07-28-2015, 08:48 PM
Against the rocks black waters broke
And desperate men no more could stroke
To save themselves from certain doom
Out on the dark and rolling sea
Their mournful cries of Pity me!
Oh, for the safety of the womb.
From howling shore the maid cried out
Her hearing keen for any shout
The babe kicked wildly in her womb
Her breasts heaved deep as did the swell
A murderous maelstrom born of Hell
And thus the souls of men entomb
Faint dimming lanterns now and then
Gave ebbing signs of stricken men
Too weak to save themselves from doom
But on the shore more waters broke
The child freed from its natal yoke
And lusty cries rang through the gloom
Out on the dark and rolling sea
Whence came a final Pity me!
The crew fell silent in the spume
There! Infant cries along the shore
Gave heart to men to lean on oar
To reach the safety of the womb
Blades flashed and dug and skirted rock
No watery grave would be their stock.
And desperate men no more could stroke
To save themselves from certain doom
Out on the dark and rolling sea
Their mournful cries of Pity me!
Oh, for the safety of the womb.
From howling shore the maid cried out
Her hearing keen for any shout
The babe kicked wildly in her womb
Her breasts heaved deep as did the swell
A murderous maelstrom born of Hell
And thus the souls of men entomb
Faint dimming lanterns now and then
Gave ebbing signs of stricken men
Too weak to save themselves from doom
But on the shore more waters broke
The child freed from its natal yoke
And lusty cries rang through the gloom
Out on the dark and rolling sea
Whence came a final Pity me!
The crew fell silent in the spume
There! Infant cries along the shore
Gave heart to men to lean on oar
To reach the safety of the womb
Blades flashed and dug and skirted rock
No watery grave would be their stock.
A poet who can't make the language sing doesn't start. Hence the shortage of real poems amongst the global planktonic field of duds. - Clive James.