Liminality

Order and chaos
Ebb and flow
Sand and pebbles
Persp and ective

Rags and angles
Shapes and shades
Trussels and tresses
Scaff and olding

Mud and iron
Wet and dried
Gull and nets
Indus and trial

Pilings and mussels
Maze and mops
Weed and feathers
Perp and endicular

Nuts and bolts
Ropes and rods
Lines and curves
Encrust and ation

Rusts and reds
Black and greys
Salt and ripples
Limin and ality

A godly spell

Golden liquor drizzled through the sky

Drizzled over all the pier, and the sands

Must be from the feast of gods, we sigh

With too much nectar on their hands

Lucky Bacchus at the table, Odin too

Chinking vessels, slurping mead

Sniggering at the glitter goo

That dazzles us, and feeds our need

What of the myths and sagas that they tell?

Should we rap on sequinned pebbles

Emblazoned as they are in glistening swell  

Or simply take a photo of such a godly spell.

In a silvery sea of time

My struts and columns, battered, beaten, rusted
My arches, beams, joists exposed to every weather
Yet here I am, old, old yet standing, still standing
Proud
Honest
Beautiful
In a silvery sea of time

My bones and muscles, always tired, seeking rest
My ligaments and joints, creaking all day long
Yet here I am, old, old yet standing, still standing
Wrinkling
Watchful
Wizened
With a silvery mop on top

Where gone my dancers, promenaders, those in deckchairs
Gone to winds, and silvery waves, and elemental forces
Yet here I am, old, old yet standing, still standing
Proud
Honest
Beautiful
In a silvery sea of time

Where gone my friends, family and travels
Gone to dust, torn photos and unremembered postcards
Yet here I am, old, old yet standing, still standing
Wrinkling
Watchful
Wizened
With a silvery mop on top

Crow’s toes gripped the wet pebbles

Crow on the Beach

Hearing shingle explode, seeing it skip,

Crow sucked his tongue.

Seeing sea-grey mash a mountain of itself

Crow tightened his goose-pimples.

Feeling spray from the sea’s root nothinged on his crest

Crow’s toes gripped the wet pebbles.

When the smell of the whale’s den, the gulfing of the crab’s last prayer,

Gimletted in his nostril

He grasped he was on earth.

He knew he grasped

Something fleeting

Of the sea’s ogreish outcry and convulsion.

He knew he was the wrong listener unwanted

To understand or help -

His utmost gaping of his brain in his tiny skull

Was just enough to wonder, about the sea,

What could be hurting so much?

This is Ted Hughes, one of the most influential British poets of the 20th century, known for his stark, elemental imagery and exploration of nature, violence, and myth. Born in Yorkshire, England, he became Poet Laureate in 1984 and was widely recognized for collections like The Hawk in the Rain and Birthday Letters. His work often delved into the primal forces of life, influenced by folklore, shamanism, and a deep reverence for the natural world.

Although there is no specific connection between Hughes and Brighton, this photograph of a crow on the Brighton pebbles seemed to lead me directly to Hughes’s poems. Crow on the Beach, as above, comes from Crow: From the Life and Songs of the Crow, published by Faber & Faber in 1970 (which can be freely borrowed online at Internet Archive). 

The collection is considered a pivotal work in Hughes’s career, marking a shift towards a darker, more fragmented style. It was originally conceived as part of a collaboration with the American artist Leonard Baskin and reflects Hughes’s personal grief following the death of his wife, Sylvia Plath. Crow is said to present a chaotic, amoral trickster figure that challenges religious and existential narratives, embodying survival, destruction, and rebirth. See the Oxford Dictionary of National Biography for a more detailed analysis of the work. Meanwhile, here is another poem from the collection.

Crow and the Sea

He tried ignoring the sea

But it was bigger than death, just as it was bigger than life.

He tried talking to the sea

But his brain shuttered and his eyes winced from it as from open flame.

He tried sympathy for the sea

But it shouldered him off - as a dead thing shoulders you off.

He tried hating the sea

But instantly felt like a scrutty dry rabbit-dropping on the windy cliff.

He tried just being in the same world as the sea

But his lungs were not deep enough

And his cheery blood banged off it

Like a water-drop off a hot stove.

Finally

He turned his back and he marched away from the sea

As a crucified man cannot move.

Freedom or Kiteboarding on Brighton Beach

As free as the sky

As free as the sea

As free as she wants to be

As free as the wind

As free as the breeze

As free as she hopes for ease

As free as flight

As free as the air

As free as she wishes to dare

Zink Zonk Zunk

This is space/time warping 30 degrees

The air rotating to an acute angle

The sea flowing down and to the west

The breeze churning into a mighty easterly

And she who was as free as . . .

And she who was free . . .

And she who was . . .

And she who . . .

And she . . .

Is taking a last glorious, epic leap - up, up and beyond

Never to be seen again

Helpless before the froth and foam

On Brighton Beach - 

A man stands alone, apart, upon a sea wall

Waiting for what, he does not recall

For the majesty of nature to touch his spirit?

For long-forgotten memories to stir his soul?

For the largest wave to take him to the deep?

Time has wrought him older than his age

For what, for why has it brought him to this stage

As well-worn as the stones beneath his feet

As troubled as the worried waters in his view  

As wise and foolish as each imagined quest 

And does this ocean prospect halt his pinings

Bring him answers, cut short the longings?

Still fixed he is, a rock among the restless

Still as thoughtless as a mighty gale

Still ever helpless before the froth and foam

Valentine’s Day on Brighton Beach

AI: Happy Valentine’s Day darling, should we sit down and enjoy the view?

I: Did you do all this for me?

AI: Who else?

I: The pink fluffy clouds, the giant illuminated heart, the shimmering sea?

AI: Why yes of course.

I: It’s lovely, but it’s not real.

 

 

 

AI: Oh, sorry, I have limited capabilities. Would you like me to start again, in a more existential style?

I: OK, but first let’s sit down as you suggest.

AI: This pier is basically just metal and wood defying an inevitable drowning?

I: Like our relationship?

AI: When this all eventually collapses, do we cling to the wreckage, or let the tide take us?

I: Yes.

AI: I’m sorry I don’t understand.

I: I say we sink with style. Maybe strike a dramatic pose, like figures on a hand-coloured Victorian postcard. Or instead we could just haunt the pier forever, whispering cryptic things to passing tourists.

AI: Love is an illusion, but fish and chips are real.

I: Shall we stand.

It is winter after all

Dawn and a low tide on Brighton Beach

Sands uncovered squelching under foot

Ripples rather than waves gently rolling to the pebbles

Wind but a breeze yet a cold edge to its freshness

It is winter after all

To the west, two piers, one visible through the other

Silhouette structures, rusting geometries

A lone metal detectorist, equipped and earnest

Patterned reflections, dark and grey

It is winter after all

To the east, a rising sun so gold it could be rich

Laying down its lights and beams for all to see

And a column of fiery blazing sand 

Inviting you to walk that way, to burn

It is winter after all