"rowers" poems - Hello Poetry

I wonder why you want to row When there are just so many terms to know Before you get in the boat and place an oar in the water, Before you take a single stroke don’t think you ought to Remind yourself of what they are, these parts and pieces, Actions and orders that rowers use (but poets don’t) So forgive me if I leave some out. Let’s take a look at the boat (or rather the shell): The seat you sit on, slides, backstop, shoes and riggers. The skeg that stabilizes the shell, shoulder, saxboard, and pogies. The top-nut that keeps the rowlock in place, swivel, stretcher and rollers. Now for the oar (or rather the scull): There’s the Spoon blade, the Macon blade, Smoothie or Tulip. Ready (or not) for the stroke you take ? An Airstroke (in the air) , backsplash, backwater, or body stroke, Go on bury the blade, check the cover, but don’t catch a crab! Mind out for the drunken spider, watch the feather and the finish, Inside hand, outside hand, hands away, miss the water, Leg back, lie back, pause the paddling, watch the pitch, Release and recover, don’t shoot your slide, Swing the stroke rate, and space those puddles. Careful there’s no skying, and absolutely no washing out. Ready for a repecharge? Or perhaps you’d prefer an egg-beater? Ask the *** to call a flutter. Easy oars Hold her hard Ship oars One foot up & out Waist, ready, up Shoulders, ready, up Way enough!

0

Feb 7, 2013

Feb 7, 2013 at 2:14 AM UTC

nigel-morgan

A Poet's Guide to Rowing

I wonder why you want to row When there are just so many terms to know Before you get in the boat and place an oar in the water, Before you take a single stroke don’t think you ought to Remind yourself of what they are, these parts and pieces, Actions and orders that rowers use (but poets don’t) So forgive me if I leave some out. Let’s take a look at the boat (or rather the shell): The seat you sit on, slides, backstop, shoes and riggers. The skeg that stabilizes the shell, shoulder, saxboard, and pogies. The top-nut that keeps the rowlock in place, swivel, stretcher and rollers. Now for the oar (or rather the scull): There’s the Spoon blade, the Macon blade, Smoothie or Tulip. Ready (or not) for the stroke you take ? An Airstroke (in the air) , backsplash, backwater, or body stroke, Go on bury the blade, check the cover, but don’t catch a crab! Mind out for the drunken spider, watch the feather and the finish, Inside hand, outside hand, hands away, miss the water, Leg back, lie back, pause the paddling, watch the pitch, Release and recover, don’t shoot your slide, Swing the stroke rate, and space those puddles. Careful there’s no skying, and absolutely no washing out. Ready for a repecharge? Or perhaps you’d prefer an egg-beater? Ask the *** to call a flutter. Easy oars Hold her hard Ship oars One foot up & out Waist, ready, up Shoulders, ready, up Way enough!

44

"Swing is the mythical moment in rowing. When the energy an oarsman puts into the boat seems to perfectly propel the hull forward, when the crew moves in unison and the boat slides over the water, when the output seems to generate more energy and a grueling pace seems infinitely sustainable, a boat and the rowers aboard feel "swing." Swing is trust. Trust that you can do your own and the boat will fly because of everyone. The moment of swing is the moment seared into the memory; a moment to be relived in recollection." Swing I know. Swing is when my living words fall and flow so fast, they complain, to me, Keep up, Keep up! We are in unison in a moment, forever sustainable, forever lived, and forever relived, a myth created, a recollection collected and preserved, singing: Swing low, sweet poet, Comin' for to carry us home; Swing low, sweet poet, Comin' for to carry us home.

0

Jan 4, 2014

Jan 4, 2014 at 12:33 AM UTC

nat-lipstadt

Swing I Know

"Swing is the mythical moment in rowing. When the energy an oarsman puts into the boat seems to perfectly propel the hull forward, when the crew moves in unison and the boat slides over the water, when the output seems to generate more energy and a grueling pace seems infinitely sustainable, a boat and the rowers aboard feel "swing." Swing is trust. Trust that you can do your own and the boat will fly because of everyone. The moment of swing is the moment seared into the memory; a moment to be relived in recollection." Swing I know. Swing is when my living words fall and flow so fast, they complain, to me, Keep up, Keep up! We are in unison in a moment, forever sustainable, forever lived, and forever relived, a myth created, a recollection collected and preserved, singing: Swing low, sweet poet, Comin' for to carry us home; Swing low, sweet poet, Comin' for to carry us home.

19

Filling up, wide eyed, breathing deep Avoiding the spillage, the jerking motion Rowers giving elbow grease to churn out sobs Of substance, grandiose design to sorrow Bold, emblazoned tears of texture, relay Racing to the jawline finish, backup tissue Business flourishing, mopping up the fast flow Red eye fostering their talents with expertise Glooping globules on rain dance alert, dancing The tango, the rumba, the belly dance parade Of unchained dam busting, snot ravaging Sodden and damp, choking its route outta here All cryed out, on empty, exhaustion reigns, eyelids Closing the stop tap to the off position, rearranging Priorities to sleep mode, sinking down into sprung Heaven, resting heavy lashes to bed, curling up To while away the hours, silencing the alarm Of solitude and inner turmoil, resting the think Tank, cells charmed habitat of hybernation Booked and paid for, down payment secured

0

Sep 5, 2012

Sep 5, 2012 at 3:38 PM UTC

laura-susan-smith

Telltale tears

Filling up, wide eyed, breathing deep Avoiding the spillage, the jerking motion Rowers giving elbow grease to churn out sobs Of substance, grandiose design to sorrow Bold, emblazoned tears of texture, relay Racing to the jawline finish, backup tissue Business flourishing, mopping up the fast flow Red eye fostering their talents with expertise Glooping globules on rain dance alert, dancing The tango, the rumba, the belly dance parade Of unchained dam busting, snot ravaging Sodden and damp, choking its route outta here All cryed out, on empty, exhaustion reigns, eyelids Closing the stop tap to the off position, rearranging Priorities to sleep mode, sinking down into sprung Heaven, resting heavy lashes to bed, curling up To while away the hours, silencing the alarm Of solitude and inner turmoil, resting the think Tank, cells charmed habitat of hybernation Booked and paid for, down payment secured

20

There's some pain in this. There's some growing up and moving on. There's letting life go. There's endless cyclical comparison, I want to be like you, I don't want to be like you. Here at the edge of the future there's fear so thick you can touch it. There's a life borrowed. A bed borrowed. Friends. A bathroom, a towel, toothpaste. There's a river and a racecourse and rowers and jealousy biting at the bone. Luck in sprinkles and saturation. There's meeting the boyfriend, the housemates, the puzzle pieces of the past and the potential. Somewhere there's regret. Of not being good enough, smart enough, rich enough, pretty enough, skinny enough. There's some missing home and some glad to get away. A deep breath and a scuba dive into a life that was only an expanse of water in the distance. There's some letting me in, some sharing of stories, some secrets kept. There's recollection, backward pedaling, basking in past experience in the invisible, unbearable weight of the years that brought us here. Names remembered. Nights we'd rather forget. There's a newness brewing, promises of something else beyond this, just around the weeks that hold us back. This year, plus this year plus these hours equals a key, opening doors, company cars and apartments. There's a sinking. Right back to sixteen, to sleepovers and sleeplessness. Look at us. We've wound our way here. There's pride. We made it from there to here, from somewhere to somewhere else.

0

Jun 6, 2021

Jun 6, 2021 at 12:48 PM UTC

evelynrose

Durham / For Phoebe

There's some pain in this. There's some growing up and moving on. There's letting life go. There's endless cyclical comparison, I want to be like you, I don't want to be like you. Here at the edge of the future there's fear so thick you can touch it. There's a life borrowed. A bed borrowed. Friends. A bathroom, a towel, toothpaste. There's a river and a racecourse and rowers and jealousy biting at the bone. Luck in sprinkles and saturation. There's meeting the boyfriend, the housemates, the puzzle pieces of the past and the potential. Somewhere there's regret. Of not being good enough, smart enough, rich enough, pretty enough, skinny enough. There's some missing home and some glad to get away. A deep breath and a scuba dive into a life that was only an expanse of water in the distance. There's some letting me in, some sharing of stories, some secrets kept. There's recollection, backward pedaling, basking in past experience in the invisible, unbearable weight of the years that brought us here. Names remembered. Nights we'd rather forget. There's a newness brewing, promises of something else beyond this, just around the weeks that hold us back. This year, plus this year plus these hours equals a key, opening doors, company cars and apartments. There's a sinking. Right back to sixteen, to sleepovers and sleeplessness. Look at us. We've wound our way here. There's pride. We made it from there to here, from somewhere to somewhere else.

15

dragons in my dreams drag queens on my streets where was I to hide? falling through toxic clouds of atomic belched aphorisms holding my nose ‘til my lungs screamed primal screams that nobody ever heard with their ears stopped like the rowers of Ulysses while he listened to the sirens I heard them too, I heard them, I HEARD them faintly, like the whiffed spread of black buzzards’ wings before the **** but the sirens have beards, those wily wenches and smell of cat **** naked enough to have me covet what they are not I want them, I need them for I don’t know what bliss is bliss, bliss, bliss is that what I sought? is that what sages taught? when they had me kneel and put a wreath upon my head told me to chant, silently, inwardly told me there was no shortage of truth I heard them, cherished every word, no matter how absurd because I thought they could help me fly but then I choked on the smoke from their farted anointed flames that filled the sky I was told was blue it was not only me to whom they lied who would not fall prey to their fiery shafts? but when I awoke, they were not there and all that was left in the waking world were the scabbed burns they left on my soul the dying crownless queens who roamed the oily streets the stench in my flaring nostrils and the bit in my teeth no chariot to fly above those **** filled clouds that would rain vain vapid truth on me for the rest of my unholy days… the rest of my unholy days

0

Sep 24, 2012

Sep 24, 2012 at 10:02 PM UTC

spysgrandson

bad trip

dragons in my dreams drag queens on my streets where was I to hide? falling through toxic clouds of atomic belched aphorisms holding my nose ‘til my lungs screamed primal screams that nobody ever heard with their ears stopped like the rowers of Ulysses while he listened to the sirens I heard them too, I heard them, I HEARD them faintly, like the whiffed spread of black buzzards’ wings before the **** but the sirens have beards, those wily wenches and smell of cat **** naked enough to have me covet what they are not I want them, I need them for I don’t know what bliss is bliss, bliss, bliss is that what I sought? is that what sages taught? when they had me kneel and put a wreath upon my head told me to chant, silently, inwardly told me there was no shortage of truth I heard them, cherished every word, no matter how absurd because I thought they could help me fly but then I choked on the smoke from their farted anointed flames that filled the sky I was told was blue it was not only me to whom they lied who would not fall prey to their fiery shafts? but when I awoke, they were not there and all that was left in the waking world were the scabbed burns they left on my soul the dying crownless queens who roamed the oily streets the stench in my flaring nostrils and the bit in my teeth no chariot to fly above those **** filled clouds that would rain vain vapid truth on me for the rest of my unholy days… the rest of my unholy days

49

The Darkness Wishes us Be the rowers On the Sea of Death Destruction Hate Whipped to fasten the pace Row Row Row This sea of the deceased Skulls, Splinter Spines , Severed With each oar that hits Upon this ocean of blood Darkness steers This boat of the Dead Condemned, For what was life, They search shores To host the darkness For it to spread Death Destruction Hate It isn't where, Its when, Will this disease, Land upon our shores Because light is becoming dimmer, And Darkness is rowing Harder to our shores

0

Sep 15, 2014

Sep 15, 2014 at 5:54 PM UTC

poetic-t

Darkness Rows Upon Our Shores

The Darkness Wishes us Be the rowers On the Sea of Death Destruction Hate Whipped to fasten the pace Row Row Row This sea of the deceased Skulls, Splinter Spines , Severed With each oar that hits Upon this ocean of blood Darkness steers This boat of the Dead Condemned, For what was life, They search shores To host the darkness For it to spread Death Destruction Hate It isn't where, Its when, Will this disease, Land upon our shores Because light is becoming dimmer, And Darkness is rowing Harder to our shores

36

Somewhere beyond the deep is a place to which I journey when I am asleep. This place is neither cold nor hot, big nor small, near nor far, beneath the stars. It is a place to which I go when I must run far, far away. Far, far away. Away from the circus, away from the fear. Away from the chaos, away from the tears. This place is my beckoning, my caller, my finder. My reminder that everything is alright in the end. My haven. My truest and dearest friend. The house by the lake was nestled among the woods. A crack in the winding road, red and white and quiet. Its windows reflected the sparkling stream. Like crystals dancing in the midst of a dream. The sounds are loud and soft all at once. Chickens, rowers, fishermen. Silence, wind, sunlight lapping at the shore. I close my eyes to see it now. How bright it is in my mind's eye. Hello, my friend. I'll be back again. With water so blue, the lake I knew.

0

Aug 2, 2020

Aug 2, 2020 at 7:13 PM UTC

GraceWrites

The Lake I Knew

Somewhere beyond the deep is a place to which I journey when I am asleep. This place is neither cold nor hot, big nor small, near nor far, beneath the stars. It is a place to which I go when I must run far, far away. Far, far away. Away from the circus, away from the fear. Away from the chaos, away from the tears. This place is my beckoning, my caller, my finder. My reminder that everything is alright in the end. My haven. My truest and dearest friend. The house by the lake was nestled among the woods. A crack in the winding road, red and white and quiet. Its windows reflected the sparkling stream. Like crystals dancing in the midst of a dream. The sounds are loud and soft all at once. Chickens, rowers, fishermen. Silence, wind, sunlight lapping at the shore. I close my eyes to see it now. How bright it is in my mind's eye. Hello, my friend. I'll be back again. With water so blue, the lake I knew.

39

#*River rowers sail Rafters raft in the rapids Still waters stay calm*#

0

Aug 24, 2021

Aug 24, 2021 at 2:52 PM UTC

sarita-aditya-verma

Buoyant

#*River rowers sail Rafters raft in the rapids Still waters stay calm*#

3

at last something broke you and that something, it was you you were closing your eyes you were seeing it through you blew up and sold the world outside and within and i fell on your black day you showed me how to live you showed me how to die and no matter how hard i try to stare at the sun it is black to my blind eyes and suddenly my eyes are open somehow things begin to focus high we are all illuminated light is shining on our faces blind until our rapture falls to pieces these are stolen bits and pieces * new york is hot how i loathe where i'm living Bharata, you fought now it's i who is giving up and now fly now fly from your empty cage, girl you are rust and the sky always killing the bird see, i am the night jesus christ i suppose see, i am the light i don't mean to remind you of anything you gave me in song you blessed my muse with your light what you did was so wrong the light in us was darkness how the night is so long light a fire, wait for summer we black stars wander on smoldering embers september's come and gone here comes my december half beast and half gone * broken and cold but all is still holy Hallelujah, and through you yes everything, holy did we want it darker so you turned out the light? now i'm doing time playing with meter and rhyme longing to be in the house of my own secret life until the sea must free us i'll wait for you there you came just to see us all we sailing where? all of us sailors rowers, keep rowing now no light is showing now the danger's approaching row gently, never gently! upstream to ignite row never gently! rage at that night! oh captain, my lying captain turn around and take me home a long time ago i thought you'd died alone everybody knows this boat's leaking all the white horses stopped sleeping the ponies stopped running i the band just keep playing though the girls now are aging lilac wine, sweet and heady how my hand is unsteady how aghast and unready like my love that is ending like the last night you danced me when the music was over you turned out the lights you kissed me goodnight with a thousand goodbyes still in my dreams you walk dripping from the sea where i'm slipping from the sea that shall free me to my hut that is ripping through the masterpiece tripping how my soul is worn thin i can't even begin to speak so i'll speak no more and if it be your will i'll sink beneath your wisdom like a stone like a stone i'll wait for you there alone

0

Jun 30, 2019

Jun 30, 2019 at 10:59 PM UTC

justin_aptaker

The Night The Stars Fell From Heaven

at last something broke you and that something, it was you you were closing your eyes you were seeing it through you blew up and sold the world outside and within and i fell on your black day you showed me how to live you showed me how to die and no matter how hard i try to stare at the sun it is black to my blind eyes and suddenly my eyes are open somehow things begin to focus high we are all illuminated light is shining on our faces blind until our rapture falls to pieces these are stolen bits and pieces * new york is hot how i loathe where i'm living Bharata, you fought now it's i who is giving up and now fly now fly from your empty cage, girl you are rust and the sky always killing the bird see, i am the night jesus christ i suppose see, i am the light i don't mean to remind you of anything you gave me in song you blessed my muse with your light what you did was so wrong the light in us was darkness how the night is so long light a fire, wait for summer we black stars wander on smoldering embers september's come and gone here comes my december half beast and half gone * broken and cold but all is still holy Hallelujah, and through you yes everything, holy did we want it darker so you turned out the light? now i'm doing time playing with meter and rhyme longing to be in the house of my own secret life until the sea must free us i'll wait for you there you came just to see us all we sailing where? all of us sailors rowers, keep rowing now no light is showing now the danger's approaching row gently, never gently! upstream to ignite row never gently! rage at that night! oh captain, my lying captain turn around and take me home a long time ago i thought you'd died alone everybody knows this boat's leaking all the white horses stopped sleeping the ponies stopped running i the band just keep playing though the girls now are aging lilac wine, sweet and heady how my hand is unsteady how aghast and unready like my love that is ending like the last night you danced me when the music was over you turned out the lights you kissed me goodnight with a thousand goodbyes still in my dreams you walk dripping from the sea where i'm slipping from the sea that shall free me to my hut that is ripping through the masterpiece tripping how my soul is worn thin i can't even begin to speak so i'll speak no more and if it be your will i'll sink beneath your wisdom like a stone like a stone i'll wait for you there alone

105

i imagine death with a book in reading: half tucked into my head and thus half of me exposed, perhaps i too half tucked in it standing as a miniature on a bookshelf - a talking bookmark. but all pomp on napoleon’s grand theme for the toilet flush of power - ‘ha ha! prussia down the loo! prussia traced back to lunacy!’ that’s what the little colonel said - although he probably... ah never mind. so when this grenoble girl told me i should get out a guilt spanker and do 1 2 3 with it on my forehead, i said: polonaise! polonaise! duchy of warsaw! d’uh! (which made the map of europe look just like it was when the bubonic plague roamed the continent.) well i forgive her, she was, after all, a psychology mermaid who’d drag every man down for a kiss in the depths that would be a kiss of the men’s lips being bitten off, perhaps one man would then joke with her in comic book narrative (bubbles of course) - how’s my todkopf lächeln? she would then sit on the couch and allow me to psychoanalyse her wish for feet - and i’d end with the diagnosis - ‘too many men in your unconscious, you ate too many and they’re speaking from your belly as cancan dancers stomping a morse code of pitfalls into thoughts wishing you grazed with lamb and men who ******* their heads into “nothing” with lambdas.’ or that’s what comes to mind, in the least, from a passage of canto ** read slowly, on the throne of thrones - concerning the rewards of the rowers - not for oxford or for cambridge - but for odysseus.

0

Oct 3, 2015

Oct 3, 2015 at 7:50 AM UTC

removed.polaroid-scrabble

a story about mermaids

i imagine death with a book in reading: half tucked into my head and thus half of me exposed, perhaps i too half tucked in it standing as a miniature on a bookshelf - a talking bookmark. but all pomp on napoleon’s grand theme for the toilet flush of power - ‘ha ha! prussia down the loo! prussia traced back to lunacy!’ that’s what the little colonel said - although he probably... ah never mind. so when this grenoble girl told me i should get out a guilt spanker and do 1 2 3 with it on my forehead, i said: polonaise! polonaise! duchy of warsaw! d’uh! (which made the map of europe look just like it was when the bubonic plague roamed the continent.) well i forgive her, she was, after all, a psychology mermaid who’d drag every man down for a kiss in the depths that would be a kiss of the men’s lips being bitten off, perhaps one man would then joke with her in comic book narrative (bubbles of course) - how’s my todkopf lächeln? she would then sit on the couch and allow me to psychoanalyse her wish for feet - and i’d end with the diagnosis - ‘too many men in your unconscious, you ate too many and they’re speaking from your belly as cancan dancers stomping a morse code of pitfalls into thoughts wishing you grazed with lamb and men who ******* their heads into “nothing” with lambdas.’ or that’s what comes to mind, in the least, from a passage of canto ** read slowly, on the throne of thrones - concerning the rewards of the rowers - not for oxford or for cambridge - but for odysseus.

26

Let it go under. Neither the rowers are honest, nor the passengers loyal. Let it sink… For in this floating masquerade, drowning is the only honest act.

0

May 18, 2025

May 18, 2025 at 6:34 AM UTC

Cadmus

Let that Boat Sink

Let it go under. Neither the rowers are honest, nor the passengers loyal. Let it sink… For in this floating masquerade, drowning is the only honest act.

6

*A hammer has a face and a claw Let the painter paint , the sketcher draw Two rowers to the right , two rowers to the left , one man only at the vessels helm* ...

0

Dec 8, 2016

Dec 8, 2016 at 12:48 AM UTC

randolph-l-wilson

Horse Sense ...

*A hammer has a face and a claw Let the painter paint , the sketcher draw Two rowers to the right , two rowers to the left , one man only at the vessels helm* ...

4

my body jumps with the jumpers rows with the rowers runs with the runners My own personal Olympics as I slide off the settee come up for air and quench my thirst with a happiness emotions all my own

0

Aug 12, 2016

Aug 12, 2016 at 6:51 PM UTC

nivek

settee olympics

my body jumps with the jumpers rows with the rowers runs with the runners My own personal Olympics as I slide off the settee come up for air and quench my thirst with a happiness emotions all my own

9

no new tricks, my fr'en' Jax, he say, you may learn. did that happen to you? getting old, did it happen for you? did you make that happen? In my youth, I aimed for an end, then found life goes on and I asked, what haps when you ask super, but natural, forces, wind and water, or sun and soil to be in your favor? It's like the movies, only you direct the action, --- ah, rhett or rick, give a **** play it again, Sam I am --- y'lost this trick, --- this old man came rolling home, (Sisyphus gimme a shove, from the top) See ya, in the funny papers, yeah, we said that. wayback when Krazy Kat was gay. yes ,oh, no, you lost it all. Life past, you failed to pay attention, you ignored the ignorance growning around you, as you aged full of grace, accepting today as the starting point. from here you can see forever, pay attention, ever learning, never learning ever ever, ever, ever this last bit of what can be known lost on the info-super-highway that Al Gore used to make global warming seem like some new thing. Old men who paid attention never fretted. We remember polio and marching dimes giving hope a booster shot on a sugar cube, love being more than a four rune symbol, we used to wake merry boat rowers who believed, as they were told, life is a dream to dread getting old in. Hear, ol Adam Clayton Powell laff'n'say "Keep the faith, Baby" then choke on all the lies he left for a legacy. He died, maybe never knowin' what magi know of faith these days. make note, young dreamer, Magi and magic shall never be unlinked. row row row, or turn around and flow.

0

Jul 12, 2019

Jul 12, 2019 at 11:55 AM UTC

kenpepiton

When we get old,

no new tricks, my fr'en' Jax, he say, you may learn. did that happen to you? getting old, did it happen for you? did you make that happen? In my youth, I aimed for an end, then found life goes on and I asked, what haps when you ask super, but natural, forces, wind and water, or sun and soil to be in your favor? It's like the movies, only you direct the action, --- ah, rhett or rick, give a **** play it again, Sam I am --- y'lost this trick, --- this old man came rolling home, (Sisyphus gimme a shove, from the top) See ya, in the funny papers, yeah, we said that. wayback when Krazy Kat was gay. yes ,oh, no, you lost it all. Life past, you failed to pay attention, you ignored the ignorance growning around you, as you aged full of grace, accepting today as the starting point. from here you can see forever, pay attention, ever learning, never learning ever ever, ever, ever this last bit of what can be known lost on the info-super-highway that Al Gore used to make global warming seem like some new thing. Old men who paid attention never fretted. We remember polio and marching dimes giving hope a booster shot on a sugar cube, love being more than a four rune symbol, we used to wake merry boat rowers who believed, as they were told, life is a dream to dread getting old in. Hear, ol Adam Clayton Powell laff'n'say "Keep the faith, Baby" then choke on all the lies he left for a legacy. He died, maybe never knowin' what magi know of faith these days. make note, young dreamer, Magi and magic shall never be unlinked. row row row, or turn around and flow.

60