|Ingo the otter climbing up my grandfather's leg.|
I just couldn't resist posting this poem after last week's blog. Every verse is so powerful in imagery. I feel as if I'm there with Seamus Heaney, watching, waiting, holding my breath for one more glimpse of that beautiful creature and then ahh... the sheer joy of seeing that freshened pelt, those unique footprints on the warm stones.
The Otter by Seamus Heaney
When you plunged
The light of Tuscany wavered
And swung through the pool
From top to bottom.
I loved your wet head and smashing crawl,
Your fine swimmer's back and shoulders
Surfacing and surfacing again
This year and every year since.
I sat dry-throated on the warm stones.
You were beyond me.
The mellowed clarities, the grape-deep air
Thinned and disappointed.
Thank God for the slow loadening,
When I hold you now
We are close and deep
As the atmosphere on water.
My two hands are plumbed water.
You are my palpable, lithe
Otter of memory
In the pool of the moment,
Turning to swim on your back,
Each silent, thigh-shaking kick
Re-tilting the light,
Heaving the cool at your neck.
And suddenly you're out,
Back again, intent as ever,
Heavy and frisky in your freshened pelt,
Printing the stones.
|Ingo under my mother's pillow in Guja, East Prussia before the war.|
(Photo (C) Gottlieb Family)
—Marina Gottlieb Sarles
(c) All content and photos are the private property of the Gottlieb family, unless otherwise stated or linked, and may not be used without permission.