
altars and the fires of home,
Or like
mastiffs
Over-zealous,
Guard
too well
Tide
and wind and crag,
Sea-weed
and sea-shell
And
broken rudder --
And
the story is told
Of
human veins and pulses,
Of
eternal pathways of fire,
Of
dreams that survive the night,
Of
doors held ajar in storms.
These are just two of Pratt's poems which explore life in Newfoundland.
There
are many
more.
Page created by
Lori-Ann Harris.
