Here we have another metaphorical poem for the pleasure of your unpacking – another story from the void of meaning. Ready for the ride?
Also, for this week, for your intellectual, pleasure, the Almanac presents a fairly technical poem. Of course, you may wish to enjoy the poem on its own merit (or lack thereof). But for those inclined to the technical, here are some items to consider:
1. As with several previous poems, this is a work of metaphor. The metaphor images are clear, but the meaning – well . . . not so much – that is, unless you happen to have experienced what the narrator of the poem has. We sincerely hope not.
2. With a few exceptions, the stanzas are composed of 8 lines. Consider the stanzas that don’t follow this pattern – there is a reason for each divergence.
3. Unless the poet miscounted, each line has 10 syllables, but not in iambic pentameter. Thus, the poem has characteristics of blank verse.
4. Notice that the first two stanzas have two left “justified” lines, whereas the rest of the stanzas only have one. Hmmm . . . what can that mean?
Also, for this week, for your intellectual, pleasure, the Almanac presents a fairly technical poem. Of course, you may wish to enjoy the poem on its own merit (or lack thereof). But for those inclined to the technical, here are some items to consider:
1. As with several previous poems, this is a work of metaphor. The metaphor images are clear, but the meaning – well . . . not so much – that is, unless you happen to have experienced what the narrator of the poem has. We sincerely hope not.
2. With a few exceptions, the stanzas are composed of 8 lines. Consider the stanzas that don’t follow this pattern – there is a reason for each divergence.
3. Unless the poet miscounted, each line has 10 syllables, but not in iambic pentameter. Thus, the poem has characteristics of blank verse.
4. Notice that the first two stanzas have two left “justified” lines, whereas the rest of the stanzas only have one. Hmmm . . . what can that mean?
Note that this week’s poem is half of the whole work. Stay tuned for Part 2 next week.
The Long Swim Home
Part 1
Beginning the long swim home
I
leave a haunted ship
wrecked
on the sandy seabed
scuttled
and sunk by pirates of the heart
mariners
of great lies and betrayals
Now I am
beyond their nets and hooks
hidden
by rocky, seaweed-covered reefs
dusky-dawn
light wavelengths in slow currents
Fish, immense
and slight, emerge from gray portals
go
back to safety or predation
Now
I must return to shallow waters
If I stay,
surely, they will reel me in,
hold
me up for photos, then throw me back
to
sea already dead and sinking fast
The
deepest voices in all the oceans
in
utter mourning for the seabed’s plunder
Deciding I
can’t stay underwater
I
set out swimming anywhere but here
stroking
up away from seagrass meadows
eager
to push against currents and tides
soon
I pierce the waterline and breathe pure
fiery
air and lungs protest lack of use
winds
and waves soon fill my ears with water
the
sounds of sea remain trapped far below
Beginning
the long swim home
Whistles
in the distance – waves skimming waves
I
push away from keel-scraping waters
heading
for open ocean using my
internal
celestial compass true and
certain
on this pivotal journey home
By
night, my core’s magnetic guidance steers
pushing
pressure pulses through the spray
Imagine the
beacon’s rotating light
above
home harbor, but here only moon
gleams
down bright spattered configurations
yet,
just below me dusky shadows glide
reminders
of moans, thumps, and clanking chains
Asudden,
I’m caught and fiercely dragged down
“Shark!”
I yell with no one near to hear me
Somehow,
I reach down – find heavy netting
The long
swim home seems upended, sunken
unfinished
before I sail to harbor
yet
slowly I work to free myself while
gulping
water as cresting waves contrive
to
sink me once more and push me downward
rasping
sounds break the hollow of my throat
and
raise up my strong determination
to
free myself - exhaust the cruel currents . . .
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: What is “home” as the poem portrays it in the narrator’s mind? What is “home” to you in the context of this poem.
Exploration 2: Why might this narrative take place exclusively on or in the ocean?
Exploration 3: In the beginning of the third stanza, what is the narrator’s motivation for rising to the surface? What is the metaphor here?
Exploration 4: One key to the entire meaning of the poem is the phrase, “pirates of the heart.” Does this help decipher the meaning?
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: What is “home” as the poem portrays it in the narrator’s mind? What is “home” to you in the context of this poem.
Exploration 2: Why might this narrative take place exclusively on or in the ocean?
Exploration 3: In the beginning of the third stanza, what is the narrator’s motivation for rising to the surface? What is the metaphor here?
Exploration 4: 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
Wannaska World 2018.09.24
With that observation lingering on his lips, Otto sensed Renner fading away, folding elsewhere, yet remaining present. “Maybe things really were connected. Why not?” Otto thought. This concept of connection took Otto one step further: “Otto. Odin,” he whispered to himself. “Maybe if Odin kept wolves, he could help me find Freki, sees as I named my new dog after one of his wolves.” As Otto ruminated about such things, he heard a distant Aw-roooooh float over the fields. Then three-tone yips, followed by a second “singer” answering in like language.
“Gosh,” Otto worried, “Maybe they’ve gotten Freki and eaten her. Well, that does it,” he resolved speaking more loudly to himself. He might be grounded, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t roam around the homestead. Otto scrambled back to the window and pulled himself in.
Without making any attempt to move quietly, he trundled down the stairs and descended farther into the basement where his mother stored all manner of things. That’s where Wink’s bowl would be. Otto pulled the cord of the overhead light bulb and examined the shelving. Almost immediately, he spotted the bowl. On tiptoe, he pulled it off the shelf, tucked it under his arm, yanked the light cord, and headed upstairs. Another ragged fragment of sadness pierced through his determination as memories of Wink wafted through his imagination. “Sure wish she could ‘fold’ right now,” yearned Otto. He headed straight for the refrigerator and opened the door.
Paula Pepperhorst sat in her rocker, watching a movie and knitting something or other. “Otto?”
“Yea, Ma,” answered Otto flatly.
“How can you be hungry after that big casserole we had for supper?”
“I’m a growin’ boy, Ma,” he said sarcastically.
“There’s some sliced ham from Sunday,” Paula offered.
“Okay.”
“And Otto, I’m sorry you brought this grounding on yourself, but you can’t go gallivanting in the fields and woods ‘til all hours. I was worried sick about you.”
“Aw, Ma.”
“Then there was that animal you brought home. I’m certainly glad that one’s gone. It looked pretty uncivilized to me. Why don’t you go down to the Olsons and have a look at those mixed-breed pups? I hear they’re really cute.”
“Yea, maybe,” Otto mumbled.
He took out three slices of ham, laid them in Wink’s dish, and covered the slices with tuna casserole. He topped the concoction with torn-up bits of sliced American cheese, and as quietly as he could, slipped out the kitchen door.”
“If I can’t find her, maybe I can lure her with food and make friends like,” Otto thought hopefully.
He strode to the chicken coop and placed Wink’s dish on the windward side, then covered the dish with a light layer of weeds. He found himself thinking of Odin and his two wolves, and without intention, Otto sent out something like a prayer to Odin, for no reason other than he had a canine named Freki. His bait laid out, Otto hurried back to the house, quietly approached the refrigerator, took out a carton of milk, poured some in a glass, and along with some store-bought cookies, gulped loudly, just in case his mother was listening for sounds of eating.
“Night, Ma,” Otto said as he ascended the stairs.
“Good night, Otto,” Paula returned. “Don’t sulk. Okay?”
Otto, already in his room, headed back out the window to lie again under Orion’s stars. “Orion, Odin, Otto,” he mused. “No coingkydinky, that’s for sure,” he concluded, followed by his commitment to himself to watch all night. He could see the side of the coop facing the house, but not the side where he had hidden Wink’s dish. A yard light burned brightly over the lawn around the house, and the outbuildings. “She’ll come back,” Otto let himself believe. And for most of the night, Otto kept watch for Freki. Only when he almost rolled off the asphalt roof did he consider turning in.
Fighting off sleep, he steeled himself for the long, night’s watch, feeling like he teetered on the brink of a thousand-foot cliff. About thirty minutes later, he stared off through dry, foggy eyes when he saw two figures in the distance out near the line dividing field from forest. The smaller one sure looked like Izzi, but what the heck would she be doing out here at this time of night – ‘er morning. Sure looked like her shape. His eyes fogged over even more. “Who’s that!?” Otto exclaimed out loud, as he sighted a very large, male figure striding in huge steps beside Izzi who was practically running to keep up. The male seemed to be carrying an unusually large sledgehammer.
In the morning, Otto went immediately to the coop. The empty dish nestled in the tall grass.
“Gosh,” Otto worried, “Maybe they’ve gotten Freki and eaten her. Well, that does it,” he resolved speaking more loudly to himself. He might be grounded, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t roam around the homestead. Otto scrambled back to the window and pulled himself in.
Without making any attempt to move quietly, he trundled down the stairs and descended farther into the basement where his mother stored all manner of things. That’s where Wink’s bowl would be. Otto pulled the cord of the overhead light bulb and examined the shelving. Almost immediately, he spotted the bowl. On tiptoe, he pulled it off the shelf, tucked it under his arm, yanked the light cord, and headed upstairs. Another ragged fragment of sadness pierced through his determination as memories of Wink wafted through his imagination. “Sure wish she could ‘fold’ right now,” yearned Otto. He headed straight for the refrigerator and opened the door.
Paula Pepperhorst sat in her rocker, watching a movie and knitting something or other. “Otto?”
“Yea, Ma,” answered Otto flatly.
“How can you be hungry after that big casserole we had for supper?”
“I’m a growin’ boy, Ma,” he said sarcastically.
“There’s some sliced ham from Sunday,” Paula offered.
“Okay.”
“And Otto, I’m sorry you brought this grounding on yourself, but you can’t go gallivanting in the fields and woods ‘til all hours. I was worried sick about you.”
“Aw, Ma.”
“Then there was that animal you brought home. I’m certainly glad that one’s gone. It looked pretty uncivilized to me. Why don’t you go down to the Olsons and have a look at those mixed-breed pups? I hear they’re really cute.”
“Yea, maybe,” Otto mumbled.
He took out three slices of ham, laid them in Wink’s dish, and covered the slices with tuna casserole. He topped the concoction with torn-up bits of sliced American cheese, and as quietly as he could, slipped out the kitchen door.”
“If I can’t find her, maybe I can lure her with food and make friends like,” Otto thought hopefully.
He strode to the chicken coop and placed Wink’s dish on the windward side, then covered the dish with a light layer of weeds. He found himself thinking of Odin and his two wolves, and without intention, Otto sent out something like a prayer to Odin, for no reason other than he had a canine named Freki. His bait laid out, Otto hurried back to the house, quietly approached the refrigerator, took out a carton of milk, poured some in a glass, and along with some store-bought cookies, gulped loudly, just in case his mother was listening for sounds of eating.
“Night, Ma,” Otto said as he ascended the stairs.
“Good night, Otto,” Paula returned. “Don’t sulk. Okay?”
Otto, already in his room, headed back out the window to lie again under Orion’s stars. “Orion, Odin, Otto,” he mused. “No coingkydinky, that’s for sure,” he concluded, followed by his commitment to himself to watch all night. He could see the side of the coop facing the house, but not the side where he had hidden Wink’s dish. A yard light burned brightly over the lawn around the house, and the outbuildings. “She’ll come back,” Otto let himself believe. And for most of the night, Otto kept watch for Freki. Only when he almost rolled off the asphalt roof did he consider turning in.
Fighting off sleep, he steeled himself for the long, night’s watch, feeling like he teetered on the brink of a thousand-foot cliff. About thirty minutes later, he stared off through dry, foggy eyes when he saw two figures in the distance out near the line dividing field from forest. The smaller one sure looked like Izzi, but what the heck would she be doing out here at this time of night – ‘er morning. Sure looked like her shape. His eyes fogged over even more. “Who’s that!?” Otto exclaimed out loud, as he sighted a very large, male figure striding in huge steps beside Izzi who was practically running to keep up. The male seemed to be carrying an unusually large sledgehammer.
In the morning, Otto went immediately to the coop. The empty dish nestled in the tall grass.
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