Poetry at Sangam
Poetry at Sangam showcases poetry in English and translations as well as essays on poetics and news of new releases.
I.
A channel is a stream of water, a means of passing or conveying, a narrow range of radio frequencies. It is a small space inside which things are carried. The English Channel contains: bacteria, fish, dolphins, beeps and crackles, red mullet, islands, a railway line, travellers and vessels of all shapes and kinds. The complete replacement of the water flow through the English Channel takes about 500 days. A steep-deep blue coming and going. A sea channel, as Virginia Woolf writes, is “Made and remade continually.”
II.
In summer 2020, we prepare to cross the English Channel, journeying by car ferry from France to Great Britain. Masked, we wait in the queue. Hands disinfected, papers signed. Passports checked, we drive our car into a shuddering hold. Anchors are lifted, ropes tied. A ship horn sounds. Half asleep we sail into unstable waves. Mesdames et messieurs, bienvenue à bord. Ladies and Gentlemen welcome aboard. “And do you remember Mohammed Booma?” A asks me, as we watch the ferry leave Dieppe’s chalky shore. Our friend crossed the Channel, from Dover to Calais, drove to Morocco without stopping in 24h, caught a second ferry from the tip of Spain. I think of him often when I make this journey, he ate two dozen hard-boiled eggs on the trip, cracking each one on his steering wheel, flipping the flesh from the shell.
Ⅲ.
In the middle of the English Channel, for many years, I never know whether I am coming or going home. The vibrations and rhythms of belonging yank me back and forth, between Britain and France. As I think of this, it seems important to recognize, that in water things are felt in a different way. For example, sound waves travel five times faster in water than in air. Water sound waves don’t vibrate in the inner ear. They go straight to the skull. The English Channel—or La Manche if you are looking from the French side— has existed for 50 million years. For much of its history, it was a shallow valley, a riverine network connecting Britain and Europe. A megaflood finally divided the two landmasses. Water overflowed, and an island and a continent emerged. Water is the liquid ingredient in this story. As any cardiologist will tell you, seventy-three percent of the human heart is water.
IV.
It is six am, on the Channel ferry, “Can the sea be a bridge? Could I stay here?” my youngest daughter asks as I give her pain au lait and pour lukewarm tea from a flask. Land is a distant memory on a smudged horizon. Outside the porthole, the saltwater is a liquid joining, a moving passageway. My mind flits between grey waves. Heave and ho. “The sea is where we come from. Everyone belongs here,” her middle sister replies, as we advance, “I mean, we were all originally fish.” E.E Cummings wrote, “Its always our self we find in the sea.” Many thinkers compare the human self to water, for we shape ourselves to fit inside different containers.
V.
The Channel is the narrow arm of the Atlantic Ocean separating the southern coast of England from the northern coast of France. It tapers eastward to the North Sea. The French call it La Manche, in reference to the sleeve-like coastal outline. The word manche can be translated as sleeve or handle depending on if it is feminin or masculin. In French slang to have le manche means to have an erection, une manche a balai, (a broom stick) is a tall skinny person and faire la manche is to beg.
VI.
In July 2020, when we sail to Britain, heading for London, Sky News reports that at least 180 illegal migrants successfully travelled across the English Channel to the UK – a record day for crossings. Good Morning Britain films a small migrant boat making the dangerous journey. 25,000 people watch the clip on the YouTube Channel.
VII.
“Mesdames et Monsieurs”, they announce on the ferry, “Ladies and Gentlemen, the Duty Free shop is now open on the second floor.”
VIII.
On the subject of cross-Channel ferries my six-year old says, “I like the play-room, and you sleep really well. Sometimes when it’s sunny and mixed-up, I get a bit dizzy and my stomach hurts. In cartoons, seasick people are green. But that is weird because when you’re seasick you’re not green. In the middle of the sea” she continues, “Sometimes it feels like you’re going to bump into a rock and drown. Sometimes, I am scared.” Earth provides stability but Bachelard says that when we see by means of water, we see in depth, our sight reflects and goes beyond.
VIIII.
The English Channel is the busiest shipping area in the world, used daily by over 400 boats. The Great Storm of 1703 sank virtually all ships in the Channel, with the loss of nearly 10000 lives.Recently, Brexit meant the withdrawal of the United Kingdom from the European Union. Current research into Global insecurity claims the UK now faces rapidly evolving risks to shipping lanes, fishing grounds, illegal fishing, marine infrastructure, human trafficking, organized crime, smuggling, and terrorism. On the boat, I look for a place to plug in my phone. I’m running out of battery.
X.
A study last year showed that mercury concentrations found in 82 dolphins living in the English Channel are among the highest concentrations observed in the species. By 2050 there could be more plastic in the sea than fish.
XI.
Many nights, I dream of the sea, struggling with boats, standing on the shore. One night, I trace a line in the sand. A Rubicon that I will cross. On another night, a dolphin leaps from the waves, freezes in a sudden graceful arc. When my children are babies, I have a recurring nightmare that I lose them on cross-Channel ferries. Panicked and desperate, I charge along interminable ship decks, terrified each of my daughters has drowned. The dream lasts from when they’re born until the age of three. As I have three daughters, I calculate that I dreamed the same dream for approximately nine years. Water is a universal dream symbol for what lies beneath the surface of the skin. Freud’s subconscious. Emotions. The pull of desire. The English Channel is a mile deep. A dive into oceanic memory, from the subterranean to the celeste. I teeter at the edge of an unfathomable abyss. Time blurs in water: Past. Present. Future.
XII.
In July 2020, waves curl, beneath us mackerel swim. Through the porthole the sky is pencil grey. My mask itches on my nose. “Can we get some fresh air?” my eldest daughter asks. Outside, sea breeze whips our hair across our faces. We have left the Channel’s middle, and are nearing the edge. Our ferry approaches solid land.
My daughter looks at the approaching cliffs, to the country where her Russian father and I were born. “Mesdames et messieurs” a voice announces, “Nous sommes bientôt arrivés à notre destination.” It is July and we are on the other side.