Do you recall when we set off
so many years ago?
How at the outset,
there was no thought
of destination?
Back then, the journey
was the reward.
Then one day,
on those heaving seas,
the fog rolled in,
and our vessels drifted apart.
And when the mist cleared
and once again we met,
the game had changed.
You realised, or so you said,
that you could no longer be
the captain of your own ship.
And now, you were sailing
to a different port;
one I would never see.
You'd found the charts
and the instruments to guide you,
to a land no living man
has ever visited and returned.
And what of me?
According to you,
I'm Robinson Crusoe;
my ship, rudderless,
tossed about
on the ocean of indifference.
With no anchor
to hold me firm,
I drift upon the wind of change.
My moral compass missing,
I spin out of control
onto the rocks of despair
...or so you think.
But my charts
are those I've plotted
as I navigate the straits of life.
My senses are my instruments,
and reason my anchor.
And though at times
I've had my doubts,
they haven't steered me wrong,
for long.
They've led me to lands
on which
you will never set foot;
and to sweet fruits
you shall never taste,
or in doing so, will find bitter.
I'm no naufrague,
no Gilligan,
although I've had
my share of coconuts,
and ginger.
Let your Prospero
do his worst, I don't fear
his insubstantial pageant.
So continue on your journey
to the land you hope will be;
while my little life
ends with sleep.
And no matter whether
tempests rage,
or my vessel's becalmed—
I'll enjoy the journey.
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Author Notes
I have taken a few words, and a lot of enjoyment, from Prospero's speech in The Tempest, Act IV, Scene I - which, along with the Epilogue from the same play are my two favourite snippets of the Bard's work.
The speech in full (almost) is as follows:
You do look, my son, in a mov'd sort,
As if you were dismay'd; be cheerful, sir.
Our revels now are ended. These our actors
(As I foretold you) were all spirits, and
Are melted into air, into thin air,
And like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capp'd tow'rs, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve,
And like this insubstantial pageant faded
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on; and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.
Today's word:
naufrague (n.) a shipwrecked person, a castaway.
My much-treasured Christmas present for 2017 is a book by Paul Anthony Jones: "The cabinet of linguistic curiosities". Each page contains a descriptive story about some obscure or archaic word. It occurred to me it would be a fun exercise to try and write, each day, a poem featuring the "word of the day" from the book.
Thanks for reading.
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