Erstwhile

“Vanilla Seascape” by Alena Shymchonak

small work is troubling
for fingers who’ve fallen
afflicted with paradox
chronically pained in
the gnarl of the knuckles
while fingertips numbed
lost of all sense of touch

small work is troubling
for eyes who can no longer
find enough light
the dimensions of clarity
stolen by dint of disease
leaving only the large
parts of life to their ken

no more elegant ships
from the grand age of sail
will reach deft re-creation
by hands of a nautical mind
every sailor who comes
at last home to the land
understands the same loss

now holds naught but dry
dreams that remember
those fortunate few
who met poignant demise
with a relevant rapture
for death well and fine
at blest bottoms of seas

Aural History

 

 

“South Street Seaport – Financial District” – Photo by Suman and Sharmila

 

 

iron-rimmed wheels

drawn by iron-shod hooves

gave a clattering cadence

reverbing dull bells

ringing atonal peals

along ill-masoned lanes

of Belgian block cobbles

and dredged Venice stones

bilge-pitted from urine

of a hundred stout lads

crude ballast unshipped

for a nickel a ton

from heart-of-oak vessels

of mercantile Brits

singing Cockney crew lingo

with cargo commands

over heaps dropped in nets

upon creaking tarred wharves

Schermerhorn Dutch

gave out guttural barks

to the breaking breeze humming

through neatly reefed yards

slung up high-crossed on masts

overtowering docks

where a nautical polyglot

spilled its cacophony

up and down gangplanks East

Indiamen hove in place

with great bangs and hard crashes

that echoed across the wide

swift running current dividing

Manhattan from Brooklyn

from my forty-floored glass

looking down on the seaport

when sail-masted schooners

or frigates would moor

all the sounds of the centuries

rose up to reach me

transporting me back to

that wild newborn world

of rapscallion romance

and mean edged adventure

where men grunted glory

for merely surviving

another new day

all the time feeling wistful

that I had been born

too long after my time

***********************************

 

(Note: my office was on the 40th floor of the octagonal tower at enter of the photo)

 

 

(originally posted November 2013)

Hobby

Model of US Privateer “Rattlesnake”

(originally posted February 2014)

 

I live among ships of an age
ships that once plied the routes
that connected the world
fought the battles that remade
the maps of belligerent kings

ships I built on my fingertips
piece upon piece sewed their
sails tied their rigging of threads
spun from passion for nautical
turns of a landlubber’s mind

yards and masts stand a cruciform
forest across worn oak surfaces
decking my den between leather
bound volumes and chandlery
relics from dead captain’s quarters

I dream of roiled seas ripping under
my feet cut by bows of adventure
foam spraying the freeboard flags
snapping with crisp salty history
made by bold maritime bones

Teredo

Model of French Warship “Le Soleil Royale”

the worm in the wood

subtle seaborne invader

soft mouth who makes meal

of hard lapstrake in deadrise

of commonwealth destinies

hinders the smooth sail

of maritime conquest

pernicious bold parasite

given to stubborn defiance

unfazed by the theater of

thrones under ukase of kings

here is ample example of

seemingly powerless creatures

the homely and humble

whose instinct is honed

to create with destruction

the only skill left to its

primitive purpose

a thwarting impediment

though it be small

to the brazen advances

of unreserved arrogance

speaking resistance

to undeserved power

Saint Elmo’s Fire

“St Elmo’s Fire” by Jeffrey Bedrick

amid deafening rage

inside ocean-born storms

black winds tear at tomorrows

waves raise living mountains

in heave of a terrible power

to terrorize seamen with

vividly imminent visions

of bottomless watery graves

when the highly charged

hair-raising volatile ether

licks mastheads and yardarms

the bowsprit and gunwales with

burning blue flames of auspicion

this fiery plasma of martyrdom

come of a sudden defiance

of darkness a sign of salvation

and sailors all smile to a man

Heart of Oak

“England’s Wooden Walls” by Tom Freeman

 

beneath massive yards

canvas billowed with empire

thirty thrones wide

seven seas torn by cannon

decks wounded by history

Hull Down

HMS Victory “Appointment with Destiny” by Paul Garnett

masted man-o-war

sails broach the

sharply drawn

sunrise horizon

too far to know

friend or foe

time to climb

to the crow’s nest

spyglass in hand

keep alert to

her movement

make ready

the gun crews

and rifled marines

place no trust

in her flag rigs

her ensign or jacks

pay no mind to her

oncoming signals

the world’s not

the same as it was

back when honor

accompanied men

into battle the

modern defender

must never forget

that a brazen deceit

and vile subterfuge

make up the tactical

black heart of terror

South Street Seaport

“South Street Seaport”
Painting by Anderson Tyler
From artvalue.com

docks built by Dutch traders
old Schermerhorn Row moving
indigo spices the spectrum of teas
pearls and porcelain finding
exchange among English goods
drawn to the busiest port in
the colonies fortunes amassed
in conversion of cargoes to
specie and gold futures won
just as easily lost on the turn of
one voyage that fickle Atlantic
whose now and then baleful
eyes poured out most punishing
weather this maritime rowdy
casino of commerce dealt hands
steep with risk and reward
its deep pilings supporting a
capital system that grew up
to skyscrape the lofty ambitions
of liberty’s greatest experiment

Melville

Herman Melville 1819-1891
American Author

bedeviled seamen
deep ocean consolation
harpoons rust below
tribulations under sail
resolved in dark ironies

Bell

Lutine Bell Rostrum
At Lloyd’s of London
Photo from wikipedia.org

there was a time
every ship had a monogrammed voice
speaking hours and watches
supplanting circadium
ringing down duties
raw bodies indentured owed
underneath both moon and sun
toil timed to make most of skilled brawn
seeking optimum headway
through squalls and hostilities
eyes on the prize
trained by chimes that could penetrate
gunfire or storms
till the deeps had enough
of that unnatural noise
sending silencing waves
swamping over the gunwales
to swallow her whole and forever
saluted by one final peal
from the Lutine mahogany rostrum
in ritual London