Come The Whalers’ Final Cloud Poem by Philip Housiaux

In cunning oath vigil on coast with harpoon
oomiak on sea ready, but ice rests while death looms.
The cruel down thrust foot anchored sure and doom
as innocence loved will swim past a man’s length
and feet – lay full lunge man and shaft in gut wrench
the crucial deep liver sounds froth and red stench.

So went old Capokti’s foul village to seize
a passing calm life – from fresh frozen thin sea
all huddled these hunters – lungs slacked air will tease.
Yet hobbling shy rear – I play urine’s tense bend
as tragedy feared by these hunters all ten
but me – light side-stepping the opening rend.

And so these men waited eyes hunting seawards
with mind’s ear roused for snap of ice chords
wind shifts make ice barges and gentle death lords.
Ice stiff grime and gout leaves unnoticed in block
and billions of splinters cold jewel light in mock
while Inuit eat muctuc and dream of wives’ cots.

The lying sea pack strains for grip on land’s hand
men drift out on silent white wisps of cloud strand.
But where men not angels walk without retreat
in famine their thirst is their last kin and heat
know absolute truth and loneliness a week
whose family for remains can weep but not seek.

Thin earth less isle floating on feckless sea breeze
ironic that fearsome sea monsters, to please
pass Earth’s full fertility, arms away, to tease
with skull and jaw buckets, to carry with ease
the waft of their oil, that the winter not freeze
while devious artic wind shifts snag and wheeze.

Edinburgh 2008 The author does not endorse commercial whaling.