The mariners that we are, marinated
in the juices of the poets before, not a nice
image mind you Hart, though good for the pan
handler looking for a gem or gold in the course
of reading, like the excavation of the Mary Rose,
a fruity ship, like Peter the Pomegranate,
a shipwreck like carrack, done my homework,
they had hand held weapons and canons
no titters there boys, this is not your M or Loaded
Fire at will! Sheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeesh
Kebab, I could not resist that one Hart!
But seriously, on deck of the junk, we spot
anchored off shore, Herman Melville once more
In a tomb he is, probably written up in copy,
That is in shorthand, a poem by the Crane boy!
Floral tribute, we throw, anatomy of a flower,
sepals, stalks, calyxes, and the male parts,
Into the Sea, where the whale sports
with the love of Hawthorne, good old Nat,
A romance of unrequited passion, fruit
The whale, we have resurrected, it spouts
Defiance, fak you Ahab, fak you, fak you
It gulls us into remembrance of earlier reverance
Our Whitman bird, the Chekhov bird, mews
In our self reflexive mode, the funeral of a feed-back,
R.I.P. our anchovies, our sardines, our sea food,
the noise and clutter, time to get on board
the narrative, to move beyond the Twelve
at dinner, to the number of our reluctance
To the terra incognito,
Fire at will -
Jesus
Christ
Judas
Priest
Stephen,
ReplyDeleteYour poetry definitely has an ironic, post-modern feel . . . which is nearly the opposite of what I write, but I enjoy it nonetheless and Hart Crane is a wonderful poet and model.
Lethe