"seaport" poems
A beggar I once met
At the port of La Goulette
Greeted me with a nod
But he spoke to me not.
A beggar I once met
At the port of La Goulette
Made me wonder all night:
What's a beggar who beggs not?
c) LazharBouazzi
*La Goulette is a seaport town in the northern suburbs of Tunis.
Nov 22, 2017
Nov 22, 2017 at 2:28 PM UTC
Green sea-tarnished copper
And sea-tarnished gold
Of cupolas.
Sea-runnelled streets
Channelled by salt air
That wears the white stone.
The sunlight-filled cistern
Of a dry-dock. Square shadows.
Sun-slatted smoke above meticulous stooping of cranes.
Water pressed up by ships' prows
Going, coming.
City dust turned
Back by the sea-wind's
Wall.
2.4k
*I have
A train ticket
To the sea.
I have no relatives left to visit,
No business to justify my stay,
Nothing except
A sense of abandonment in me.
I have
Some loose change
And a candy wrapper
In my pocket.
I have no place to stay,
No place for dining;
The seaport has nothing besides
An old lighthouse,
Rusted and forgotten.
I hold its keys in my hand
And unlock the creaking door,
Climb the spiral staircase to the top
In a sort of restless agony.
We are one and the same,
Too close to the crashing waves of reality
Yet still with the silence of disregard,
Gathering dust and cobwebs
And echoes of human warmth.
We both sit,
Quietly looking out into the frothy churning of a violent ocean,
Salt spray crusting on my fingernails,
Its railings squeaking under the turbulence of the grey air.
I feel less alone
In the presence of loneliness;
We are one and the same, like I said.
So we sit
And we wait
For the tide to come in
And my love to come home.*
Oct 26, 2013
Oct 26, 2013 at 6:58 AM UTC
These ships have seen rougher waves
In other words, these ships have sailed
I want to drink *** at the helm
I want to tell the ones around me that I feel like king of the world
I want to feel like king of the world
Welcome to the sea port of wrecklessness
We welcome all who are willing to lose themselves in the midst of it all
Gunpowder and ballrooms
We don't take this as serious as we should
I am surrounded by flashing lights and loud bangs
Loose cannons, they are walking the plank just for the hell of it
I have wanted to call this place my home for so long
Now I am finally here and I can't even find the strength to stay calm on these stormy waters
It feels like my ships have sailed
I shouldn't have to feel in charge
I shouldn't be the one to steer the helm
My lungs shouldn't have to bear this
My hands seem so tired
I seem so tired
I have a sailors mouth
but a first mate's broken heart
Welcome to the seaport of warmth
We welcome all who want rehabilitation
Come to us if you need a place to rest your weary head
We will shield you from the flashing lights and loud bangs
I have always called this place my home
I was never as wreckless as I wanted to be
I was never a pirate, I never wanted to be
The sea is as open as my mind
Sometimes it feels nice, other times not so much
I don't remember the last time I wasn't lost
I have been searching for this treasure my whole life, but I can't seem to get out of Davey Jones' Locker
By the time they have all moved on, I will be a hundred feet deep in the dark of the ocean
My ships have sailed
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 2:29 AM UTC
He trudged on up from the great seaport
After a year at sea,
And in his mind was a single thought,
That thought was Emily.
He’d got her note when he disembarked
In the pouring, driving rain,
And read it under a single spark:
‘You may never come here again!’
‘Never come here again,’ it said,
What was that meant to mean?
The blood had rushed to his sailor’s head,
He conjured a nightmare scene,
He thought of the tidy garden path,
Of seeing a man at the door,
And Emily hiding behind his hat,
A man he’d not seen before.
Perhaps the year was too long to wait,
She hated it on her own,
He’d often suffered a lack of faith
That she could remain alone.
He’d conjured visions in distant ports
At the curious lack of mail,
While he had written his deepest thoughts
To post them before he sailed.
He’d thought of her at the village dance,
He’d thought of her down the street,
And meeting a friendly guy, perchance
Who would sweep her off her feet.
While he had suffered temptations too
At the taverns along the way,
The sparkling eyes of the barmaids there
When the ship put in for a stay.
But now he trudged in the driving rain
At that terrible time of night,
When shadows loomed to increase the gloom
That he felt, with never a light.
He’d struck a match when he’d read the note
But it fizzled in record time,
He’d only read when the match went out
The first, not the second line.
He felt his way up the garden path
And he paused, then knocked at the door,
His heart was there in his mouth at last
To the tread of a man, for sure.
The door swung open, a man stood there
A quizzical look in his eyes,
‘We didn’t expect you here so late,
But still, what a nice suprise.’
The sailor stood, was taken aback,
He hadn’t the words to say,
‘What have you done with Emily,’
His breath was taken away.
‘Your Emily’s moved, she went next door,
I see she’s burning a light,
You’d better get home, you’re living there,
She’s waiting for you tonight.’
David Lewis Paget
Jan 15, 2015
Jan 15, 2015 at 11:04 AM UTC
I remember a tender entry way.
On one side there where flowers and blue skys
and the other a bustling street way.
I did enjoy the quiet peace out there
and the experiences of the earth,
but city life also has its virtues.
So many people that may pass you by,
and so many people to get to know.
It's a whole world where ever you may go,
so take it all in because life is short.
Travel to any rail, road, or seaport.
Grow, and show that humanity is here.
Show, that there is nothing for them to fear.
Jan 3, 2017
Jan 3, 2017 at 4:50 PM UTC
Primal energies weave through as the ocean meets the sea. Calm waters with mad minds.
Ever-changing tides, churning the depths up and out as an unheard scream gets lost in the winds.
Towards an expanse vacant as the feelings that no longer exist yet, we strain to maintain this facade praying none may view the cracks.
Falling into each wave, begging the universe to cradle the demons within, or just aid in the escape, or simply, just simply cast them into the depths of the void.
As we await what may never return, at candlelit tables apart in spirit, occupied in form only.
The requiem of a night’s promise gone sour.
The tides move delicately, yet ever haunting is the music to resonate the wind’s continued dance of strained existence.
Etched in time, in the shadows people seek to see, the witch holds the ****** memories in a clasped hand for all eternity. The bitterness will never yield to forgiveness.
Deadlights and false fronts in a hollow seaport the light exudes as equal a warning of its inhabitants as its rocky shore’s embrace.
What was, will certainly bleed, trapped in photographs of a town.
Now, forever, out of time.
Oct 25, 2023
Oct 25, 2023 at 10:57 PM UTC
I. Sometimes i feel like I’m in that bubble she’s blowing
Hot and sticky
Rendering my perception from within
muffled and distorted, suffocating
II. My world— my bubble
Sends me spinning
Knocking into the scalding walls,
Marking my arms and cheek
With hot, gooey kisses
Of molten glass
III. One end darkens, a shadow
Casts over me, inside my bubble.
And suddenly it’s hot, it’s bright!
And I’m still! Spinning!!
IV. The neck snaps free,
Cooler air rushes in my now
Tapered, open bubble
Giving me a chance at a glimpse of
A clear surrounding
All soon interrupted by another
Flash of light, another blast of heat
V. And then
An invasion, all while my bubble
Kept spinning!
Following my tumbling body,
Around the edges of my bubble,
A pair of metal claws gripped
The opening, opening, opening
Until the seaport sized window
Of my bubble
Became a hole big enough to
Climb through
w.c.
Mar 1, 2020
Mar 1, 2020 at 7:50 PM UTC
Once in a memory
The boy played by the small stream running near the hospital
where his mother was a patient and time hung heavy this
afternoon in late September.
The boy picked five elongated leaves from a bush on each one
he put a pebble wanted to see if any leaf/boat survived
the voyage to where the stream went underground.
One leaf made it and should come out where the seaport is.
Once the stream had run free and rapidly crossed the green
field where elderly horses grazed, after a life of pulling
heavy carts, the lady who owned the land let the horses
be free; she had spent her youth looking after her father
who had been a Danish general, keeping his boots shining?
Habits are difficult to erase sometimes, a horse was seen
trotting in the cobbled streets lost in the past.
The stream ran to the strand where men pulled the boats
up for repair and selling fresh fish, ***** and shrimps.
As for the horses, when they were so old their teeth, gone could
not eat, the last walk was the knacker’s yard; salami and glue.
The field is now a town square where farmers sell their products
and their wives sell thick woolen long jones.
There is a statue of a famous writer he looked patrician, but mostly
he suffers the indignity of seagull droppings.
The lady who protected horses was regarded as eccentric,
but she lives on in songs and tales.
The boy saw in a café two ladies he sensed he knew; little did
he knows they were, as time rolled on- one at the time, wives.
When the boy came home, his mother was out of hospital,
boiling potatoes and frying sliced turnips.
Jul 16, 2022
Jul 16, 2022 at 4:02 AM UTC