There is rain in me
running down, running down, trickling
away from memory.
There is ocean in me
swaying, swaying O, so deep
so fathomlessly black
and spurting suddenly up, snow-white, like snow-leapords rearing
high and clawing with rage at the cliffs of the soul
then disappearing back with a hiss
of eternal salt rage; angry is old ocean within man.
It's interesting how there is no 'an' before 'old ocean', and how he develops his ideas through repetition and addition with each repetition, like 'swaying, swaying O,' and 'snow-white, like snow-leapords'.
His work may seem uncomplicated compared to some other poets, at least if looking at choice of words, but the way he develops his images, building upon them (from 'rain', we grow to meet the 'ocean') as if you are in his thoughts - thoughts which are natural, which flow with a natural rhythm. Personally, I adore this, and I put aside my qualms over our 'soul', over the use of the word 'rage' (it seems so recurrent in older poetry!), to simply enjoy it.