October 22, 2026

what is this longing to be the sea

or go off to sea?

It is not just mine.

I keep hearing the same words

in different guises.

what is this quickening in the body

at the side of the sea?

what is the remembering?

what is the wanting?

I keep wanting to make it into destiny or destination or action, but maybe this is the restlessness that John O'Donohue speaks of that keeps us going, the vitality that keeps us vital.

Every day, may I remember that we come from such mystery and return to such mystery.

Would such an everyday sense of wonder put things in their appointed place?

Every day, the landscape remembers this origin.

Could I not as well?

What is the seeking in landscape?

What is the feeling?

What is the cleaving?

What is the quickening?

I gave all my longing names and purposes.

go there, do this but

at the end

I'm left

with the same feeling that does not feel sated

and I think it will never be

at least not in this body

does this quickening go with us beyond the body?

afterwards, do we return to the vast of dark

the pale of stars?

Do we make another universe, another galaxy?

waiting for a new sun to rise

****

we are all living the same

poem I used to want

mine to be different

and it is

whether i want

it or not

but there is

a beauty in the echo

all these longings

at the side of the sea

in a poem I just read

a fellow read

another poet

out loud

and I thought

of how I would read

Li Po

the forge

ringing down

the valley

in the mesa

i once loved

and the same long

journey

sang to me

this fellow wrote of the

mountains he

had known for

some sixty

years now

returning to them

in the autumn

for insight

to know this

or that

and yes

he had learned

he had gleaned

but he ended

in the love

of mystery

and that

made me smile

say adaab

bow

and then and there

write this:

we are all living the

same poem

and though

I want mine

to be different

the echo

is also

good

and will suffice

***

in solidarity

Shebana

write me at info@shebanacoelho.com

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Shebana Coelho

"On a morning, sharp with winter, fresh with cold, I rise and walk on mesa paths,
red with longing-mine, red with loving-mine (from Creed)"

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