that one
is like midnight seen
predictably dense
hunched
over his own seed.
unaware
of time.
determined still to change
everything ductile
to string ends.

and this one
goes still
to sea

though less now.
he has taken what he can
and mainly mends
nets

in blue arcs
contoured by experience
to eke the best
years out
of a fishing net.

yet that one
rips them far
too frequently;
dragging smiles
from this one
who knows
failure is heard
louder than advice.
that
one will learn.

and who knows
if midnight
is the child
of midnight
sea
since
neither is
permanent
though
one is more
tangible.

but these men
pull both in
from seventeen to seventy;
hand following hand
father after son
and
never have their boats
lacked a man
to go
to sea.

marine

the story is
told of one old
fisherman
who woke up in the dead
of night
and yelled “it
is coming
it is laden with fish.”

so deep
did the rhythm of
the tides throb
in his veins
that he sensed
the moment
the jubilant buoys
began
to drift back to shore
sure;

these men don’t see
in the submarine
darkness
of their calling.
they feel.

isolated
from the stability
of land
they use stars
for landmarks
and seek their dreams
in the reflections
of heaven.

in the old
man’s youth
they would push their canoes
out
until half submerged
in blue
then
they paddled smooth
as beaten leather
leaving
lather in their wake
and messages
sketched
on the sea’s veneer
by the trailing
ends
of their nets.

now
the guttural
grunts of gunmetal
black
outboard motors
violate
air and sea
as they Doppler
in and out of view
at double the speed;
the canoes stabbing
with masculine urgency
against
the horizon.

and the old
men sit
at the water’s end
barefoot
on the battered shells
of worn out vessels
sharing
tales of those
who did not return.
weaving webs
of blue into broken
nets.

occasionally
they help pull in the laden
nets.
“it is coming”
they yell
watching the nearing boats
and the buoys marking
the net edges.
taking care not to wade
out too
far.

blues

greek
mythological claims
of the greatest
beauties
and most powerful
gods
stem
from saved documents.

but truth cannot be
written.
the many nets of interpretation
it filters through
before it
pen drops
onto
sheet
extracts
its solid claims

like fish from
a hyperbolic sea.
these men’s catch
is passed on to
their wives for sale
and most are
happy
with this
arrangement.
so the wives dot the shoreline
with grin-like glints
angling
off their hand
beaten
aluminium pans
as their voices soar
over the collusion of waves
to sing out
the price of fish.

the women wrap
patterned cloth around
their breasts;
the knots of which
serve as carriers
for their earnings.

at night
the women slide
money like dreams
into the men’s
hands
to buy comfort
in alcoholic volumes.
and volumes of
these
sea blue blooded men
have passed unseen
to the other side.

it is said
that water maidens
in glowing raiment
listen in
on their drunken speech
and cast blue spells
upon the disgruntled.

with their woven
diamond fingers
and meshes of cotton
onyx hair
they hypnotise; drawing
in with the sinuous
sway of their cowrie
beaded hips.

their complexion
is whatever
the water gives
their touch
is the toe caress
of dying waves
their smile
is sunset
on an overturned horizon
and their kiss
is a blend of
amnesia and ambrosia.

these are the world’s
greatest beauties!

they leave men dumb-
founded floundering
in invisible waves.

the disgruntled
never re-emerge
they vanish after
consecutive evenings
seen
staring out
over
the sea
copper blue
like sub marine greek statues.