Sept 5 2009

Surely this would be a day to sail upon the open sea,
A day for being on the ocean for a very long time,
This is a day to be a skipper on one’s own sea craft.
But who are these people who decorate their houses
From the ships and the ships chandlery, who is this
Pipe-smoking patriarch who mutters to his guests
About the floor-boards retrieved from what
Old antebellum schooner of which he thought
He found a print in a second-hand shop, where?
Who are these people, nearly immobile themselves,
Among so many instruments for movement,
Polished in their disuse to shine, once tarnished
By their exposure to the elements? Who among them
Is the matron of the local historical society, which
Old would-be seaman has lost his mind among
These maritime artifacts, whose mind has come
Almost to a complete halt among the items
Of the chandlery, among the brass instruments,
Muttering about the places on the globe
From which they came? Which port of call?
The cocoons in the trees, wrapped in silk,
Among the white oaks, don’t even sway,
The air so still. A river pushes through a dam,
Water ground through turbines to threads
Of silky water—the old man who mutters,
Leaning on his mantle, has lost his mind to thoughts
About water’s power, relating to his guests
The history of the floorboards as a schooner’s deck
Beneath the feet of the teller and of those
To whom the tale can yet again be told.
But for the listener, the tales sound rehearsed,
About the brass instruments, the compass,
Astrolabe and floor-boards, as if the house
Were the ship, as if this somnolent teller
Were the captain himself, and the arrows
Inside the brass artifacts could really move,
A ship sunk in earth, ready to sail inside
With its spellbound crew, the teller
Necessary for the tale with the listener.
And all the paintings are maritime,
Old sailboats and stormy moons,
Lulling voyages, whose itineraries
Lull their passengers into stone. Of the shipman
Who stands before the mantle, house guests
Before him—his mind stopped long ago.