|A Dustbin of the Soul
Author: Solemn Coyote PM
Every writer has a wastebasket tucked in a corner of their mind. It contains the thoughts that never make it and the words that never manage to be spoken. Here are a few of my older poems, drawn from that wastebasket.Rated: Fiction T - English - Chapters: 6 - Words: 882 - Reviews: 27 - Updated: 09-16-10 - Published: 06-07-06 - Status: Complete - id: 2188414
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
The Flying Dutchman heaves up out of the ocean deep
just like a heavy heart
(or is it the other way around?)
I can feel mine beat.
Barnacles glisten and
in great, swollen clusters on the hull.
they cling fast as memory to the old wood.
Fast even when memory becomes slow.
Water runs in honeycombs
through the spaces between thoughts.
It wants to slide off them, and spill
back into the dark arms of the ocean.
It wants not to touch
this impossible ship
as much as I want to see it.
The barnacles, for their part,
are sad to see the water leave.
They withdraw their marble hands
and shut their hatches
and prepare for another dry-spell.
Another bout of flying.
They don't care much for magic.
Only for wet and not wet.
I can't say the same.
My eyes are locked
on dripping wood.
I can see the creak of timbers
and hear the lack of gulls.
I can feel the figurehead
as if there was no space between us.
I half close my eyes
and I swear my cheek brushes cold wood.
I pull back
and I catch just a glimpse of her face:
an albatross, hair algae-stained, stares back.
Maybe that sounds unlikely,
but I'm already watching the Flying Dutchman.
Little impossibilities pale in comparison
to the ship that hangs
ten feet over the waves
(drying in the wind.)
From my vantage, I can see the whole vessel:
every mast and rigging and spar.
There is a cool breeze over the harbor tonight,
and it sweeps the sails
They stir and shift,
flapping every which way
without a crew to guide them.
The ship knows
(with the sureness of a muscle clenching)
where to go.
It pulls down
into the water's surface
to breach like whales do
(if whales lived in the sky)
and, as far away as I am,
I hear the wet snap.
A great, white sheaf has broken off the front
and collapsed back into the sea.
A great mess of salt and scar has peeled away
to expose the old planks underneath.
If the Dutchman were a heart,
and not a flying ship,
this would be impossible.
Medical men would gather around,
tsking and tutting like plovers squabbling,
And they would exult in the breakthrough.
But the Dutchman is a ship.
A strange miracle.
A fleeting ghost.
Its chest unburdened,
it heaves back up into the air
Until it slips between clouds
And loses itself without a trace.
With the ship gone
I have nothing else to do but stand
On these cliffs
And listen to my pulse pound.