"intentionality" poems - Hello Poetry

Whales were, above all else, deliberate about the pace with which they moved through the world, conscientious, perhaps to a fault, about the economy of movement required to propel such incredible mass over such enormous, empty spans of open ocean. Here is a humpback whale resting, face-down staring into the cerulean abyss, alone but singing, perhaps for enjoyment, perhaps out of boredom, or perhaps due to loneliness and longing. She twists and turns a single eye up toward the surface, her iris catching sunbeams and contracting, as she gauges the gargantuan effort she must exert in order to gain her next breath. In this case, she concludes that, yes, the effort will be worth it. But what you must know about whales is that on rare occasion, they would cast these concerns of intentionality and efficiency aside, and choose to activate the entirety of their being, from the sinews to the soul, and propel themselves, heedlessly and at top speed toward, through, and past the surface of the ocean, as though they were attempting to fully take flight, to escape, with finality, the cold confines of their known existence, the omnipresent, furrowed gaze of the void below. But invariably, and in spite of their best efforts, the whales would be pulled back downward, by forces they could not fully comprehend, sure as the tides would fall shortly after the moon passed overhead. Yes, the physical impact of colliding with the surface of the ocean would be painful for the whales, but what hurt so much more than that was having to return to the stark, lonely calculus of whether or not to keep going.

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May 22, 2021

May 22, 2021 at 11:55 AM UTC

Ira-Desmond

Whales

Whales were, above all else, deliberate about the pace with which they moved through the world, conscientious, perhaps to a fault, about the economy of movement required to propel such incredible mass over such enormous, empty spans of open ocean. Here is a humpback whale resting, face-down staring into the cerulean abyss, alone but singing, perhaps for enjoyment, perhaps out of boredom, or perhaps due to loneliness and longing. She twists and turns a single eye up toward the surface, her iris catching sunbeams and contracting, as she gauges the gargantuan effort she must exert in order to gain her next breath. In this case, she concludes that, yes, the effort will be worth it. But what you must know about whales is that on rare occasion, they would cast these concerns of intentionality and efficiency aside, and choose to activate the entirety of their being, from the sinews to the soul, and propel themselves, heedlessly and at top speed toward, through, and past the surface of the ocean, as though they were attempting to fully take flight, to escape, with finality, the cold confines of their known existence, the omnipresent, furrowed gaze of the void below. But invariably, and in spite of their best efforts, the whales would be pulled back downward, by forces they could not fully comprehend, sure as the tides would fall shortly after the moon passed overhead. Yes, the physical impact of colliding with the surface of the ocean would be painful for the whales, but what hurt so much more than that was having to return to the stark, lonely calculus of whether or not to keep going.