On bleak shore I stand
imagine swimming to horizon
to see if cold sea can dilute
salt water crusting on crimson cheek.
Maybe make friends with the lost
cast away, ugly ducklings, on the way;
swap stories and jokes
till punch-lines run dry
and sirens beckon us back
with swan song melodies
full of promises of melancholy wishes
played on pipes of indifference.
But those exotic songs, do not beckon I,
so to horizon I’ll keep a heading,
to where sun setting
turns brine to ink so I can pen
a verse or two titled ‘Sea of Tears’
and/or ‘When salt waters collide’
and sing it to my new duck friend
who asks why
I want to reach the horizon.
I answer only: ‘Because it’s not shore.’
and he pretends
to know, but he does not
as he leaves me for sand sanctuary.
Then as day gets older
setting sun sits lower, glowing orange,
like it’s set fire to the horizon,
a ceremonial cremation
for the death rattle of dying day.
but no elegy or pyre
could entice me more
than hearing its crackling promises
to dry the salt waters, which punish I,
like sea-sick sailor
craving home and the bosom
that awaits he
with ember hearth and warm rum.
But shore is neither home
nor happiness to I, now I know
the burning kingdom of eternal rest
lays just beyond the distance;
the esoteric myths of poetic fools
and holy men, enough for me
to continue to believe
in the rumoured uncharted island
nicknamed salvation.
When alongside I, a whale,
the size of France, appears
with a sickle shaped smile
and bloated promises
claiming: “I know a place that is neither
‘shore nor horizon,
‘where poetic verse is pointless
‘because pain and happiness
‘is but the same within its ephemeral walls.”
I sighed, and started to backstroke
so to better view, that big blue
promiser of heaven, or hell.
‘But what care I for such a place
‘where the sun is the same as the moon
‘and folk like my friend the duck
‘have no shore to call a home?’ said I.
‘But its beauty is unsurpassed:
‘rolling hills and poppy fields
‘sit like lakes of blood in mint green sea,”
Said she, as if my history was writ
on jetsam floating by.
‘Alas, madam,’ said I.
‘I cannot contend its beauty,
‘and if it’s as great as yours
‘I would surely be happy there,
‘but I must reach the horizon,
‘so I can write the duck
‘to confirm the ugly and unwanted
‘are at least, welcome there.
‘So, Fair thee well, my tres belle femme,
fair thee well.’
I said, with practiced apathy.
But days, turned to months,
and years snuck up
till thoughts of horizon promises
began to fade, and I forgot
what crimson cheek was like
without salt water.
I begun to think holy horizon
was beyond this swimmers reach,
I sighed to raging sky and confessed
my love for it and for thee,
before solemnly taking grave
on ocean floor
beside starfish and octopi.
imagine swimming to horizon
to see if cold sea can dilute
salt water crusting on crimson cheek.
Maybe make friends with the lost
cast away, ugly ducklings, on the way;
swap stories and jokes
till punch-lines run dry
and sirens beckon us back
with swan song melodies
full of promises of melancholy wishes
played on pipes of indifference.
But those exotic songs, do not beckon I,
so to horizon I’ll keep a heading,
to where sun setting
turns brine to ink so I can pen
a verse or two titled ‘Sea of Tears’
and/or ‘When salt waters collide’
and sing it to my new duck friend
who asks why
I want to reach the horizon.
I answer only: ‘Because it’s not shore.’
and he pretends
to know, but he does not
as he leaves me for sand sanctuary.
Then as day gets older
setting sun sits lower, glowing orange,
like it’s set fire to the horizon,
a ceremonial cremation
for the death rattle of dying day.
but no elegy or pyre
could entice me more
than hearing its crackling promises
to dry the salt waters, which punish I,
like sea-sick sailor
craving home and the bosom
that awaits he
with ember hearth and warm rum.
But shore is neither home
nor happiness to I, now I know
the burning kingdom of eternal rest
lays just beyond the distance;
the esoteric myths of poetic fools
and holy men, enough for me
to continue to believe
in the rumoured uncharted island
nicknamed salvation.
When alongside I, a whale,
the size of France, appears
with a sickle shaped smile
and bloated promises
claiming: “I know a place that is neither
‘shore nor horizon,
‘where poetic verse is pointless
‘because pain and happiness
‘is but the same within its ephemeral walls.”
I sighed, and started to backstroke
so to better view, that big blue
promiser of heaven, or hell.
‘But what care I for such a place
‘where the sun is the same as the moon
‘and folk like my friend the duck
‘have no shore to call a home?’ said I.
‘But its beauty is unsurpassed:
‘rolling hills and poppy fields
‘sit like lakes of blood in mint green sea,”
Said she, as if my history was writ
on jetsam floating by.
‘Alas, madam,’ said I.
‘I cannot contend its beauty,
‘and if it’s as great as yours
‘I would surely be happy there,
‘but I must reach the horizon,
‘so I can write the duck
‘to confirm the ugly and unwanted
‘are at least, welcome there.
‘So, Fair thee well, my tres belle femme,
fair thee well.’
I said, with practiced apathy.
But days, turned to months,
and years snuck up
till thoughts of horizon promises
began to fade, and I forgot
what crimson cheek was like
without salt water.
I begun to think holy horizon
was beyond this swimmers reach,
I sighed to raging sky and confessed
my love for it and for thee,
before solemnly taking grave
on ocean floor
beside starfish and octopi.
Edvard Munch (1863-1944), The Scream Signed E. Munch and dated 1895
This is a poem about depression and the overwelming need to escape which can take over the day.
I used the horizon as a metaphor of never reaching your goal of happiness (because the horizon is always in sight but never reachable by definition).
For some reason I liked the surrel charactors in there - the duck, someone who is also depressed but finds happiness; the whale, a drug dealer offering a respite from the sadness.
The final stanza, is the protaganist giving up after too many years of swimming for happiness ('I forgot, what crimson cheek was like, without salt water.' i.e tears).
I used the horizon as a metaphor of never reaching your goal of happiness (because the horizon is always in sight but never reachable by definition).
For some reason I liked the surrel charactors in there - the duck, someone who is also depressed but finds happiness; the whale, a drug dealer offering a respite from the sadness.
The final stanza, is the protaganist giving up after too many years of swimming for happiness ('I forgot, what crimson cheek was like, without salt water.' i.e tears).
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