POEM: THE BARNACLE SEA

The Barnacle Sea

In the Barnacle Sea,

ships ply blue waters.

Tall ships, great sailing ships,

the fastest anywhere

carry chests filled with black pearls

and gold coin.

Cords of perfumed wood

scent all the decks.

Baskets of sweetmeats,

silks and spices and teas

near-burst from their holds!

 

In the Barnacle Sea,

maps are made and read by men

whose skins are like leather;

skins darkened and tanned

by the sun and wind

until where they came from

and where they go

no longer matters.

All day long they stretch and furl

great swaths of canvas to the wind,

cursing all the while

as sweat salt-stings their eyes.

And when they wipe their brows

and squint at horizons,

they look for signs of land:

distant cloud banks,
the homeward winging

of seabirds, 
the tell-tale reefs,

the schooling of shoreline fish.

Their clear eyes sparkle in the sunlight.

In the Barnacle Sea,

everywhere is the same.

Every journey has the same end,

as did its beginning.

Ships sail along, pushed by wind and current.

Each travels in open seas 
or with the greatest care, 
skirts by rocky coastlines and shoals
known for generations.

Safe inlets and friendly shores

are also well known,

etched into map and memory.

In the sea, southern winds

blow warm and moist,

some scented by the lands

they passed over.

The briny ocean-smell

takes on for a time

the perfume of fig trees,

of date and citrus groves,

the stewy breath of swamps

and ripening inland fields.

At those times,

men aboard the ships recall

how once they, too,

had been of the land,

how their feet had stood

upon the flat earth;

how the land grew up around them,

not needing so much

the careful underpinnings

of duty and watchfulness.

But for the most part,

some say the best part,

they were of the sea.

Their lives, their histories,

even the sound of their own names

lost to wind and wave,

and to the snapping of canvas

and corded lines;

lost to the creaking of wooden hulls

caulked and re-caulked

by boiling tar and hemp,

(the only true measure of fealty

they give to their earth-bound beginnings).

In the Barnacle Sea, kings and church men

trade with paupers.

Ringed fingers touch silks and precious gems

brought from lands only shipmen will see.

Potters stand watchful hours

through long nights at kilns

to reclaim and finish bowls

meant for distant high tables.

Traders bring bundles of wool

and woven cloth, dried fruits and berries

to storehouses and docks

of the great port cities.

Merchants bargain with ship-captains

for space aboard their vessels:

Carvings, tapestries, gems; spices so rare

that when tasted bring tears of pleasure to your eyes!—

all are cargo for those who sail the Barnacle Sea.

In the Barnacle Sea, storms rarely come.

But when they do arrive,

fear sounds in the hearts of sailors

like the ringing of a doom
with waves higher than the highest mainsails,

and winds that shriek like ten thousand harpies.

To those who survive such violent waters,

stories come of the terrors and disasters

that befell a sister ship,
of giant-scaled monsters,
and mad gods.

Still, when the sun rises once more,

and the air is clean and fresh,

and the horizon clear,
save for soft cloud and flocks of returning birds,

the men aboard the ships

give thanks for their lives,

and wish for none other.

In the Barnacle Sea,

it is told of a time, a long ago,

when men lived like gods;

when plates of gold and glass as clear as air

were common trade,

and when gleaming cities

once filled the earth to near-bursting.

..........

Onboard at night,

watchmen warm themselves at braziers.

They look to the skies and speak of stars,

and of strange worlds around those stars

that men were said to have visited;

how, long ago, ships sailed

across the heavens as easily as they moved over water.

They whisper of dark things,
tales and memories long forgotten,

of evil magic,
of wars and destruction.

And speaking low,

caught in their fear and longing,

they ward themselves,

and ask their gods

to forgive their impieties.

Then they move about their ships,

once more keeping watch,

sounding the time,

and shivering a little

with visions of what-could-be.

THERE'S MUCH TO BE SAID FOR ALTERNATIVE FUTURES, and by writers more well-versed and skilled than I.

I was in a bit of a nautical mood today, and this kept bobbing around in my head. I like the details of cargo and ship’s company that that hopefully create for the reader a picture of a sea-faring world, one which apparently lay in our future. I wanted to give the sense of new ways of doing things, new ideas and ideals, new hopes and fears. Just something different from today. Yet, I wanted it recognizable and something the reader could relate to. And I wanted the sense of a vibrant human world, but one more in keeping with the natural order of things.

It’s a very recognizable world from the past;  from the present, really. Perhaps it’s a more humble world (despite the rich merchants and churchmen with their fat ring fingers. Perhaps there were lessons learned by the time this future world came about; lessons about pride or at least about the dangerous level of pride we seem to have today, and how it is no longer an option. Perhaps they understand, better than we, that there are gods and goddesses in the world who need to be revered, as well as feared. And a night’s watch is as good a place as any to remember such things. (And yes, I wish I could have a time machine.)