"The Clock Is Still" by Alessio Zanelli

The Clock Is Still

Alessio Zanelli 

So,

when 

we used 

to go looking

for pebbles—for

hours in the brackish 

air—the sun didn’t burn 

our skin: the foreshore was

right where we wanted to be, a 

tongue of soft ground—allurement 

to our strides—the sea now takes, now 

leaves. To infinity. And although the hands 

were moving, it was as if they had always been

at rest, molten away in the dazzle of reverberations. 

Each shell—the most beautiful find, each sighting on the

horizon—the most grandiose dream, each flap of wings over 

the swells—the longest voyage. These days it’s difficult to recall, 

even imagine: the sea no longer brings wonder, but the pungency of 

the salt dissolved in it; no more time is left to wait for the wave, abandon 

ourselves, be lost in the squiggles of the foam. All is clamor—chaos unleashed 

after long constraint—like the splashes of beachcombers against the reef. Indeed the 

hands are rushing now, earsplitting like the roar from the surge: they run, they run like 

mad while we look on, because we can’t slow down their turning. We 

know it inside better every day: everything slips off faster than we 

would, and never does the mechanism jam for all the sand we 

may pick up from the beach and let among the gears. 

To our eyes, however, the clock is still. Forever.

Poet’s Notes: I really don’t know why I felt the urge to make this one a concrete poem, visually shaped like a sailboat. Maybe it symbolizes our voyage through time like that of a boat across the ocean? The moment we set sail, the distance from the shore we’ve left gets ever longer, as the distance from the shore where we’ll finally land gets ever shorter. That’s the inexorability of time. We’d like to remain children forever, playing with sand and foam on the beach.  However, we’re forced to travel, and all voyages come to an end. The clock can stay still only in our minds.

Editor’s Note:  I enjoy the way Alessio plays with time and paints with words here and made the editorial decision to allow the shape of the poem to serve as its own illustration.