The Wreck of the Inarticulate
For Cal
I
|
t
was the Inarticulate
That
sailed the ocean blue —
A
schooner, brig, or barquentine,
Nobody
really knew.
Skippèr
and crew were fearless men
Whose
only major failing
Was
total ignorance about
The
lexicon of sailing.
Jibs
and stu’n’s’ls, martingales,
Gammon,
tack and luff,
Braces,
ratlines, shrouds and stays —
They
knew it all as “stuff.”
Scuttle,
course, and mizzenmast,
To
them, were all the same.
They
cheesed a Flemish coil down,
But
never knew its name.
And
so, one bleak December morn,
As
the gales began to blow,
And
every blessèd man on deck
Was
blinded by the snow,
The
skipper called upon them all
To
save the found’ring rig:
“Bring
the pointy part around,
And
hoist the thingamajig!”
Every
man looked back at him
With
vacant, blinking eyes,
Uncertain
what to make of his
Obscure,
despèrate cries.
The
skipper shook his fist and thundered,
“Come
on! Do your job!
Turn
the what’s-is over there!
Raise
the thingamabob!”
Every
man looked back at him
Immobile
as before,
As
swells and billows tossed the ship
And
drove her toward the shore.
The
skipper gave it one more shot,
His
last ’twas ever heard:
“Helmsman, grab those things and spin the —
Darn
it! What’s the word?”
Just
then a wave loomed overhead
And
with a deaf’ning roar,
It
swept the skipper and his crew
From
what they called the “floor.”
At
last, the roll of breakers
And
the fifing of a gull
Played bourrées on the rocks that stove
What
real tars call the “hull.”
For
weeks thereafter, passengers
Aboard
the island ferry
Saw,
floating mid the ship’s debris,
A
sailing dictionary.
So
sank the Inarticulate
With
all her crew and cargo.
Lord
save us from chagrin like that
Upon
the Reef of Argot!
Joe
Barron
January
9-11, 2018
