going down with the ship — not even the captain
lost souls on a heaving swell where an incidental tide
drags us drifting between land and open sea
not even the captain — going down ship and all
it seemed like calm seemed like shallows but the wind was ill
and blew every other way while we hoisted pennants and ensigns
red white and blue against its prevailing hauling ropes and halyards
to fill the sails
a mockery of seafarers — going down — not one of us captain
the pounding waves came
soundless spray in the air like a sea fog upon our intentions
hardly out of harbour bound for glory on some fabled island paradise
destiny seared upon our souls hands flat on patriotic chests
fists in clenched salute to the jingo brotherhood
to a shrieking sisterhood of followers and doxy brides
not even captains — going down with the ship — all hands
on deck rearranging points of the compass to suit
a rose by any name by any means a rosary of pig-headed hopes
like cheap beads on frayed twine
heeling top-heavy with pride light of cargo in the tide-races
tipped into so few fathoms of coastal water by too much armament
and too little aim
filled to the gunwales with anger and haste
till the waves come over our tiny heads our empty heads
and the salt water rushes in to fill the vacuum we thought of as
purity of heart and pride and nation and Dunkirk spirit
all going down in the not so deep — and not even a captain
the officers have flown the field or sculled away
in ones and twos in borrowed skiffs disguised in stolen clothes
treasure chests beneath the thwarts to buy safe haven
on foreign shores where a squandered crew can never go
drowned or not but sure as death abandoned
never the captain — the lower ranks and orders — going down
on the bobbing ship of fools the manifest a pack of lies
everything of value smuggled out in port by privateers and scoundrels
and the dupes put to sea for show careening from rock to sandbank
in shallow channels barely deep enough to drown a sorrow
we had been boarded by the enemy of our own complicity
hoodwinked by jack-tar talk and petty rivalries all guns spiked and pointed
at fictitious targets till we capsized unbalanced unhinged wide-eyed
sliding beneath the breakers — going down with the ship
© Brian Hill
Brian Hill - [Blog: One Piece a Week]
Brian has been 50 years a poet. One-time designer and film-maker; long ago, the rhyme-slinger, cartoon cowboy, and planetarium poet; now feverishly stringing words together in the hope of making sense.
Brian has been 50 years a poet. One-time designer and film-maker; long ago, the rhyme-slinger, cartoon cowboy, and planetarium poet; now feverishly stringing words together in the hope of making sense.
