Part 1 of “The Long Swim Home” was posted on this site last week. Here's Part 2:
The Long Swim Home
Part 2
. . . As I resume ridding myself of nets
soon casting off, return to swimming fierce
home-guided by two doubtful compasses
stroking furiously under brilliant Dipper
and its improbable star pointing north
until half-light of dawn finds me floating
on my back, hands slowly swirling to keep
my mouth held above calmer leeward waves
Dolphin backs breach surface to my starboard
iridescent flying fish flick their fins
Then I see something bobbing on the waves
thick and sturdy it seems to me from here
Soon, a thick, wide, wooden plank supports me
a boat of small dimensions to be sure
still a resting place, and after, paddling
the home arrival now seems more assured
I lie prone on my rude vessel, kicking
Horizon begins to crown foreboding
a steely squall line marches grim toward me
that may be more dangerous than any net
I remove and tie my pant legs around
the plank’s middle for more secure gripping
and in due course, the storm comes on full force
Rousing in storm-wake, flat upon the plank
Waves slosh sleepily and a sonorous thump
attended by erratic eerie songs
tell me I am not alone – nor want to be
sun blinded with haze- thick clouds meaning that
so too the pole star’s light – for how many nights?
until fish and birds pick my bones to pulp
or brigands capturing me with black-hearted luck
Such thoughts and now my useless drifting shape
quench the fire of reaching home-harbor safe
with piers built fast against a sturdy shore
no more nodding buoys red on the right
bring me home, set me down to rest and dry
days of thirst trail out behind – I can’t tell
how many or their names – all I see now
imminent sluicing with seaweed halo
coral rubble for bed and closing sleep
sea silence rocking downward in the deep
Background
Even though I grew up in land-locked central Wisconsin, images of the sea and sailing have played a significant role in my life and in my poetry. Likewise, the theme of “coming home” has been writ large in my work. Maybe I am in touch with the fact that all life came from the ocean, even us – or so many experts claim.
A big clue to the poem’s meaning which I probably shouldn’t reveal is that the narrative arc follows a journey without end, after trauma.
Exploration 1: Are the events of this part of the poem imaginary or real?
Exploration 2: What is the meaning of “doubtful compasses” in the first stanza of Part 2?
Exploration 3: Is our narrator still alive at the poem’s completion?
Exploration 4: In the beginning of the third stanza, what is the narrator’s motivation for rising to the surface? What is the metaphor here?
Exploration 5: One key to the entire meaning of the poem is the phrase, “pirates of the heart.” Does this help decipher the meaning?
A big clue to the poem’s meaning which I probably shouldn’t reveal is that the narrative arc follows a journey without end, after trauma.
Exploration 1: Are the events of this part of the poem imaginary or real?
Exploration 2: What is the meaning of “doubtful compasses” in the first stanza of Part 2?
Exploration 3: Is our narrator still alive at the poem’s completion?
Exploration 4: In the beginning of the third stanza, what is the narrator’s motivation for rising to the surface? What is the metaphor here?
Exploration 5: One key to the entire meaning of the poem is the phrase, “pirates of the heart.” Does this help decipher the meaning?
Your Monday Poet, Jack Pine Savage
. . . In the morning, Otto went immediately to the coop. The empty dish nestled in the tall grass. . . .
“Holy buckets!” Otto exclaimed to himself. “She was here!”
Before he went off to school, Otto stuffed some packaged chicken in his backpack, anticipating how excited he would be telling Bobby about Freki. Otto was certain that he could capture her again, especially with that injured hind paw. She wouldn’t be able to hunt very well, except for pouncing on the abundant field mice, and that was iffy.
Otto took the long way to school, and consequently was tardy for his first class, Civics. Along the way, he continued to scan the edges of the woods and forests, as well as the fence lines on farmers’ fields. Once, he thought he saw a doggish shape dart into the trees, but it wasn’t visible long enough to identify. He had stuffed Wink’s collar and leash into his bag with hopes of attracting Freki with the chicken. As he trundled along, the image of Izzi and the large man with the sledgehammer intruded on his search focus. “Did I really see them,” he wondered to himself. “I suppose it’s that dang folding again. Man, it’s hard enough to keep things straight without the folding. Sometimes, I wish I’d never met Izzi. It’s all too much!”
When he arrived at school, Otto snuck into his Civics class with Mr. Horston as quietly as he could.
“Nice that you could join us Mr. Pepperhorst,” said Mr. Horston. “Won’t you please take your seat?”
Otto shuffled up to the middle of the center aisle and sat down at his assigned seat. With everything that was going on, he couldn’t keep his mind on Civics, or his next class, American History, or the next, Algebra 1, and so on until it was lunch hour. Otto hurried to the lunchroom and earnestly looked for Bobby.
When he found him, Otto’s agitated demeanor mildly annoyed his friend. Otto excitedly filled in Bobby with the details of the last twenty-four hours.
“Jeepers, Aught,” (Otto had shared the name Izzi had bestowed on him.) anybody’d think you were going nuts with all this talk about strange dogs eating out of Wink’s dish, sighting Izzi with the hulking man carrying the hammer, and the rest. Are you feeling all right, buddy?”
“Course I am,” said Otto, almost indignant.
“Well, you don’t seem like it.”
After school, Bobby and Otto walked the fields, lugging their backpacks. No sign of Freki, but once, Otto was sure – even though Bobby wasn’t – that he heard a distant “Aw-roooh.” Shortly, Bobby peeled off toward his house, and Otto continued home. With more than a little dejection, he opened the screen door and stepped inside.
“Well, if it isn’t my guy,” said Peter Peppenhorst, striding toward Otto and giving him a substantial hug.
“Hi Dad,” Otto said with less than enthusiasm.
Peter Peppenhorst returned from the oil fields of Williston, North Dakota about every two months for a week. For the first couple of years, Otto had mightily looked forward to his father’s returns, but after five years, Otto felt as if he didn’t even know the man, as much as he would have liked to.
“Hey, why so glum?” asked Peter.
“I’dunno.” Otto answered with the enthusiasm of a cat napping on a window ledge.
“Want to practice some free throws?” Peter asked, not giving up on arousing some positive reaction from his son.
“Sure,” Otto responded, with slumped shoulders.
“All righty, then,” Peter clapped his hands. And they headed out the door to retrieve the basketball, and to compete at the hoop above the garage door.
[2018.10.01 Jack Pine Savage]
“Holy buckets!” Otto exclaimed to himself. “She was here!”
Before he went off to school, Otto stuffed some packaged chicken in his backpack, anticipating how excited he would be telling Bobby about Freki. Otto was certain that he could capture her again, especially with that injured hind paw. She wouldn’t be able to hunt very well, except for pouncing on the abundant field mice, and that was iffy.
Otto took the long way to school, and consequently was tardy for his first class, Civics. Along the way, he continued to scan the edges of the woods and forests, as well as the fence lines on farmers’ fields. Once, he thought he saw a doggish shape dart into the trees, but it wasn’t visible long enough to identify. He had stuffed Wink’s collar and leash into his bag with hopes of attracting Freki with the chicken. As he trundled along, the image of Izzi and the large man with the sledgehammer intruded on his search focus. “Did I really see them,” he wondered to himself. “I suppose it’s that dang folding again. Man, it’s hard enough to keep things straight without the folding. Sometimes, I wish I’d never met Izzi. It’s all too much!”
When he arrived at school, Otto snuck into his Civics class with Mr. Horston as quietly as he could.
“Nice that you could join us Mr. Pepperhorst,” said Mr. Horston. “Won’t you please take your seat?”
Otto shuffled up to the middle of the center aisle and sat down at his assigned seat. With everything that was going on, he couldn’t keep his mind on Civics, or his next class, American History, or the next, Algebra 1, and so on until it was lunch hour. Otto hurried to the lunchroom and earnestly looked for Bobby.
When he found him, Otto’s agitated demeanor mildly annoyed his friend. Otto excitedly filled in Bobby with the details of the last twenty-four hours.
“Jeepers, Aught,” (Otto had shared the name Izzi had bestowed on him.) anybody’d think you were going nuts with all this talk about strange dogs eating out of Wink’s dish, sighting Izzi with the hulking man carrying the hammer, and the rest. Are you feeling all right, buddy?”
“Course I am,” said Otto, almost indignant.
“Well, you don’t seem like it.”
After school, Bobby and Otto walked the fields, lugging their backpacks. No sign of Freki, but once, Otto was sure – even though Bobby wasn’t – that he heard a distant “Aw-roooh.” Shortly, Bobby peeled off toward his house, and Otto continued home. With more than a little dejection, he opened the screen door and stepped inside.
“Well, if it isn’t my guy,” said Peter Peppenhorst, striding toward Otto and giving him a substantial hug.
“Hi Dad,” Otto said with less than enthusiasm.
Peter Peppenhorst returned from the oil fields of Williston, North Dakota about every two months for a week. For the first couple of years, Otto had mightily looked forward to his father’s returns, but after five years, Otto felt as if he didn’t even know the man, as much as he would have liked to.
“Hey, why so glum?” asked Peter.
“I’dunno.” Otto answered with the enthusiasm of a cat napping on a window ledge.
“Want to practice some free throws?” Peter asked, not giving up on arousing some positive reaction from his son.
“Sure,” Otto responded, with slumped shoulders.
“All righty, then,” Peter clapped his hands. And they headed out the door to retrieve the basketball, and to compete at the hoop above the garage door.
[2018.10.01 Jack Pine Savage]
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