On oily doldrums, in the silent sea
an island lies. It’s filled with crosses and
on craggy shores are rotting carcasses
of moored intentions and the words unsaid
are feeding vultures of what’s common sense.
You reach it through the belt of tempest,
through the roaring waters and on waves
of good intentions. You reach it after hope
have died and when your sleepless sails are torn.
You reach it with a mouth of salt, ambitions
dwindling in relentless sun, your tongue
is useless flesh, and breath is shallow
When after days at sea you see its shore
in indigo, a shadow, a mirage. Relieved
at first you hope to quench your thirst, but
the island is a corpse, regrets and tears.
And on its sandy beach, you rest, to
listen to the words of strangers, songs
of shipwrecked souls; your voice now strong
will join their choir of senseless syllables.
To the island of your words unsaid, there
is a ship arriving every month, to feed
the stranded lepers useless dreams. On
flat-screen monitors, they feed you sense
of what you could have done, with voices
from your lovers lost, in mockery of hope
you stand there being lured to trust, but
just as your are ready to repent, the ship,
and hope has left, and once again in
vain you sing the words you never said.
Today at toads Brendan tells of the old Irish tales of islands, that work also works as metaphors…to collect “an immrama, a book of voyages which any saint worth his salt would burn as too wild for belief. A ocean wilderness of wonders may come into view, even if we haven’t left our little pond.”
I hope my little poem makes sense. I will also link this to Poetry Pantry tomorrow.
January 9, 2015