There is a clipper ship in the harbor.
Alone, not seaworthy.
Moss and calcium infect and warp the deck.
Sunny day. No fog.
The ship knows why it was made
and now it cannot love the sea.
The sea is no longer infinite;
The wax and wane of the tide
make a heartless joke
as the shore ropes creak and laugh.
No captain to shout orders,
no crew to follow them.
The gulls have made nests
and now command with their squeals
the poor old clipper.
Wood fills with water,
swells; stretches.
The falling sun and rising winds
bring in the other ships from fishing trips.
Tidal tricks make the solitary ship
bow and yearn
for freedom and adventure.
To the other ships
the lonely clipper is
nothing more than a reminder of their own future;
bored,
ruined,
and hopeless.
Our lonely ship exists now
in memories
of crashing waves, the shouts of men,
salvation from the storm.
Covered in filth without the faintest remnant
of the rapid rowers
that once found solace in
the hollow belly.
We do not beat on,
boats against the currents.
We fall asleep one day in a dirty harbor
tied to the dock with tight ropes
never to wake up again.
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2 comments:
I really like this poem, sir. I have always been fascinated with the sailing era of history, but you've tied it together with internal reflection, philosohy, and given life to an otherwise dingy sea vessel finding out its purpose.
When I really think about it, it would be unfortunate to be born into this world with a purpose, or a blueprint (as Aristotle would believe for most creatures). People search for the meaning of life, but if they found the answer, at what cost would it be? Sometimes the unknown is what makes life worth living in the first place.
I also like how you don't use the boundary of form, really. It is more of just a moving piece - which I suppose contradicts the ships constricted spot, but it definitely sets the imagery in motion.
Nick, I also enjoy this poem very much. And that's not something I usually do, you know.
Charlie, I'm confused. If it would be unfortunate to have a purpose, and therefore be in danger of finding it out, haven't you presupposed a purpose by giving worth to living at all?
Furthermore, how could there be any cost too high in discovering one's purpose? Even death would be an acceptable price, I should think, for what else is there but purpose? The answer would have to be, if purpose does not exist, that there is only randomness and ultimate nothingness.
Often the unknown is exciting, and may enhance the value of one's life, but to say that the unknown (lack of purpose) is ever the thing that gives life value seems to presuppose a value ex nihilo, or perhaps at least of nothing. On this view values would have to be self-existent and self-sufficient, or else the giver of values would be placing value of not finding the value, which would mean that the lack of value is the value itself, and that is a logical incoherence.
I think.
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