Once a Seafarer
I was thinking of my life as a seafarer endless
voyaging like a gipsy of the seas.
It was the best of times because I was young
but was also the worst of times being without
a woman for months on end.
I was a lousy ****** really didn't blend in
Preferred reading in my cabin and got a higher
education without trying or knowing it, yes
I'm grateful to so many writers they gave my life
a meaning on the ocean of colossal ennui.
I came alive when the ship docked, and I could go
ashore, cold lone star beer in Houston and
dance with a cowgirl or a midnight swim with
a woman in Honduras.

As I got older little could assuage my boredom
the drink became both friend and enemy, washed up
on the shore of Portugal, here I got up  drank a cold
beer built my house on solid earth and dreams.

Ex. Seafarer
As a former seafarer, I have been to most countries that
have a harbour, but I have not been to Nepal or Tibet and
I have never wished to meet the great Lama a man wearing
handmade boots. Once in Japan I went to the movie and
heard John Wayne speaking Japanese, I laughed out loud
and was politely asked to leave.
There was a time when I thought of settling in Costa Rica
but it didn’t work out a love story gone awry; no not so
it was too far from Europe and there was much more to see.
I lived in the industrial belt of North/west of England for
a time and never got used to the social life of pubs, where
it appeared to me people took pride of being   ignorant.
I live in Portugal now, we sometimes drive to the coast and
ogle the tourists who pay too much for everything.

While continuing
My voyage across the sea
Aboard this gracious ship
Here I am spinning
A web of disgrace
In the name of seafarers
Around the open sea
Looking forward to
An islander's love
As I doze into below deck
While the ship rocks me to sleep
Caressing
As I nest
This lovely sea gull
So gingerly
Gazing in it's eyes
With passion
As I set her free
To the open winds
While I'm dreaming at sea

May I for my own self song’s truth reckon,
Journey’s jargon, how I in harsh days
Hardship endured oft.
Bitter breast-cares have I abided,
Known on my keel many a care’s hold,
And dire sea-surge, and there I oft spent
Narrow nightwatch nigh the ship’s head
While she tossed close to cliffs. Coldly afflicted,
My feet were by frost benumbed.
Chill its chains are; chafing sighs
Hew my heart round and hunger begot
Mere-weary mood. Lest man know not
That he on dry land loveliest liveth,
List how I, care-wretched, on ice-cold sea,
Weathered the winter, wretched outcast
Deprived of my kinsmen;
Hung with hard ice-flakes, where hail-scur flew,
There I heard naught save the harsh sea
And ice-cold wave, at whiles the swan cries,
Did for my games the gannet’s clamour,
Sea-fowls, loudness was for me laughter,
The mews’ singing all my mead-drink.
Storms, on the stone-cliffs beaten, fell on the stern
In icy feathers; full oft the eagle screamed
With spray on his pinion.
    Not any protector
May make merry man faring needy.
This he little believes, who aye in winsome life
Abides ’mid burghers some heavy business,
Wealthy and wine-flushed, how I weary oft
Must bide above brine.
Neareth nightshade, snoweth from north,
Frost froze the land, hail fell on earth then
Corn of the coldest. Nathless there knocketh now
The heart’s thought that I on high streams
The salt-wavy tumult traverse alone.
Moaneth alway my mind’s lust
That I fare forth, that I afar hence
Seek out a foreign fastness.
For this there’s no mood-lofty man over earth’s midst,
Not though he be given his good, but will have in his youth greed;
Nor his deed to the daring, nor his king to the faithful
But shall have his sorrow for sea-fare
Whatever his lord will.
He hath not heart for harping, nor in ring-having
Nor winsomeness to wife, nor world’s delight
Nor any whit else save the wave’s slash,
Yet longing comes upon him to fare forth on the water.
Bosque taketh blossom, cometh beauty of berries,
Fields to fairness, land fares brisker,
All this admonisheth man eager of mood,
The heart turns to travel so that he then thinks
On flood-ways to be far departing.
Cuckoo calleth with gloomy crying,
He singeth summerward, bodeth sorrow,
The bitter heart’s blood. Burgher knows not—
He the prosperous man—what some perform
Where wandering them widest draweth.
So that but now my heart burst from my breast-lock,
My mood ’mid the mere-flood,
Over the whale’s acre, would wander wide.
On earth’s shelter cometh oft to me,
Eager and ready, the crying lone-flyer,
Whets for the whale-path the heart irresistibly,
O’er tracks of ocean; seeing that anyhow
My lord deems to me this dead life
On loan and on land, I believe not
That any earth-weal eternal standeth
Save there be somewhat calamitous
That, ere a man’s tide go, turn it to twain.
Disease or oldness or sword-hate
Beats out the breath from doom-gripped body.
And for this, every earl whatever, for those speaking after—
Laud of the living, boasteth some last word,
That he will work ere he pass onward,
Frame on the fair earth ‘gainst foes his malice,
Daring ado, …
So that all men shall honour him after
And his laud beyond them remain ’mid the English,
Aye, for ever, a lasting life’s-blast,
Delight mid the doughty.
    Days little durable,
And all arrogance of earthen riches,
There come now no kings nor Cæsars
Nor gold-giving lords like those gone.
Howe’er in mirth most magnified,
Whoe’er lived in life most lordliest,
Drear all this excellence, delights undurable!
Waneth the watch, but the world holdeth.
Tomb hideth trouble. The blade is layed low.
Earthly glory ageth and seareth.
No man at all going the earth’s gait,
But age fares against him, his face paleth,
Grey-haired he groaneth, knows gone companions,
Lordly men are to earth o’ergiven,
Nor may he then the flesh-cover, whose life ceaseth,
Nor eat the sweet nor feel the sorry,
Nor stir hand nor think in mid heart,
And though he strew the grave with gold,
His born brothers, their buried bodies
Be an unlikely treasure hoard.

HEART-SHIP

About me, I swear down.
I'll tell thee of treks – how I in radged-days
put up with fretted-time,
sought abode and still do, get bitter ***-care,
in us heart-ship, scary waves’ rolling,
where narrow neet-ogle
often kept us at heart-ship’s stem
when it scurries by cliffs.

Us feet clammed by cold,
bound by frost’s frozen cold steel,
where those frets sighed
marfin about heart;
clemmed within ripped
mind of sea-knackered.

2.  CARE-BEGGARED

Town lads have it soft, dunt know nowt
as how us, care-beggared, ice-scratched sea dwellers wintered in exile,
swayed from mates and kin,
rigged with rime-crystals.
Hail stones bounced off our decks.
I heard nowt there but sea’s groan,
ice-flecked seas furrow. Heard at times summat like swan’s. And made glad by gannet’s and curlew's clamour,
for homely laughter,
gull-shriek for bitter ale.
Hail beat up stone-cliffs, where feathered
spray nattered to them; often eagles dew-feathered screamed.
No mates sheltered us,
or made us feel minded.

Town folk dunt credit it,
complacent with blessings
and few baleful journeys –
proud and wine-sozzled, how I, knackered,
often on sea-snickets had to abide.
Night-shadow snuffed us out;
snow fell from the north;
rime bound soil; hail felled earth
coldest of corns. So, now, thoughts
mither my heart, that I the deep sea,
salt-waves, should fetch myself on.

3. NOR

Salt yearn moves us gently.
Desire is a gust catcher.
Heart-ship bobs in its harbour,
as it pitches and yaws
to stranger islands.
Refugees homeland seek.
Though embarking, the reckless, skilful, youthful, brave,
do not know what life has in store.
Nor my hands on harp or on coin,
on lasses limbs delight,
nor on owt save wayward water.


4. UNWINTER

These woodlands unwinter too much with blossom,
give too much gold to villages, overbrighten meadows. World pushes on, all this urges us,
doom minded spirits to leave on flood-ways.
Heart-ship tugs at moorings.
Summer cuckoo's mournful call urges,
bodes sorrow, bitter in breast-hoard.
If tha blessed with comfort, how does tha know what some endure on tracks of exile?


5. WHALE-WEND

Heart-ship tugs at its harbour.
My imagination in mere-flood,
in whale plunge, wide in its turns
eager for seas vastness. Gannet yells
as whale-wends, spirit quickens over holm’s deep, irresistible delights of life are more
than this life that flits on land.
Illness, old age and aggression
wrests life away, bests breath.

6. PRAISE OF LIFE

Praise life. Before tha death
tha must climb mast against malice,
shun dodgy devils. Days stale,
earth’s grandeur beggared,
now no bosses, gold-givers gone,
glorious deeds done,
live out their doom.
Joys stale, weak rule this world,
live here afflicted. Glory humbled,
earth grows old, withers this November.
Old age fares over thee; tha bright face pale;
gray-haired, tha grieves over tha mates
given to the sod. Homeless tha flesh, then, when life is lost to thee, tha cannot sweet swallow nor sore feel, hand stir nor mind think.
Tha gold means nowt beside graves of tha mates, that proud deed will not go with thee,
gold is no help to a self full of itself.

7.   THE MEASURER

The world's craftsman is a Measurer
that turns the earth. Founder of fields
and sky. Only the foolish mess with it
and die unexpected. Tha must be humble.
The Measurer helps them be strong
as is minded in steer of their heart-ship
wise in tha decisions, clean in tha ways.
Anchor tha fire or be burned.
  Fate is stronger Measurer than any a tha thought.
Harbour is a life long in love of Earth,
hope int skies. Through all rough tides
and smooth trust in water and the sod.

To all my co-seafarers out there
We're a kind of man that is rare
Sailing port to port is never easy
It makes our mind look messy

Grieve to achieve more and more
We sail to make our own lore
It's hard to have a safe sail you know,
Just to make my times flow and glow

For our family's on our homelands
Too far but cannot cut our bonds
Even if we are far from our loveones
A day with them will be our lance

As we sail through depths of sea
Only the future in your eyes, I see
Partly inloved without a body,
Of me waiting to be full heartedly

It's sad to say how people judge us
Disregarding it but it has a mass
We don't talk for us to believe
Is these words is what you give?

They say we're fool and full
Fool to trust our "I Love You"
And full of girls that we've made "I do"
But they know nothing but judgements

It feels good when you're way back home
Stealing kisses and hugs that comes
Years or months? Sad but there's also weeks
But its fine even a peke on your chicks

It's hard when we need to leave again
Let we connect with a paper and a pen
Our eyes won't lie to "I miss you"
All I wanted is to be with you

As of now we're heading east
To sail to other lands for a fiest
Not to make love to other girls
I'll finish my job and buy you rose

The scrimshaw of the air, the long whales-tooth of sunlight
Etched with seafarer’s care and his great wantonness for the sea,
A kiss as light as the bottlenose dolphin cresting from the water,
Then night undressed and falling down like sliding beads of watery stars
From the wet coriaceous porpoise skin and a tail of silver fire.

This is the last time I write about ships; the mighty seafarer, clasping in the deep. The last time the esoteric tides capriciously change their erratic minds, left torn between rousing up to fight and solemnly crawling into the shapeless night. I’ll haul, I’ll haul. Outward bound, I’ll haul away from the safety of the buoy, through a thousand spiralling knots, batten aground and set anchor upon the recondite bay. I’ll avast the journeys where the compass takes an unprompted turn, where celestial proves consort to nautical woes, awoke awash amidst the darkened shallows.

This is the last time I go back and fill vast depths, bearing right, then left, across the beating breadth.  This is the last ring of brash audacity resonating in chime with the gull’s hooded pride, the last of the salt and sway commandeering the longitude of each tumultuous ride. I’ll roll, I’ll roll. Hanging on behind, I’ll roll with the salted souls of Nelson and Hook as they furl and collide, hand over fist, drawing the curtains from their chariot’s majestic height. I’ll gybe and set back to sail, quarrel with the rushing sands, and grace every fractured notion that tooth and nail can siege the devil’s rest and forge currents capable of hustling both vessel and man.

This is the last of the gallant endeavours, set adrift from buccaneer’s voyage to a solitary pulse at the end of storm’s tether. This is the last stern embrace of Poseidon’s harrowing howls, the last of the rapturous applause mordant as it rises and swirls, the last time I wrestle away from his scaly hold. This is the last time I change tack and set course into the path of the sound, where finally, the tides settled

I’ll release control of the helm.

THE RUIN in a Modern English Translation

"The Ruin" is one of the great poems of English antiquity. This modern English translation of one of the very best Old English/Anglo-Saxon poems is followed by footnotes, a summary and analysis, a discussion of the theme, and the translator's comments. After that, by other ancient English poems, if you prefer to skip the analysis.



THE RUIN
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

well-hewn was this wall-stone, till Wyrdes wrecked it
and the Colossus sagged inward ...

broad battlements broken;
the Builders' work battered;

the high ramparts toppled;
tall towers collapsed;

the great roof-beams shattered;
gates groaning, agape ...

mortar mottled and marred by scarring ****-frosts ...
the Giants’ dauntless strongholds decaying with age ...

shattered, the shieldwalls,
the turrets in tatters ...

where now are those mighty Masons, those Wielders and Wrights,
those Samson-like Stonesmiths?

the grasp of the earth, the firm grip of the ground
holds fast those fearless Fathers
men might have forgotten
except that this slow-rotting siege-wall still stands
after countless generations!

for always this edifice, grey-lichened, blood-stained,
stands facing fierce storms with their wild-whipping winds
because those master Builders bound its wall-base together
so cunningly with iron!

it outlasted mighty kings and their claims!

how high rose those regal rooftops!
how kingly their castle-keeps!
how homely their homesteads!
how boisterous their bath-houses and their merry mead-halls!
how heavenward flew their high-flung pinnacles!
how tremendous the tumult of those famous War-Wagers ...
till mighty Fate overturned it all, and with it, them.

then the wide walls fell;
then the bulwarks were broken;
then the dark days of disease descended ...

as death swept the battlements of brave Brawlers;
as their palaces became waste places;
as ruin rained down on their grand Acropolis;
as their great cities and castles collapsed
while those who might have rebuilt them lay gelded in the ground:
those marvelous Men, those mighty master Builders!

therefore these once-decorous courts court decay;
therefore these once-lofty gates gape open;
therefore these roofs' curved arches lie stripped of their shingles;
therefore these streets have sunk into ruin and corroded rubble ...

when in times past light-hearted Titans flushed with wine
strode strutting in gleaming armor, adorned with splendid ladies’ favors,
through this brilliant city of the audacious famous Builders
to compete for bright treasure: gold, silver, amber, gemstones.

here the cobblestoned courts clattered;
here the streams gushed forth their abundant waters;
here the baths steamed, hot at their fiery hearts;
here this wondrous wall embraced it all, with its broad *****.

... that was spacious ...



Footnotes and Translator's Comments
by Michael R. Burch

Summary

"The Ruin" is an ancient Anglo-Saxon poem. It appears in the Exeter Book, which has been dated to around 960-990 AD. However, the poem may be older than the manuscript, since many ancient poems were passed down ****** for generations before being written down. The poem is an elegy or lament for the works of "mighty men" of the past that have fallen into disrepair and ruins. Ironically, the poem itself was found in a state of ruin. There are holes in the vellum upon which it was written. It appears that a brand or poker was laid to rest on the venerable book. It is believed the Exeter Book was also used as a cutting board and beer mat. Indeed, we are lucky to have as much of the poem as we do.

Author

The author is an unknown Anglo-Saxon scop (poet).

Genre

"The Ruin" may be classified as an elegy, eulogy, dirge and/or lament, depending on how one interprets it.

Theme

The poem's theme is one common to Anglo-Saxon poetry and literature: that man and his works cannot escape the hands of wyrde (fate), time and death. Thus men can only face the inevitable with courage, resolve, fortitude and resignation. Having visited Bath myself, I can easily understand how the scop who wrote the poem felt, and why, if I am interpreting the poem correctly.

Plot

The plot of "The Ruin" seems rather simple and straightforward: Things fall apart. The author of the poem blames Fate for the destruction he sees. The builders are described as "giants."

Techniques

"The Ruin" is an alliterative poem; it uses alliteration rather than meter and rhyme to "create a flow" of words. This was typical of Anglo-Saxon poetry.

History

When the Romans pulled their legions out of Britain around 400 BC, primarily because they faced increasing threats at home, they left behind a number of immense stone works, including Hadrian's Wall, various roads and bridges, and cities like Bath. Bath, known to the Romans as Aquae Sulis, is the only English city fed by hot springs, so it seems likely that the city in question is Bath. Another theory is that the poem refers to Hadrian's Wall and the baths mentioned were heated artificially. The Saxons, who replaced the Romans as rulers of most of Britain, used stone only for churches and their churches were small. So it seems safe to say that the ruins in question were created by Roman builders.

Interpretation

My personal interpretation of the poem is that the poet is simultaneously impressed by the magnificence of the works he is viewing, and discouraged that even the works of the mighty men of the past have fallen to ruin.

Analysis of Characters and References

There are no characters, per se, only an anonymous speaker describing the ruins and the men he imagines to have built things that have survived so long despite battles and the elements.

Related Poems

Other Anglo-Saxon/Old English poems: The Ruin, Wulf and Eadwacer, The Wife's Lament, Deor's Lament, Caedmon's Hymn, Bede's Death Song, The Seafarer, Anglo-Saxon Riddles and Kennings

Keywords/Tags: Anglo-Saxon, Old English, England, translation, elegy, lament, lamentation, Bath, Roman, giant, giants, medieval, builders, ruin, ruins, wall, walls, fate, mrbtr






I Have Labored Sore
(anonymous medieval lyric circa the fifteenth century)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I have labored sore          and suffered death,
so now I rest           and catch my breath.
But I shall come      and call right soon
heaven and earth          and hell to doom.
Then all shall know           both devil and man
just who I was               and what I am.



A Lyke-Wake Dirge
(anonymous medieval lyric circa the 16th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The Lie-Awake Dirge is “the night watch kept over a corpse.”

This one night, this one night,
every night and all;
fire and sleet and candlelight,
and Christ receive thy soul.

When from this earthly life you pass
every night and all,
to confront your past you must come at last,
and Christ receive thy soul.

If you ever donated socks and shoes,
every night and all,
sit right down and slip yours on,
and Christ receive thy soul.

But if you never helped your brother,
every night and all,
walk barefoot through the flames of hell,
and Christ receive thy soul.

If ever you shared your food and drink,
every night and all,
the fire will never make you shrink,
and Christ receive thy soul.

But if you never helped your brother,
every night and all,
walk starving through the black abyss,
and Christ receive thy soul.

This one night, this one night,
every night and all;
fire and sleet and candlelight,
and Christ receive thy soul.



Excerpt from “Ubi Sunt Qui Ante Nos Fuerunt?”
(anonymous Middle English poem, circa 1275)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Where are the men who came before us,
who led hounds and hawks to the hunt,
who commanded fields and woods?
Where are the elegant ladies in their boudoirs
who braided gold through their hair
and had such fair complexions?

Once eating and drinking gladdened their hearts;
they enjoyed their games;
men bowed before them;
they bore themselves loftily …
But then, in an eye’s twinkling,
they were gone.

Where now are their songs and their laughter,
the trains of their dresses,
the arrogance of their entrances and exits,
their hawks and their hounds?
All their joy has vanished;
their “well” has come to “oh, well”
and to many dark days …

1.

Man rising to the doom that shall not err,--
  Which hath most dread: the arouse of all or each;
  All kindreds of all nations of all speech,
Or one by one of him and him and her?
While dust reanimate begins to stir
  Here, there, beyond, beyond, reach beyond reach;
  While every wave refashions on the beach
Alive or dead-in-life some seafarer.
Now meeting doth not join or parting part;
  True meeting and true parting wait till then,
    When whoso meet are joined for evermore,
Face answering face and heart at rest in heart:--
    God bring us all rejoicing to the shore
  Of happy Heaven, His sheep home to the pen.

2.

Blessed that flock safe penned in Paradise;
  Blessed this flock which tramps in weary ways;
  All form one flock, God's flock; all yield Him praise
By joy or pain, still tending toward the prize.
Joy speaks in praises there, and sings and flies
  Where no night is, exulting all its days;
  Here, pain finds solace, for, behold, it prays;
In both love lives the life that never dies.
Here life is the beginning of our death,
  And death the starting-point whence life ensues;
    Surely our life is death, our death is life:
    Nor need we lay to heart our peace or strife,
But calm in faith and patience breathe the breath
  God gave, to take again when He shall choose.

THE MUSIC OF THE STARS

Today the night sky shines bright
As though to mock the moon
That each eventide arises
Taking the mantle from the sun
All united in an assignment
To light the way for earthly treaders
The radiant stars endlessly move
Age to age whispering its great adventures
Tis music of the stars
Singing of the past,present and future
Singing of a long past left in traces of unwritten history
Singing of the presence experienced by the audience
Singing of a future concelead to mortal eyes
Tis the music of the stars

The inaudible lyrics of the stars
That need no lute nor lyre
To sooth the listeners' heart
The grace of the 'heavenly singers'
Like a spell enchants the audience
Its glory inspires the astronomer
Its music moves the poets hand
Tis the music of the stars
Singing to the 'deaf' mortal
Singing how like a porcelain his life is brittle
Singing how his life is brief at its best
Tis the music of the stars

The music of the stars :
Tis a melody that wanes
Like a script come to an end
Tis a rhythm that diminishes
The beats slowed by the dawning day
Tis a harmony that disaccords
Like a string broken from the harp
Tis the music of the stars
Singing comfort to the lonely seafarer
Singing hope to the night pilgrim
Singing praises to the night watcher
The 'night singers' leave the stage
The morning stars echoes the refrain
Tis the music of the stars.

The heavy smoke of war lay across the world it was laced with carnage and had the sounds of screaming
Shells and the screams of the dying men but as it continued its drift at the far edges a cloud and mist
Began to diminish the former and distil a brighter future there was the timid glory sounding the
Harking tribute of childlike memories the power of innocence to diffuse the base and inhumane
To spill across these scathing pages an ethereal presence that was empowering of good that
Could and did straddle time and space with magnificence drawing from exploration and history
That beheld the worst but mined the hidden gold to enrich the world it knew secrets that
Exposed the damnable lies that bankrupted former empires we were created to be conquers
Our mettle is an amalgamation of weak flesh but inherit in the confused and reciprocating
Action ultimately a flash of inspiration leaps from the spirit the dead end near sighted flesh was
At the wall of limitation now we stand at the zenith of the universe at its ever increasing of it
Self this inestimable spring of well being floods the low plains we ford these rich waters
Immediately our impoverished cares taste and smell the high and great call of hope we
Instinctively open our heart and mind as a great sail we find our self in the envious position as a
Seafarer our very sinew is awakened to promise and opportunity we have left far behind the
Naysayers we see gifts of beauty spread everywhere where all before was drear now victory is
Courting us to rise to even higher heights boldness infuses our demeanor we now throw off
Yesterdays doubting with eyes that are no longer dim we see with clearest vision and with
Steeled determination former days of being wistful vagabonds is forever forfeited we have the
Right and the might that Lincoln addressed his generation we align ourselves with the high
Ideals of past warriors and martyrs know this our enemies whatever your culture or ideals you
Have come among a stalwart people and the foundations of our forefathers will defeat you the
Same as others who came with inferior and demonized religions know this truth will and has
Made us free look well to yourselves continue and your destruction is guaranteed check the
Harbinger winds and save your selves from the only outcome that will befall you which is
Destruction

when i start drinking i know that i have to start writing
after a few beers in, before the woman of my life Whitney
(i call her that, not Jack or Jim,
what, boys call feminise their guitars -
i have Whitney - auburn skinned and easy, as in
fluid - so before Whitney enters my dietary requirements
i have to write something - that thingy mag-jig
when someone is in a critical condition - in a life or
death scenario - that's me also - although i'm there
not between life and death, but within lost onomatopoeia(s)
of knock knock who's there jokes - but the dissatisfaction
with things - i need to encrypt - reinvent Persian
poetics - keep my mouth shut - see into the yet to come
sunrise - so few poets can actually make you feel
what they feel, poetry is plagued with prompting too
many others - why is poetry the most accessible art-form
and the least satisfying? i gather because it's mostly
unread, and easily prompting others to write it -
the other Pandora - let's just call her a faking Libra -
only in poetry does production of it outweigh
the profits reaped from it - people read little poetry
but write a lot of poetry - because it's the cheap-***
art - esp. in the pixel age of Beelzebub eye's
somehow all those shrapnel windows coordinating a
one-on-one vision - poetry is cheap, hence so many
adherents to practice it - yet so few to perfect it,
or if not perfecting it, at least adventurous and
gambling alike to hold fast to it's tornado essence -
the line: make it personal, but not too personal -
it's as if you had a life outside of poetry... you don't,
stark naked in Eden - and nowhere else, soon and if
applauded for such gesture you'll find less and less
people wanting to attach to you for your "private" life
exposures - if shame can be a Pakistani infused novel
by Salman Rushdie, then it can't be a western poem,
because fate of such weaving is de facto lost, forever,
people basically like their perversity than expressing
a curbing of such self-prompt-inquisitions for strangers' eyes
to scrutinise - indeed quite the reflection of an Englishman
and his house the castle. but the reason poetry has no
status in Western society unlike in Ancient Persia is because
it was killed off - it has no social respect because of
political rhetoric, it has no professional respect because
we have prosaic fudge-packaging writers with their
extensive lullabies of mundane talk and the odd dialogue:
the psychologists that don't listen - and the people
who say they appreciate poetry... but only if they write it -
for the majority of concerns, the Divine Comedy (e.g.)
has more footnotes than any critical work academia -
and i don't mean footnotes as such, but ~footnotes,
more poems... what poetry has come in terms of output
is like a newspaper - quasi-poetry (even with technique,
or none, apparently frailty makes something written
poetic, i call it butterflies in budgie cages - as insects
they heap up the behaviour of banging against the iron bars -
pretence flight - to keep beauty is to keep it sadistically -
and to release it with prior wants to contain it ends up
a masochism - against Nietzsche and partisan with Kant -
let's equate beauty with something that doesn't interest us -
let's poker that expression, what is beautiful is what doesn't
interest us - it's the porcelain effect - the fragility already
presupposed an advent of mortality -
grammar will never abide by the rules of arithmetic -
i will write my german with english grammar -
and i will write Latin according to the reverse principle
of compounding nouns (genus alba) - i.e.
white race - (genus ater) - dismal race - and no other.
- i write this just before Whitney comes along -
what a bridge, aged 40 and always there when the night comes,
we have three children, the first born Amitriptyline (now aged
25 of some unknown unit of measurement, dog years, or x7
to ours), and the twins Naproxen and Paracetamol -
with them i have been synthesising sleep for the past 9 years -
as any chemist would avoiding going cuckoo -
Amtriptyline was born anaemic - with Whitney stepped in
and sorted the matter out - a chemist will never go
with the doctor's orders - no chance in life - chemistry
is abstract medicine - any idiot can prescribe pills and don
the title general practitioner with a wage over £100,000 -
but it takes self-reliance to invert the note: WARNING.
DO NOT DRINK ALCOHOL WHILE TAKING THIS
MEDICINE. ha ha... fat chance of that not happening -
i'd be bonkers if i didn't, Whitney will tell you - o.k.,
the excesses of somnia (that variant of sanity, in- and
mm, you know what) are sometimes pointless -
but at least my brain becomes a rechargeable battery sequence.
alternative provocation - Charon's holiday -
i always wondered why the Greeks placed payment
for Charon on the eyes of those about to be cremated -
(liken Hindu, now very morbid - in what element would
man find no animal or insect incubated to survive -
in earth the worms and the moles, in air the birds and
moths - in water the fish and ***** and oysters -
but in fire? a godly endurance - and unto it i too would
like to return to) - two coins places on the eyes -
as if to remind the dead that the veil of materialism will be
lifted when Charon takes his wage from their eyes,
unveils himself first, then Styx and the future of what
greed and excess materialised - such a funeral would be
befitting in our age - as today, five pounds withdrawn from
the bank account, £0.43 in my wallet - a can of beer
at £1.10 - Shanghai math? perhaps, that's about to be implemented -
abstract Chinese v. Johnny ate 10 doughnuts and
how much time to burn the calories off? (latter being English
method of teaching - chemistry, abstract medicine, surgeons
excluded, they're not ascribed the title Dr. anyway,
as you'd expect, pristine butchers' association) - anyway...
i was two pence short of five-fifty, and as i outstretched my
hand with a 20 pence coin, 2x 10 pence coins, a 5 pence coin
and 3x 1 pence coins i dawned on me - the five quid banknote
was already on the counter - my eyes eyed the look in
the cashier's hesitation - the almost neurotic look of despair,
i was short by 2 pence - they weren't there, but
i just imagined that two Greek eyes were staring from my
hand - (i will not put overweight atypical of poetic strain
on the Cartesian equilibrium on the side of i am "Charon,
but it's only a sly-millimetre off from acting, so i guess
it ought to be included) - two 1 pence coins in my hand
missing - the over-suggestive microscopic panic of
the cashier - the opposite zenith of today's parabolic materialism,
for indeed we live in materialism's parabola -
the nadir comes with pennies on the street (thank you
Frank Sinatra) - how could even the most insignificant unit
of the monetary system be nothing more than a pebble?
if i were people, id pay respect to the smallest unit and pick them
up - otherwise money will become altogether useless -
if it isn't already - it's a great way to pass obscure laws
as in throwing a cigarette **** on a street and getting fined
£1000 for it... or how many killed off alliances akin
to family and tribalism - but seeing pennies on the street
is not a good sign - an astounding metaphor - a penny on
a street - i promise i'll not do a Simon & Garfunkel on you -
wormholes of ancient Greek perception lying on
cement, readied to be picked up - the resurrected Greeks
pre-dating Christianity coming back - their eyes
lying on the street - O the woe of our kindred having written
the New Testament - that we must return and see
the world once again for what it is, and for what it will
never be - in such an age, when in ours the old were still
mentally resourceful and not extinguished in soul and thought -
even in body - to this frightening sight -
we paid a penny for each eye when prior we were given
2 pound coins to cross the Styx - now Charon allows
us a penny's worth of glimpse into this world - for he has
no eyes of his own - a penny per eye into the great
seafarer of time's eyes.

your intentions are pure
but I am not sure
you become my comfort
and my discomfort

you shared your plan
even if we've just began
your visions are firm
and I can confirm

your warm words
who embraces my flaws
keeps me safe
when I feel unsafe

you are my coffee
my favorite latte
that I left in the café
and I regret it

The intersection of air and aroma,
together brings sustenance and nostalgia.
That air, which once helped you breathe, now clogs your throat,
like a seafarer wading without a boat.
Epochs passing, as a lost love’s scent batters
the mind’s shore, once more sentient life scatters.
Here and now is lost, forgotten touches felt,
as waves of her sweet laugh dull any din dealt.
Like déjà vu she’s there then gone, now forlorn--
roused from the dream, which floats away before long.

He had a tattoo on his head, it read, failure
She had a tattoo hidden, somewhere totally forbidden
Not much hope, he would see them both
So Michael, life *****, you’re feeling out of it, can’t go on bla de bla de bla
So whats the future
Michael- Me topping myself
I can help there, the express train comes through in thirty minutes, should only take you ten minutes to get to the station.
Michael- Are you telling me to jump in front of a train
Yes Michael
Michael- Right, *******, that’s what i’ll do then.
Helen- Well doc, love your therapy, should I just go straight to the window
Call me Drake, and no Helen, what I would like to do is make mad passionate love to you
Helen- Is that not against your hippocratic oath
Only if Michael comes back
Helen- You expecting him back then
Yes, in about thirty minutes, so we better get started
Helen- You want to have *** here and now
Yes, if you don’t like pleasuring yourself, I’ll do it for you
Helen- How do you know I don’t like pleasuring myself
Because your mother told you not too
Helen- How the hell did you know that
You just told me
Helen- You *******
Good news Helen, your mother was wrong, you should pleasure yourself as much as possible, even better with a partner
Helen- Do you get punched a lot
I’m a fast runner
Helen- Were you serious
Never know now Helen, I hear Michael coming back
Michael- Couldn’t do it, I’m a failure at that too
Have you ever done a driving test Michael
Michael- Yes passed first time
I’ll be doing my fifth test next week
Michael- So you’re a failure too
No, let me explain.
The first test I took, I went through a red light. Didn’t pass
Second test, Learned from the previous, went over roundabout instead. Didn’t pass
Third attempt, learned from previous, emergency stop. Didn’t pass
Fourth attempt, learned from previous, couldn’t reverse park. Didn’t pass
Michael- So what you’re doing is, eradicating failure, or part failure, knowing that eventually you’ll pass
When I did my medical exam, I knew I was going to struggle at one bit, but when I got the paper back, it said failed, that’s all I saw
I understand what you’re saying now, if I did that exam again I would pass.
Helen, I think you’re slightly nuts, Drake, but you do cut through the bull. Though, If Michael had jumped in front of that train.
No chance of that Helen, they’re on strike
Michael. Drake, was your dad a seafarer then
No, he just liked a particular comedian.

The Beatnik Café’

Cigarettes, coffee, a ****** beret
Blue smoke and Blue Mountain, blue verse, blue rhyme --
O Come to the side-street beatnik café;
Here present-tense yourself; caffeine the time

Here order your Bacon very well Donne
And jam your java with croissants and Keats
Orate from Spenser; groove with Tennyson
Tap out a line of Seafarer-four beats

Tap out a manifesto; everyone does
Pulp-print Red rags yelp “Revolution Now!”
The typewriter is holy, and Up the Fuzz!
Bongo that Kerouac, and Howl, but how?

Bongo that beat, oh, yeah, it’s crazzzzy, man
Sheaffer that rhythm, cat; Parker that line
Ferlinghetti your truth to a yellow pad
Sharpen your verbs to a rebel design

Sharpen your verbs from a bottle of ink
Light up a Camel; blow intellectual smoke
Teach the ****** bourgeois how they should think
Grey-suited capitalists – what a joke!

L’Envoi – Time Slouches On

Tee-shirted capitalists joke in Mandarin
The latest chained coffee’s inside the mall
English and Apples are original sin
On glowing screens where the pale pixels crawl

And no one crawls through rhythm, rhyme, or verse,
Or bongos out an existential cry
For poetry is dead; the twitters terse
Reduce the ancient loves to I, me, my.

We're both tired, I'm sure.
So when I receive the message that says
so goodnight, seafarer, who lives
where the ocean meets the sky
forever
I'll respond with
goodnight, sleep well,
you're beautiful.

Weather’s coming up soon lad, talk is, three days,
no catch for a week then*

Connors’ folk slough to the Arms
in the shape of four or five,
a tawny pint floats the hour,
and by seven the place is alive.

My father now by the edge of the groyne
is a gaze half mast at the sea,
as he sails himself to the brink of an isle
and turns a yard-arm to the lee.

He sets on his oars the cataclysm of waves
he casts the wind at his hair,
swears salt is the sword in the taste of this life
and not what falls with a tear.

He'll treble a note in harmonica muse
and rustily **** a bone pipe,
spit saliva colder than frost on the grease
and never complain of the gripe.

Running the wind or roaring the cape
or rounding the sound of the wire
his name is the take of all seafarer kin;
the hearth, my heart and the fire.

My father the salt, the seafaring man
a wave in the seas as they glide
now found to the ocean,
a son to the sea
the son to the father; my guide.

I shall arise and raise a glass
To writhing verse and broken prayer
And pass through minutes of neglect  
I hoped I’d find you there

The hazel wood is rich with fairies  
The Sirens move through dappled grass
Fervidly chased by child or lover
And I shall rise and watch them pass

Long were my days when the summer came
But the fishermen bade me beware
Dark as red wine was the sea that I sailed
I just prayed that I might find you there

For the ocean was dressed in its fancy
Of sea nymphs and monsters of glass
Often fought by hero and wizard
O I hoped that you might let them pass

Well, in all of this rumour and roaring
I had cast my soul to the sea
And passed through neglect and high fancy
And hoped that there you’d find me

He found a little frequented cove
As he sailed the Southern Seas,
An island, not on a current map,
But one bereft of trees,
I only know, for he left a note
In that cave, way up in the cliff,
And it’s had me wondering ever since
Not how, or why, but if?

What was left of his boat was there
Washed high, out there on the shore,
Battered and beaten by storm and tide
Ten years, or maybe more,
The Isle was barren and treeless, not
One thing would pleasure the eye,
Except the cave in the towering cliff
Well up in the face, and high.

I anchored there and I rowed ashore
Then I walked around to the face,
Somebody else had been there before,
A rope was still in place,
I’d never been much of a climber, but
I scaled that rope all right,
Just as the sun was going down
So I had to spend the night.

The face of the cave was sheltered, and
The weather, it wasn’t cold,
I curled up deep in a corner ‘til
The dark had entered my soul,
I dreamt of many a sailing ship
And men of a stately mien,
Who stalked grim-faced through a whirlpool race
In a land that I’d never seen.

And up above was a starlit sky
That had seemed to spin and curve,
Taking the glow of the Pole Star south
With the curvature of the earth,
I woke when the first few beams of dawn
Shone in from a blighted sea,
Where my boat had tugged at its moorings
In an effort to cast it free.

The cave led into a passageway
That was dimly lit in the dawn,
I ventured along it gingerly
Over moss, as green as lawn,
Then I came on a line of candles, set
In the rock to light the way,
Into the heart of a grotto there
Where a pool of water lay.

The pool was glowing an azure blue
From a light reflected below,
That shone back down from the ceiling rock
In a shifting, glittering show,
And beyond the pool was an altar there
That hadn’t been made by man,
Of shining stars and a crescent moon
And a figure that looked like Pan.

I tip-toed cautiously round the edge
Of the pool til I came to stand
Right in front of the altar there,
Half covered with silt and sand,
And lying crouched at the side of it
Was a huddle of ancient bones,
That lone seafarer who’d left his yacht
And followed these stepping stones.

The bones lay there in a deep despair
As of one who’d given up hope,
He must have come with the boat out there
And climbed with that length of rope,
But the bones were grey, looked terribly old
Too old for that boat, it’s true,
With the fingers gripping a note, half ripped,
The one that I’ll read to you.

‘You’ve come to an Isle where there is no time,
So take this note and be gone,
I came, like you, from out of the blue
When I woke, time travelled on.
The stars spin crazily every night
And they ****** me into the past,
I woke to find that my boat had gone
And the cove was covered in grass.’

‘It could be a million years ago
It could be a future time,
The sea has receded, that I know
And the year, it isn’t mine.
The altar glows with the crescent moon
When a major shift occurs,
And the devil man that looks like Pan,
I think that his seed is cursed.’

I took the note and I stumbled out
Of the cave, and slid the rope,
Then ran back over the beach, and rowed
Back out to my world, my boat.
I hadn’t been more than an hour away
When the heavens went black, and weird,
I looked behind and I feared to find
The Island had disappeared!

David Lewis Paget

In the bay fields expanse complete lake’s glimmered glance

Quiet lovers withdraw in solitude entrusting lake’s cleansing mood

Her tears drop into soft sea taking dreams noiselessly

Waterfalls haste below to autumn’s crisp ember glow

Autumn moon, subdued to me deep in clouds, winks on silver sea

Driftwood floats, water-bearer of seafarer tales

Cold winter blasts like dragons bite or sting.

Companions last summer’s thoughts gathering

Clouds clad in rainbow. Mortals gaze Master’s rays

Wild geese brush Milky Way as Autumn paints

Sea beckons me, lovely scenery. Intoxicating

Sea waves changeable, like thoughts tempest torn

Lone swan flights far in wastes of sky

Sunset drifts, visiting mansions

April showers paint sailboat, streaming blue sky’s edge

Burnt rocks white with dew soaks gauze stockings, once rendezvous

Lake Superior heaves and sighs, seagulls shriek greedy cries. Traveler’s homesick

Transparent waters, tremble, tumbling. Ferryman anchors

Shining streams ripple, cascade upon phantoms of the lake

Wind and rain pound terrain like old friends deprive intimacy

Dying grass beckons Evening’s first snow

*** & the Sea
We do live in a moral time the exchange of money
for some company, a meal and laughter.,
is frown upon, but without these willing women my
life as a seafarer would have been an impossibility.
There were married ****** who stayed on a ship for
two years to save money, but they never thought of
the ****** life of their wives. Mind, some of the women
had lovers, and why not? Being married to idiots was
not easy, and they could not write to their husbands
and say: “come home and do me over.”

Prostitution is bad it is about using women for ******
gratification, but it is a business if properly seen to
help many lonely men, who because of are victim and
not thoughtless oxen smelling a cow in season.

The Vanished home

Most seafarers find their way home
others get lost on the way.
One was washed up on the shores of Algarve
and stayed the home he knew was no longer there.
But a memory of log fire and a mother
who read books and rarely looked up to see were
her children had gone.
It is all too late now; the seafarer lives another life.

Biography

The wind blew hard last night
the bedroom window was open I was too lazy
to get up and close it.
I was thinking of writing my biography but found
my life was too tedious to write about it,
Anyway I have only come alive for the last thirty years
before that, I lived in a bubble of self-loathing,
Of course, I could have written about my many illnesses
but I dislike self-pity.
I used to be a seafarer and remember vaguely how bored
it made me after ten years; sea life is for losers.
I could have written about women there has been a few, but most of my affairs were insignificant, *** has no purpose if love is not involved.
I finally got up found a blanket and slept till nine.
Self-biography is mostly self-serving, and we only remember
the right part and our pretension.

I teach others to sail,
Quite literally,
And I am good at that,
Many many people will attest
To my passion and effectiveness,
But sailing is way more
Than just a glorious physicality,
Its a perfect analogy
Of life and love and death,
I also coach and mentor
The lives and loves
The living and doing
Of others,
Also in truth their endings too,
And I offered that best
Of me to you,


But something you seem
To fail to grasp is that whilst
Tacking can be wide,
Deliberate and slow,
Sedate even,
A gybe is the opposite,
Stern to wind,
A boom crashing across
And the cause of many a capsize,
You cannot be gentle gybing
In any kind of proper wind,
Its either one way,
Or it is the other,
It is sudden and immediate and NOW,
So no,
I have not been tacking,
Although at one point maybe
I was going that way,


With an icky feeling
In my heart like
The warning trembling
In a sail's leach,
I am about to gybe,
And it will be sudden,
There will be
A rapid change of direction,
I am a good sailor,
A great seafarer and handler
Of boats
Both real and metaphorical,
So my gybe will be anticlimactic,
Calm even,
But I will be accelerating
Away from you,
Your self centredness,
Your precious secrets,
Your rage,
Months of scorn and derision and accusation,
And while I do not know
My destination,
Indeed in truth I have none,
I do know the seas will quickly
Be much calmer,
The spray far less and that
Without the ice of attitude
And pain,
And at a parting rate of five knots each
In just twenty four hours we will be
Over two hundred miles apart,
I wonder then,
Will you OR I
Find peace?

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                 Like Candles When They Quietly Go Out

             He mourns the sons of princes, sown in the dust

                                          -The Seafarer

When we were young
A friend once showed me a passage in a book
In which the monks of a certain cloistered order
Were often blessed with wonderfully peaceful deaths
Like candles when they quietly go out

Domine exaudi orationem meam

Now we are old
Our books require a rather larger print
Our foolish dreams were put by long ago
And the works of our youth are memories
Like candles when they quietly go out

Domine exaudi orationem meam

And we are candles
Still giving out a little bit of light
Anticipating with hope the morning Sun

Domine exaudi orationem meam