Sep 2013
III
Out of the corner of my eye
I watch our rosin-graced bows
Rotate to our rhythm
Our bowties are fresh and
Pressed
Our vests clean and buttoned
I smile at Fred, who
Turns to grin at Hartley
What fine folk
Our wooden bridges will greet
Tonight
We are a dream
Hartley directing us like a grand symphony
We are voices to keep thoughts off of
The maiming waves
The melancholy miasma of
Starlight
Glints on our strings
People screaming, bellowing,
Fighting
But we play on, men
We play on.
Out of the corner of my eye
I watch our rosin-graced bows
Rotate to our rhythm
Our bowties are fresh and
Pressed
Our vests clean and buttoned
I smile at Fred, who
Turns to grin at Hartley
What fine folk
Our wooden bridges will greet
Tonight
We are a dream
Hartley directing us like a grand symphony
We are voices to keep thoughts off of
The maiming waves
The melancholy miasma of
Starlight
Glints on our strings
People screaming, bellowing,
Fighting
But we play on, men
We play on.
From a series of poems told from the perspective of the victims and survivors of the Titanic tragedy. This is from the perspective of Wallace Henry Hartley, bandleader on the Titanic.
