In shipness absolute,
the old whaler ashore and sealess
deckroll-walks the stable dock
to the fence-edge,
stares into the stilly dark of low tide.
His thoughts are a sailly windiness
and, low to the whalable waters,
the foamsplash and sparclatter
of remembrance, fall home.
This life is chanceless. There,
in memory’s sea, the corded trajectory
of charge-thrown harpoons, whaled,
the doried slickered sailors riding the froth
near the death-thrash, the soon
resistless mammoth; that
was the livingest way. But here, now,
workless pensioner oceanable but in dreams,
sea-blood churning wakely in his veins,
the old man idles away
until fogly swallowed the harbor lights
wink out one by one.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I liked the Anglo-Saxon vibe of this poem. Very well done!