The big finish. Ta-da!
No, not so far. The boat is small,
Though it would be the craft which
Brings the point I'd hoped to make
To you. It carries skinny men with
Guns. Somali pirates? Yes, of
Course. You see now why I
Specified the waves were lapping
That land's shore. Their boat is
Brought beside the man's. The
Pirates climb from theirs to his,
And neither he nor I have any idea
What we ought to do. He is by
Himself at sea, and I, inside this
Basement room, proceed in utter
Ignorance. I haven't gone where
He is now. I've never been out on
The ocean, never been near Africa,
And know no more than that these
Pirates chased their prey in tiny
Boats, and aren't so common as
They were, as greater forces, ships
And planes, from greater nations,
Came to kill or capture them,
But I'll say these four are at large,
And, as they face him on his deck,
The one who seems the oldest
Speaks, in English, “Hello. Don't
Be scared. We are not here to
Injure you. We'll take you and
Your boat to land, and wait,
And, once your ransom's paid,
You'll be back on your way.”
What sort of pirate speaks like
This?, our hero wonders, as do
You, and I reply, a man who's
Whole, the sort you'd meet on
Any street. He isn't just a body
Or a sullen figure dragging chains,
So, here, you start to see my
Point. Our hero and the pirate
Sit together on the boat for days,
And, as they do, we learn two stories,
One, already partly known: the man
Adrift, in search of meaning; one, as
Yet not even known to me. It's still
To be made up. I'll start. The pirate,
Years ago, was sent to college, Kansas
State, to learn to be an engineer, but
Then his nation fell apart. His father's
Death forced him back home, and,
With the family business gone,
Employees killed and buildings looted,
There was no way left to live, except
By setting out to sea to fish, and most
Of them are gone. I did the research
Yesterday. The waters off Somalia
Are barren now. They're over-fished
By Asian trawlers, poisoned, too, by
Toxic wastes from greater nations,
Brought by ships which dump it in
The night and slide away. “All we have
Is piracy,” the man says with a weary
Smile. “Call our ransoms reparations.”
Here, a second speck appears, another
Boat, a larger one with men with guns
And whiter faces. Rescuers, our hero
Thinks, and this is what they aim to
Be, but someone shoots. Soon, all
Are shooting. Pirates and our hero
Die, and, on a distant ballroom floor,
The spiders' journeys end beneath
Unseen, unseeing shoes.
Poetry by Lawrence Beck
Read 20 times
Written on 2013-09-01 at 14:28
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A Voyage, part two
A speck appears, a boat, far off?No, not so far. The boat is small,
Though it would be the craft which
Brings the point I'd hoped to make
To you. It carries skinny men with
Guns. Somali pirates? Yes, of
Course. You see now why I
Specified the waves were lapping
That land's shore. Their boat is
Brought beside the man's. The
Pirates climb from theirs to his,
And neither he nor I have any idea
What we ought to do. He is by
Himself at sea, and I, inside this
Basement room, proceed in utter
Ignorance. I haven't gone where
He is now. I've never been out on
The ocean, never been near Africa,
And know no more than that these
Pirates chased their prey in tiny
Boats, and aren't so common as
They were, as greater forces, ships
And planes, from greater nations,
Came to kill or capture them,
But I'll say these four are at large,
And, as they face him on his deck,
The one who seems the oldest
Speaks, in English, “Hello. Don't
Be scared. We are not here to
Injure you. We'll take you and
Your boat to land, and wait,
And, once your ransom's paid,
You'll be back on your way.”
What sort of pirate speaks like
This?, our hero wonders, as do
You, and I reply, a man who's
Whole, the sort you'd meet on
Any street. He isn't just a body
Or a sullen figure dragging chains,
So, here, you start to see my
Point. Our hero and the pirate
Sit together on the boat for days,
And, as they do, we learn two stories,
One, already partly known: the man
Adrift, in search of meaning; one, as
Yet not even known to me. It's still
To be made up. I'll start. The pirate,
Years ago, was sent to college, Kansas
State, to learn to be an engineer, but
Then his nation fell apart. His father's
Death forced him back home, and,
With the family business gone,
Employees killed and buildings looted,
There was no way left to live, except
By setting out to sea to fish, and most
Of them are gone. I did the research
Yesterday. The waters off Somalia
Are barren now. They're over-fished
By Asian trawlers, poisoned, too, by
Toxic wastes from greater nations,
Brought by ships which dump it in
The night and slide away. “All we have
Is piracy,” the man says with a weary
Smile. “Call our ransoms reparations.”
Here, a second speck appears, another
Boat, a larger one with men with guns
And whiter faces. Rescuers, our hero
Thinks, and this is what they aim to
Be, but someone shoots. Soon, all
Are shooting. Pirates and our hero
Die, and, on a distant ballroom floor,
The spiders' journeys end beneath
Unseen, unseeing shoes.
Poetry by Lawrence Beck
Read 20 times
Written on 2013-09-01 at 14:28
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text| Texts |
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