June Month of Poetry Days #12-16

Well, as expected, I did not have time for poetry on my long weekend away in the Yarra Valley (which was awesome - a couple of photos provided for evidence!) Today, I used my work lunchbreak to compose two poems that together represent 5 days. 

The first poem for today is based on the mystery of the Mary Celeste. The Mary Celeste was a Canadian-built, American-registered merchant brigantine ship that was discovered adrift and deserted in the Atlantic Ocean off the Azores on December 4, 1872. She was discovered in a haphazard but seaworthy condition under partial sail and with her lifeboat missing (the assumption has always been that the people left on the lifeboat). The last entry in her log was dated ten days earlier. She had left New York City for Genoa on November 7 and was still amply provisioned when found. Her cargo of alcohol was intact, and the captain's and crew's personal belongings were undisturbed. None of those who had been on board were ever seen or heard from again. This was the Captain, Benjamin Briggs; seven sailors; Briggs' wife Sarah; and their infant daughter, Sophia.

Theories as to what happened are manifold, ranging from the natural (waterspouts, weather events, storms, seaquakes, ergot poisoning from the ethanol in the alcohol on board) to the mechanical (boat taking on water, navigational instruments misfiring and leading them to believe they were lost, failure of rudder control, explosion on board) to the human (mutiny, insurance fraud, pirates, attack by putative rescuers) to the fantastical (sea monsters, ghosts, aliens). 

The reality is no-one will ever conclusively know, although I personally lean towards an intoxication / poisoning and bad weather-related combo leading to poor decision-making and abandonment of the still-seaworthy ship for the fragile lifeboat which was promptly swamped. 

This poem is an English Madrigal.

The second poem is based on another mystery associated with the sea, but this one much closer to home for me: the disappearance of Harold Holt, Australia's 17th Prime Minister, in 1967. Holt  disappeared while swimming at Cheviot Beach near Portsea, Victoria, on December 17, 1967. His body was never found, and he was declared legally dead after a five-day search. The official (and likeliest) explanation is that he drowned in rough seas, but the absence of a body recovery has left the door open to more extreme theories, most notably abduction (by a submarine of an unfriendly power, by aliens, by political enemies) or assassination (by the CIA, by Communists, by mysterious shadowy men for indeterminate reasons). 

Harold Holt is commemorated by the Harold Holt Memorial Swimming Centre in the Melbourne suburb of Glen Iris - the very pool I used to do laps in when I lived close to there (25 years ago now!) The pool was being built at the time of Holt's disappearance, and since he was the local member, it was named in his memory. The irony of commemorating a man who is presumed to have drowned with a swimming pool is not lost on us in Australia, trust me :-)

Mary Celeste

The ship is drifting, lifeless, in the sun
on quiet seas, abandoned to its fate
a knotted cipher no one can translate.

What happened here to bring this world undone?
the stores preserved, the cargo lies in wait
no sign or sigil underneath the sun,
no way to know for certain of their fate.

A storm, a horror: something made them run,
holding life in both hands, a heavy weight,
a story none now can truly narrate.
The floating question, baking in the sun,
empty of souls snatched off to meet their fate
a song that only ghosts can now translate.

Drowned Man

"One mistake and you're gone. You just don't make that mistake... It is wonderful to be free, alone down there." (Harold Holt)

The water is the beginning and the water is the end, it's true;
swimming with the tides or against them, down into the belly of the salt
there's a purity of light down there, a clarity of purpose
by yourself, with no one to speak your name or bring you back
with no one to see your mistake, as the waters begin to draw you in
as the ocean recognises a prodigal child, and holds them tight to her 

deep down where the weeds don't go
where the bones of ships lie nestled against the dark sand
where sharks patrol, scenting blood in the spray 
where the nozzle-nosed crafts that move with whale calls slide silently 
where the sound of a gun is swallowed whole and never released again

it is wonderful

and isn't it a kind of freedom
all burdens laid down forever, as you surrender to darkness,
as you swim, your lungs liquid, to the pinpricking light
which could be a craft, or could be a gun
which could be the pebble eyes of a shark

or could be a beginning again
in the water, where it started
the first time and every time

a man is only a man, no matter how high
alone down there in the sea
alone with the salt and the silence
disappearing from sight,
gone with the wave,

gone

and no one can tell where.