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Rowing

A story, a story!
(Let it go. Let it come.)
I was stamped out like a Plymouth fender
into this world.
First came the crib
with its glacial bars.
Then dolls
and the devotion to their plactic mouths.
Then there was school,
the little straight rows of chairs,
blotting my name over and over,
but undersea all the time,
a stranger whose elbows wouldn't work.
Then there was life
with its cruel houses
and people who seldom touched-
though touch is all-
but I grew,
like a pig in a trenchcoat I grew,
and then there were many strange apparitions,

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poem by Anne Sexton
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The Odyssey: Book 12

"After we were clear of the river Oceanus, and had got out into
the open sea, we went on till we reached the Aeaean island where there
is dawn and sunrise as in other places. We then drew our ship on to
the sands and got out of her on to the shore, where we went to sleep
and waited till day should break.
"Then, when the child of morning, rosy-fingered Dawn, appeared, I
sent some men to Circe's house to fetch the body of Elpenor. We cut
firewood from a wood where the headland jutted out into the sea, and
after we had wept over him and lamented him we performed his funeral
rites. When his body and armour had been burned to ashes, we raised
a cairn, set a stone over it, and at the top of the cairn we fixed the
oar that he had been used to row with.
"While we were doing all this, Circe, who knew that we had got
back from the house of Hades, dressed herself and came to us as fast
as she could; and her maid servants came with her bringing us bread,
meat, and wine. Then she stood in the midst of us and said, 'You
have done a bold thing in going down alive to the house of Hades,
and you will have died twice, to other people's once; now, then,
stay here for the rest of the day, feast your fill, and go on with
your voyage at daybreak tomorrow morning. In the meantime I will

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poem by Homer, translated by Samuel Butler
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Row, Row, Row The Boat

Row, row, row the boat,
gently down the stream
of consciousness, and take close note
of things of which you dream
when working gallingly in galleys,
Ben Hur, condemned to row
until the spirit market rallies,
or falls like Jericho.

Slave, slave, slave, keep writing:
wait not for liberation,
and don’t feel crucified while fighting
lack of inspiration.
Be resurrected when unconscious,
keep jester juices flowing,
on auto-pilot, serving Pontius,
rowing, rowing, rowing.

David West, who is printing the galleys of my forthcoming book Legal Friction: Law, Narrative and Identity Politics in Biblical Israel, sent me an e-mail today which read:

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poem by Gershon Hepner
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There's no earthly way of knowing

There's no earthly way of knowing
Which direction they are going!
There's no knowing where they're rowing,
Or which way they river's flowing!
Not a speck of light is showing,
So the danger must be growing,
For the rowers keep on rowing,
And they're certainly not showing
Any signs that they are slowing...

poem by Roald Dahl
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The Rowing Song

Round the world and home again
That's the sailor's way
Faster faster, faster faster

There's no earthly way of knowing
Which direction we are going
There's no knowing where we're rowing
Or which way the river's flowing

Is it raining, is it snowing
Is a hurricane a–blowing

Not a speck of light is showing
So the danger must be growing
Are the fires of Hell a–glowing
Is the grisly reaper mowing

Yes, the danger must be growing
For the rowers keep on rowing
And they're certainly not showing

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poem by Roald Dahl
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Mine Kashmir

Kashmir which is mine
was a picture of paradise
Kashmir which is mine!

Its face
peaceful and serene,
its lips
smiling,
eyes
waiting and ready to welcome tourists.
waiting to hug
Nishat & Shalimar gardens
Feather rowing shikars # on Nagin & Dal lake
mangroves of chinar trees
gardens of almonds, apples and saffaron
howling hawkers
“Hako-hak, yekho-yekh”*
and those moments of pleasure soothing our eyes like
stringing of santoor
floating farms

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poem by Tribhawan Kaul
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Given the Oars to Row

Most who have been there will admit...
Fortunes aren't first recognized.
We are too busy looking for the gleam and glitter!
To impress before an acceptance is made.
These are confessions from those experienced.
Those who have paved,
Their own way.
And...
Have learned from many lessons.

Some await for titles to be sought.
To dropp jaws and bug eyes.
With a round of expressed applause.
Expected.

And those unafraid to claw themselves through tunnels,
Usually find daylight quicker...
Than someone seeking to protect manicured nails.
Or spend time shopping,
For the right survival outfit.

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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Rowing Your Way

He sat under a palm tree
serenading his lady fair
when a coconut dropped on his head
and he sat with a blank stare there.
She whispered sweet words of nothing,
but he couldn’t hear a thing
only somewhere in the distance
he head a cuckoo sing.
She garland him with pansies
and he looked a proper prat,
then a big bird came along
and deposited something on his hat
and as it run down on his chin
he thought his lady fair
had given a gooey kiss to him.
Then he opened up his eyes
and much to his surprise
he found himself in a cooking pot
and his lady fair was cooking him.
The vegetables floated on the water,

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poem by David Harris
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The Bridal of Pennacook

We had been wandering for many days
Through the rough northern country. We had seen
The sunset, with its bars of purple cloud,
Like a new heaven, shine upward from the lake
Of Winnepiseogee; and had felt
The sunrise breezes, midst the leafy isles
Which stoop their summer beauty to the lips
Of the bright waters. We had checked our steeds,
Silent with wonder, where the mountain wall
Is piled to heaven; and, through the narrow rift
Of the vast rocks, against whose rugged feet
Beats the mad torrent with perpetual roar,
Where noonday is as twilight, and the wind
Comes burdened with the everlasting moan
Of forests and of far-off waterfalls,
We had looked upward where the summer sky,
Tasselled with clouds light-woven by the sun,
Sprung its blue arch above the abutting crags
O'er-roofing the vast portal of the land
Beyond the wall of mountains. We had passed

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poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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Cargoes

Quinquireme of Nineveh from distant Ophir,
Rowing home to haven in sunny Palestine,
With a cargo of ivory,
And apes and peacocks,
Sandalwood, cedarwood, and sweet white wine.

Stately Spanish galleon coming from the Isthmus,
Dipping through the Tropics by the palm-green shores,
With a cargo of diamonds,
Emeralds, amythysts,
Topazes, and cinnamon, and gold moidores.

Dirty British coaster with a salt-caked smoke stack,
Butting through the Channel in the mad March days,
With a cargo of Tyne coal,
Road-rails, pig-lead,
Firewood, iron-ware, and cheap tin trays.

poem by John Masefield (1902)
Added by Dan Costinaş
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