The Horse from Hell
(Elegy for My Grandfather
Who Painted the Sea & Horses)

A dream of fantastic horses
galloping out of the sea,
the sea itself a dream,
a dream of green on green,
an age of indolence
where one-celled animals
blossom, once more, into limbs,
brains, pounding hooves,
out of the terrible innocence
of the waves.

Venice on the crest
of hell's typhoon,
sunami of my dreams
when, all at once,
I wake at three a.m.
in a tidal wave of love & sleeplessness,
anxiety & dread . . .

Up from the dream,
up on the shining white
ledge of dread--
I dredge the deep
for proof that we do not die,
for proof that love
is a seawall against despair,
& find only
the one-celled dreams
dividing & dividing
as in the primal light.

O my grandfather,
you who painted the sea
so obsessively,
you who painted horses
galloping, galloping
out of the sea--
go now,
ride on the bare back
of the unsaddled,
unsaddleable horse
who would take you
straight to hell.

Gallop on the back
of all my nightmares;
dance in the foam
in a riot of hooves
& let the devil paint you
with his sea-green brush;
let him take you
into the waves at last,
until you fall,
chiming forever,
through the seaweed bells,
lost like the horses of San Marco,
but not for good.

Down through the hulls
of gelatinous fish,
down through the foamless foam
which coats your bones,
down through the undersea green
which changes your flesh
into pure pigment,
grinding your eyes down
to the essential cobalt blue.

Let the bones of my poems
support what is left of you--
ashes & nightmares,
canvasses half-finished & fading worksheets.

O my grandfather,
as you die,
a poem forms on my lips,
as foam forms
on the ocean's morning mouth,
& I sing in honor of the sea & you--

the sea who defies all paintings
& all poems
& you
who defy
the sea.

© Erica Mann Jong

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