Tuesday, July 12, 2011

Calming down.

Did yesterday's little slice of an overscheduled Brooklyn boater's life leave anyone feeling jangled? OK. Here. Canoe. Island. Mist. Calm water. And a poem.

Nice.
IMGP8320

I like this one, too.

Has some canoe drifted
off in the mist
all by itself
leaving its island behind?

Has some island drifted
off in the mist
all by itself
leaving its canoe behind?

Has one we knew drifted
off to sleep
all by themselves
leaving their someone behind?

And how do we know
if we have drifted
if our canoe has drifted
if our island has drifted
if we are all in the mist?

I like this one, too.

poem by o-docker

9 comments:

Mojo said...

Indeed, O-Docker has great promise as a poet in his (eventual) retirement. Evokes for me one of my very favorite poets, William Carlos Williams:

TO A POOR OLD WOMAN

munching a plum on
the street a paper bag
of them in her hand

They taste good to her
They taste good
to her. They taste
good to her

You can see it by
the way she gives herself
to the one half
sucked out in her hand

Comforted
a solace of ripe plums
seeming to fill the air
They taste good to her

O Docker said...

Hokie smokes.

Thanks for reposting and thanks for the kind words, Mojo.

I don't know what gets into me sometimes when I start typing in a comments page.

But, I'm surely no William Carlos Williams, Shirley. Here's one of my favorites of his, and about boats, too.

Hmm, maybe others could suggest favorite boat poems here.

Mojo said...

Just brilliant. WCW, the NJ physician, writing verse in his spare time. And he wasn't a sailor, if I'm not mistaken.

Speaking of boats, how about this one from Frank O'Hara?

bonnie said...

Oh, I am a cook, and a captain bold, and the mate of the Nancy brig,

And a bosun tight and a midshipmite
And the crew of the captain's gig!

(fond memories of bedtime stories - mom & dad were good that way)

bonnie said...

Here's the whole thing. I loved this one.

The Yarn of the 'Nancy Bell'
by W.S. Gilbert


'Twas on the shores that round our coast
From Deal to Ramsgate span,
That I found alone on a piece of stone
An elderly naval man.

His hair was weedy, his beard was long,
And weedy and long was he,
And I heard this wight on the shore recite,
In a singular minor key:

"Oh, I am a cook and a captain bold,
And the mate of the Nancy brig,
And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite,
And the crew of the captain's gig."

And he shook his fists and he tore his hair,
Till I really felt afraid,
For I couldn't help thinking the man had been drinking,
And so I simply said:

"O, elderly man, it's little I know
Of the duties of men of the sea,
But I'll eat my hand if I understand
How you can possibly be

"At once a cook, and a captain bold,
And the mate of the Nancy brig,
And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite,
And the crew of the captain's gig."

Then he gave a hitch to his trousers, which
Is a trick all seamen larn,
And having got rid of a thumping quid,
He spun this painful yarn:

"'Twas in the good ship Nancy Bell
That we sailed to the Indian sea,
And there on a reef we come to grief,
Which has often occurred to me.

"And pretty nigh all o' the crew was drowned
(There was seventy-seven o' soul),
And only ten of the Nancy's men
Said 'Here!' to the muster-roll.

"There was me and the cook and the captain bold,
And the mate of the Nancy brig
And the bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite,
And the crew of the captain's gig.

"For a month we'd neither wittles nor drink,
Till a-hungry we did feel,
So we drawed a lot, and accordin' shot
The captain for our meal.

"The next lot fell to the Nancy's mate,
And a delicate dish he made;
Then our appetite with the midshipmite
We seven survivors stayed.

"And then we murdered the bo'sun tight,
And he much resembled pig,
Then we wittled free, did the cook and me,
On the crew of the captain's gig.

"Then only the cook and me was left,
And the delicate question, 'Which
Of us two goes to the kettle?' arose
And we argued it out as sich.

"For I loved that cook as a brother, I did,
And the cook he worshipped me;
But we'd both be blowed if we'd either be stowed
In the other chap's hold, you see.

"'I'll be eat if you dines off me,' says Tom,
'Yes, that,' says I, 'you'll be,' --
'I'm boiled if I die, my friend,' quoth I,
And 'Exactly so,' quoth he.

"Says he, 'Dear James, to murder me
Were a foolish thing to do,
For don't you see that you can't cook me,
While I can -- and will -- cook you!'

"So he boils the water, and takes the salt
And the pepper in portions true
(Which he never forgot) and some chopped shalot,
And some sage and parsley too.

"'Come here,' says he, with a proper pride,
Which his smiling features tell,
' 'Twill soothing be if I let you see,
How extremely nice you'll smell.'

"And he stirred it round and round and round,
And he sniffed at the foaming froth;
When I ups with his heels, and smothers his squeals
In the scum of the boiling broth.

"And I eat that cook in a week or less,
And -- as I eating be
The last of his chops, why, I almost drops,
For a wessel in sight I see!

"And I never grin, and I never smile,
And I never larf nor play,
But I sit and croak, and a single joke
I have -- which is to say:

"Oh, I am a cook and a captain bold,
And the mate of the Nancy brig,
And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite,
And the crew of the captain's gig!"

Pandabonium said...

Excellent poem, O Docker.

Not being so creative, I just looked at that peaceful picture and thought, "should have worn a pfd"...

The World Tour said...

ooh I love that picture. very serene and dreamy..

bonnie said...

Wow, it's Taru! Hi! And thank you - what a compliment coming from you!

Frankie said...

Great!