There is no ship quite like a book
it wanders as it may
Then takes us out amongst the waves
where gods and children play
To places far and wide we trek
chase hell's whale 'long the pole
Crest waves with Ahab na'er the cape
where gods may claim your soul
There your heart becomes a cannon
spit iron on the whale
Follow him through perdition's flame
and live to tell the tale
As the oarsmen all stagger back
cross themselves o’re the job
No hope to see another day
forlorn begin to sob
Imaginations running wild
wicked cruelty sublime
Chase your whale till you catch his tail
or till the end of time
Tate
Original poem and music
http://www.writerscafe.org/writing/aristate/669082/
May 31, 2014
May 31, 2014 at 10:56 PM UTC
There is no ship quite like a book
it wanders as it may
Then takes us out amongst the waves
where gods and children play
To places far and wide we trek
chase hell's whale 'long the pole
Crest waves with Ahab na'er the cape
where gods may claim your soul
There your heart becomes a cannon
spit iron on the whale
Follow him through perdition's flame
and live to tell the tale
As the oarsmen all stagger back
cross themselves o’re the job
No hope to see another day
forlorn begin to sob
Imaginations running wild
wicked cruelty sublime
Chase your whale till you catch his tail
or till the end of time
Tate
Original poem and music
http://www.writerscafe.org/writing/aristate/669082/
Books are the windows to the world. But more than that they traverse time itself. As they take you to Melviles time of Moby **** They inspire. More than that they create the world of imagination. For Ahab the White Whale was nothing to be so idealised, rather it was "...all the subtle demonisms of life and thought; all evil, to crazy Ahab, were visibly personified, and made practically assailable in Moby-Dick. He piled upon the whale's white **** the sum of all the general rage and hate felt by his whole race from Adam down; and then, as if his chest had been a mortar, he burst his hot heart's shell upon it."
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