A Ship to Remember
Hammers. Timbers. Iron. Steel.
They're laying down a mighty keel.
As ant-like workers scurry round
I hear a truly riveting sound.
And as she rises midst the swarm
I see the beauty of her form.
(He has no soul who cannot see
How I am forced to call her "she".)
And then, 'a sudden, she's a ship!
She waltzes down that mighty slip.
Then, in the water, no splash, mind,
This lady floats. Oh! How refined!
Southampton docks: I want to feel,
And touch, and taste the British steel!
Palatial, and stately too.
(There was no like in Xanadu.)
The passengers, the crew, all we
Are safe aboard, so out to sea.
The cheers, the midget well-wish fleet,
That siren deck beneath my feet!
A jewelled city, in the night,
From shame, the very stars took flight.
Her mighty speed seemed but a creep,
So steady that she seemed asleep.
Indeed the city slept. A few
Remained awake, they mostly crew,
To feed the rav'nous boilers' maw,
To bake the bread, sort mail, and more.
I almost dozed and wished my bed,
"Iceberg!", "Iceberg! Dead ahead!"
With straining engines, spinning wheel,
She strove to swerve her awesome keel
And almost, almost, but, not quite --
A straining shrieking rent the night
And rent her hull. (I took no fright.)
'Twas but a glancing blow", I think,
She will not, cannot, must not sink!
But down below the decks, unseen:
In sneaks the ocean cold and keen.
And as up each steel wall it grows
It reaches top, and overflows.
Boats are lowered. Ah! Sad few.
"Women and babes first!", shout the crew.
A panicked man, in dressing-gown:
"My God! My God! She's going down!"
"Nearer my God, to thee how near".
The band plays on, to calm the fear.
"You've done your duty, lads, now go."
But does the music stop? Oh no.
A fervent prayer to He who saves
As down she slips beneath the waves.
Then those dreadful screams.
(I sometimes hear them in my dreams.)
Next morn, upon that sorrowed billow
A wreath, a chair, a toy, a pillow.
No souls, the souls are all asleep.
I stand in silent prayer, and weep.
Patrick Lockerby - March 2005
Born 1946, London, England.
Poetry in Turbulence
To many non-specialists of literature, poetry is deeply unsatisfying. There are several reasons for this, but two in particular come to mind. The first is that most poetry is overly descriptive, leaving little to the imagination; the second is that the rest of it is abstruse. This presents the non-specialist with a dilemma: either to persevere in the thankless task of attempting to unravel an increasingly unrewarding literary crossword; or to make do with the superficialities of descriptive verse and the resultant ennui. Both projects would presumably confirm any prejudices that these readers entertained about the relevancy of poetry to their lives. In circumstances such as these, I think it would be appropriate to introduce a method of poetic appreciation, which, although unorthodox, would encourage the non-specialist to revise any negative opinion of poetry held.
My hero, my best friend, my Grannio (a.k.a my Grandmother)
She raised me like I was her own daughter from the day I was born 32 years ago.
Blind Designs [a Poem] and a Note by Rosa on The Other Door
A Different Place...
I wish we had met 20 years ago... A different place, a different time when I actually had a chance for you to be mine...
Infected Ideologies [a Poetic Portrait]
the disease of extremism is infectious-; whoever cannot think of their child growing up without it is part of the phenomenon! (the choice of the day). fanaticism,-- with a powerful ideology are seeds for suicide! murder: giving reasons to rage!... ask: leninist che hitler bin laden they will show you to a noble act of death!... (that is what they say). throw out: poverty, the disadvantaged- save the ideology, that is the infected, the choice!?
Two Poems with Triggers [and a commentary]
So Many Einstein's
Biography of Charlotte Bronte
Charlotte Bronte (1816 ?1855) Novelist and Poet.
I never thought I would have to say GOODBYE to my best friend? But that's what I had to do today I had to let go of her forever ?
The Art of Receiving Poetic Critique
You can show your poem to your mom, your spouse, your co-workers, or your friends, but you might not get the responses that you can suck up into your little writing fingers to use in an effort to refine your craft. What does it really mean when someone who cares about you, but not for poetry says, "Wow, this is great. I really like it?"
Learn About Love From Poet Rumi
In this modern age of technology, busy lifestyles, and obsession with consumerism have taken a lot of the romance and love out of our lives. The Internet has become a medium to connect with people as everyone is finding it a lot harder to meet one another in the 'real' world. It has undeniably also become a place of voyeuristic fantasy in the realms of sexuality on pornographic sites. What ever happened to true love? Are our priorities so messed up that romance has been forgotten, only to be experienced vicariously through television and movies? The answer is no. Romance will never die; we just have to feed it with our energy.
Poems have different cores, or so I believe, and can only be structured well for certain figurative language-heart beats; like all counselors are not made for all clients, so all poems are not made for the same person, or purpose; when we read we all have our likes and dislikes; I do not necessarily know what poetry is per se, but I do know what the greatness of poetry has, and great poetry is close to an illusion?it carries an echo I do believe-figurative yes, at best, and questionable yes, by far. Here are five poems I've recently wrote, all with a different core, focus and style.
Walt Whitman, Romance With a Stranger
The concept of brief encounters, even romantic encounters, with a stranger recurs often in the verses of Walt Whitman.
You make me smile like I've seldom done before You give me a reason to want more and more...
Its What She Didnt Say
When I hear your voice inside my head it makes me think of you every single day as I fight back tears of sadness and wonder if you're okay
A Case of The Fears
Chicken Soup is good for a cold
In The Midst Of All
In the midst of darkness, there is light. In the midst of evil, there is virtue. In the midst of war, there is peace. In the midst of agony, there is ecstasy.
Mother, I Dont Mind The Pain
I am among those who know that one never recovers from the loss of one deeply loved. We come to accept the death and adjust our lives - rather begrudingly, but we do not recover, we survive. Somewhere in the grief process, we make the decision to survive and then we are emotionally enabled to build a different kind of relationship with our deceased loved one.
Ode To Quetzalcoatal [Now in Spanish and English]
Ode to Quetzalcˇatl
Looking Out the Rear Window
The funeral rite concluded With the pastor shaking hands, Offering words of comfort I didn't quite understand.
Three Love Poems [all wicked]
Advance: Mr. Dennis Siluk's poetry can have its fire-hearted twists: as with 'Lovers'...', and 'Death...' and the 'Loves's Curse';but love can carry with it, luring assets, especially in these three poems, as you will soon see; two of which he calls sonnets. He sings a dim song, but it all seems to fit in the river of bitter waters; or salty waters. Be that as it may, they are worth the adventure in reading them, weary as they may be. For those interested, his new book of poems will be out in weeks, "Spell of the Adnes," it will be a charming book. Rosa Penaloza
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