Sunday, February 19, 2006

Navigation of Splinters

Oh how we preen ourselves
in our profundity. Such
pompous little gits we are.

In a balsa-framed coracle,
scudding across the bay,
sits an imp wearing autumn leaf colours,
holding the sail-line pouched with wind.

The dip and pull of liquid balanced
against the stretched jest of canvas,
his mouth cracks with such delight
in the dexterous fingers that tense
and flex at each elemental nuance.

Amongst the interplay
of brain, bone and brawn,
he imagines himself to hold
the harness of Poseidon's flagship,
or some other godlike powers.

To the ladies watching from shore
he and his craft appear
as a pinpoint splinter
in the silky slide of tides.


J.B. Rowell said...

I learned a new word today . . . thanks!

Main Entry: cor·a·cle
Pronunciation: 'kor-&-k&l, 'kär-
Function: noun
Etymology: Welsh corwgl
: a small boat used in Britain from ancient times and made of a frame (as of wicker) covered usually with hide or tarpaulin

This poem is great, I wish more people realized they/we are only pinpoints . . .

Rae Pater said...

Hi Julia, it's a pretty word isn't it? I love the way it sounds.

It's very hard to fully realize that perspective of ourselves and maintain it for any length of time. I think it must be natural to think of ourselves as individually more important than we actually are, since our survival pretty much depends on it.