Short fragment

[Silas Thorne]

Lines in the sand
from cutlasses, drawn by seasoned hands
now lifeless sunsalt fingers at dawn.
Gold, bitten by yeast weakened jaws-once-pearls
the sails unfurled in sunsets red
as blood too in the hold of wind.

Whose grasp is it that spins the wheel?
Who drives the wind?

[andave_ya]

I was just thinking that it's been a while since I've read any of your poems :).

It rather reminds me of a ghost ship, if I may, floating around with all the pirates dead. Is that a correct interpretation?

I enjoy the tone, too. It makes me think of wind, solitude, and "bring me that horizon." I feel like I'm there - alone - an actual ghost, steering.
That's kind of odd - I haven't really felt that way with a poem before.

[Silas Thorne]

Thanks andave, I'm happy it got that reaction out of you. :) There is no correct interpretation, but it pleases me you've enjoyed the tone. It is not finished, I just want to find out what people think of it so far.

[jon1jt]

Really nice wriiting, silas, top to bottom. Interesting questions, yes.

[~Sophia~]

Hi Silas, I was wondering if this was finished. So far I love these lines


the sails unfurled in sunsets red
as blood too in the hold of wind.

Whose grasp is it that spins the wheel?
Who drives the wind?

One little thing, I do wonder about the use of wind twice within four lines but, that may be clear by the end of the poem. Can't wait to read where this will take me!

[PrinceMyshkin]

Lines in the sand
from cutlasses, drawn by seasoned hands
now lifeless sunsalt fingers at dawn.
Gold, bitten by yeast weakened jaws-once-pearls
the sails unfurled in sunsets red
as blood too in the hold of wind.

Whose grasp is it that spins the wheel?
Who drives the wind?

"Who drives the wind?" indeed and perhaps equally who/what drives the mind of a poet when he dives to the bottom of the sea of subconsciousness and comes back with such transcendentally powerful images?

I'd love to hear you speak this, Silas, and perhaps if one of the moderators catches this, they might consider providing us the means to speak our poems to the site where others could listen to them.

[qimissung]

Beautiful images; I love things that end in questions. I love these questions. Who, indeed?

[Silas Thorne]

Thanks all for your comments. It came up with a spark, but the images are still arranging themselves.
The questions will definitely come at the end, because yes, Sophia, you're right, there's too much wind blowing in such a small space. But in between there will be more...I'll keep scratching away at the surface to see what is beneath.

[Silas Thorne]

Here's some more, the words are haunting me, but I'll show you how its coming about, along, just not in a song:

Lines in the sand
from cutlasses, drawn by seasoned hands
now lifeless sunsalt fingers at dawn.
Gold, bitten by yeast weakened jaws-once-pearls
the sails unfurled in sunsets red
as blood too in the hold of wind.

And with the wind
that platter hope of peace they thought would come
now strains its sinews in approaching days.
Fine fools and fellows till the drink ran out
now shaking dice in hour glasses, stretching
arms in tight packed spaces, lopping
tall poppy abandon, painting the snapping canvas
crimson, over a creaking deck.

A night comes, with the fall of men
and some sit battered by the bow
stern eyes moving
in the path of a wave-rocked lantern
but still the sea's unflinching servants
connected to the ship, a quiet storm.
On mother sea, with no way back to land,
one voice among them drifts along the deck:
'Whose grasp is it that spins the wheel?
Who drives the wind?'

[PrinceMyshkin]

Just keeps getting better and better. Thanks!

[~Sophia~]

Fifteen men on a dead man's chest
Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum
Drink and the devil had done for the rest


Lovin it. Great images!!

[Silas Thorne]

You're right Sophia, I cannot deny the influence of Treasure Island. :)
The poem's still working me though, and there are still places where the sound jars, or does not match the mood I intended.

[~Sophia~]

I know what you mean, if it doesn't sound right to you, it's not done. But I'm certain once you are completely pleased with it, we'll love it all the more!

[firefangled]

Here's some more, the words are haunting me, but I'll show you how its coming about, along, just not in a song:

Lines in the sand
from cutlasses, drawn by seasoned hands
now lifeless sunsalt fingers at dawn.
Gold, bitten by yeast weakened jaws-once-pearls
the sails unfurled in sunsets red
as blood too in the hold of wind.

And with the wind
that platter hope of peace they thought would come
now strains its sinews in approaching days.
Fine fools and fellows till the drink ran out
now shaking dice in hour glasses, stretching
arms in tight packed spaces, lopping
tall poppy abandon, painting the snapping canvas
crimson, over a creaking deck.

A night comes, with the fall of men
and some sit battered by the bow
stern eyes moving
in the path of a wave-rocked lantern
but still the sea's unflinching servants
connected to the ship, a quiet storm.
On mother sea, with no way back to land,
one voice among them drifts along the deck:
'Whose grasp is it that spins the wheel?
Who drives the wind?'

You did great expanding this, Silas. Such a perfect sailor's tale, of a ghost ship? My favorite line: "in the path of a wave-rocked lantern..." what a true rhythm.

[Silas Thorne]

Lines in the sand

Lines in the sand
from cutlasses drawn by seasoned hands
now lifeless sunsalt fingers, meeting dawn.
Gold, bitten by yeast-weakened jaws once pearls
the sails unfurled in sunsets red
as blood too in the hold of wind.

And with the wind
that platter hope of peace they thought would come
now strains its sinews in approaching days.
Fine fools and fellows till the drink ran out
now shaking dice in hour glasses, stretching
arms in tight-packed glances, lopping
tall poppy abandon, painting the snapping canvas
crimson, over a creaking deck.

When night comes, with the fall of men
some sit battered by the bow,
stern eyes fixed to the gallows, the tallow
path of a wave-rocked lantern
hanging a rattling voice of chains,
clanking a hymn to the sea.

And then one day, with seaspray breath
one thought among them anchors on the breeze;
an unpicked seachest on a burning ship:
'Whose grasp is it that spins the wheel?
Who drives the wind?'

© Silas Thorne 2/3/2009

[Dori]

Lines in the sand

Lines in the sand
from cutlasses drawn by seasoned hands
now lifeless sunsalt fingers, meeting dawn.
Gold, bitten by yeast-weakened jaws once pearls
the sails unfurled in sunsets red
as blood too in the hold of wind.

And with the wind
that platter hope of peace they thought would come
now strains its sinews in approaching days.
Fine fools and fellows till the drink ran out
now shaking dice in hour glasses, stretching
arms in tight-packed glances, lopping
tall poppy abandon, painting the snapping canvas
crimson, over a creaking deck.

When night comes, with the fall of men
some sit battered by the bow,
stern eyes fixed to the gallows, the tallow
path of a wave-rocked lantern
hanging a rattling voice of chains,
clanking a hymn to the sea.

And then one day, with seaspray breath
one thought among them anchors on the breeze;
an unpicked seachest on a burning ship:
'Whose grasp is it that spins the wheel?
Who drives the wind?'

© Silas Thorne 2/3/2009

Wow. :nod:
I especially like the concluding stanza. Good work!

[Virgil]

Lines in the sand

Lines in the sand
from cutlasses drawn by seasoned hands
now lifeless sunsalt fingers, meeting dawn.
Gold, bitten by yeast-weakened jaws once pearls
the sails unfurled in sunsets red
as blood too in the hold of wind.

And with the wind
that platter hope of peace they thought would come
now strains its sinews in approaching days.
Fine fools and fellows till the drink ran out
now shaking dice in hour glasses, stretching
arms in tight-packed glances, lopping
tall poppy abandon, painting the snapping canvas
crimson, over a creaking deck.

When night comes, with the fall of men
some sit battered by the bow,
stern eyes fixed to the gallows, the tallow
path of a wave-rocked lantern
hanging a rattling voice of chains,
clanking a hymn to the sea.

And then one day, with seaspray breath
one thought among them anchors on the breeze;
an unpicked seachest on a burning ship:
'Whose grasp is it that spins the wheel?
Who drives the wind?'

© Silas Thorne 2/3/2009

I like this version best Silas. And it is an intersting poem. I dig the rhythm, it just makes one want more and more. I thought the very first version was way too short. This one is much more fleshed in. Rhythm needs a critical mass of length and I think this version got to it. I'm actually confused by the last stanza. I can't seem to grasp where the questions come from. What are they addressing? The other three stanzas are essentially descriptive. And then all of a sudden we get this burning ship. I assume it's telling me a story and it's like a climax to a story has occurred but with no build up. And then we get these profound questions at the end. So either I'm missing something or there is a leap to climax without structure under it.

Anyway, there are some good lines in there that really capture me: "lifeless sunsalt fingers," "now shaking dice in hour glasses," "hanging a rattling voice of chains,/clanking a hymn to the sea." I do like the second stanza best:

And with the wind
that platter hope of peace they thought would come
now strains its sinews in approaching days.
Fine fools and fellows till the drink ran out
now shaking dice in hour glasses, stretching
arms in tight-packed glances, lopping
tall poppy abandon, painting the snapping canvas
crimson, over a creaking deck.
Although I can't quite grasp how you're using "platter" as an adjective. But the rest is very good.

[PrinceMyshkin]

It's fine to me as it is. One of the many things I admire about it is that none of it feels like after-thoughts force-fed back into the more compact original or the second version but as if everything were integral to it. And I don't share Virgil's puzzlement at what he perceives as the change of perspective in the last verse. I read the presence of a narrator throughout, studying these phenomena as if he were an haruspex examining the entrails of a sacrificial animal, but throwing his hands up at the end at the still unrevealed core of the mystery.

[~Sophia~]

Good morning Silas! I've responded in a new private message but would like to leave a comment here as well.

I like your last fleshy version best and agree with Prince. I didn't see a perspective change either. A narrative tale of a ghost galleon doomed throughout. Two thumbs up!!

[ChinaRose]

Lines in the sand

Lines in the sand
from cutlasses drawn by seasoned hands
now lifeless sunsalt fingers, meeting dawn.
Gold, bitten by yeast-weakened jaws once pearls
the sails unfurled in sunsets red
as blood too in the hold of wind.

And with the wind
that platter hope of peace they thought would come
now strains its sinews in approaching days.
Fine fools and fellows till the drink ran out
now shaking dice in hour glasses, stretching
arms in tight-packed glances, lopping
tall poppy abandon, painting the snapping canvas
crimson, over a creaking deck.

When night comes, with the fall of men
some sit battered by the bow,
stern eyes fixed to the gallows, the tallow
path of a wave-rocked lantern
hanging a rattling voice of chains,
clanking a hymn to the sea.

And then one day, with seaspray breath
one thought among them anchors on the breeze;
an unpicked seachest on a burning ship:
'Whose grasp is it that spins the wheel?
Who drives the wind?'

© Silas Thorne 2/3/2009


"Lines in the sand" , it is very beautiful, and I belive that I will be enjoyable at this poem. ;)

[Silas Thorne]

Lines in the sand
from cutlasses drawn by seasoned hands
now lifeless sunsalt fingers at dawn. Gold,
bitten by yeast-weakened jaws once pearls
the sails unfurled in sunsets red
as blood too in the hold of wind.

And with the wind
that platter hope of peace they thought would come
now strains its sinews in approaching days.
Fine fools and fellows till the drink ran out
shaking dice in hour glasses, stretching
arms in tight-packed glances, lopping
tall poppy abandon, painting the snapping canvas
crimson, over a creaking deck.

When night comes, with the fall of men
some sit battered by the bow,
stern eyes fixed to the gallows, the tallow
path of a wave-rocked lantern
hanging a rattling voice of chains,
clanking a hymn to the sea.

And then one day, with seaspray breath
one thought among them anchors on the breeze;
an unpicked seachest on a burning ship:
'Whose grasp is it that spins the wheel?
Who drives the wind?'

© Silas Thorne 3/3/2009

I'll follow up with some comments in a short while.

[Silas Thorne]

Thanks so much to everyone who gave me comments and suggestions:
andave ya, ChinaRose, Dori, jon, PrinceMyshkin, Virgil, Sophia and firefangled. I've taken everyone's comments into consideration, and I'm pretty happy with this version.

firefangled: I hope I didn't kill the rhythm of the lantern line, though it came out a little different.

About the 'platter hope of peace'. This was intended to be a grail image. The idea is that the pirates thought that because they had come into wealth, they thought of their troubles as over, the quest had ended, and so they could be at peace. But due to boredom and greed,the hope strained and conflict destroyed that peace. Sophia, I left the 'now' here to balance the rhythm.
I also thought (thanks Sophia ;)) that as this is a narrative poem, that it might be good to give it a title.

In the third stanza I deliberately played on the stern and bow of ships in my description, connecting the sailors with their ship by using stern to describe their eyes. The sailors, all deserving of hanging, think on this as they view the swinging light of a lantern at the bow of the ship.

The idea of the unpicked seachest on a burning ship didn't really come across as I intended, but its good to know that it can be interpreted in a different way. I wanted to show how much weight and how unanswerable the questions were , since for a pirate to plunder a sacked ship that was burning he would have to take away the treasure. The idea of an 'unpicked' chest was that it couldn't be picked up and taken from a burning ship because it was too heavy (it was left untouched by the pirates), but also meant simultaneously that as the lock of the chest was not picked it couldn't be opened up.

The sailors are doomed by their own violent past and never get off the ship nor find land again.

This is just the way I wrote the poem. Feel free to read it anyway you'd like.
I'm so happy that you have all been so constructive with your feedback. This means a lot to me, since I've spent a lot of time on this poem. It is the first time I've written anything quite like this. :)

[~Sophia~]

Lost Sailors All

Lines in the sand
from cutlasses drawn by seasoned hands
now lifeless sunsalt fingers at dawn. Gold,
bitten by yeast-weakened jaws once pearls
the sails unfurled in sunsets red
as blood too in the hold of wind.

And with the wind
that platter hope of peace they thought would come
now strains its sinews in approaching days.
Fine fools and fellows till the drink ran out
shaking dice in hour glasses, stretching
arms in tight-packed glances, lopping
tall poppy abandon, painting the snapping canvas
crimson, over a creaking deck.

When night comes, with the fall of men
some sit battered by the bow,
stern eyes fixed to the gallows, the tallow
path of a wave-rocked lantern
hanging a rattling voice of chains,
clanking a hymn to the sea.

And then one day, with seaspray breath
one thought among them anchors on the breeze;
an unpicked seachest on a burning ship:
'Whose grasp is it that spins the wheel?
Who drives the wind?'

© Silas Thorne 3/3/2009

You are the poet, this is your poem - splendid indeed!!! http://www.websmileys.com/sm/dressed/bek015.gif (Love the new title too!)

[ChinaRose]

Silas ,
I have read this deliberately,and what I feel about these pirate(I have not find that until I read your comments) is that they are just like the boat floating in the quiet sea in the dark night with no light or no hope(maybe they could also dont know where is their ultimate destionation). With the Lantern hanging in the wind, a feeling of cold rise in the bottom of the heart....:yawnb: It is just my feeling :p

[Silas Thorne]

Exactly, ChinaRose! I'm glad you felt this kind of atmosphere, and thanks for looking at it so carefully. When I read it aloud I feel this too. :) I think there is a lot of action and movement in the second stanza too which is quite different from the third one.