Saturday, March 03, 2007

Ryme I

I've taken some liberties with 'The Rime of the Ancient Mariner' apologies to any classicists and purists out there...and of course to Samuel Taylor Coleridge.
Ryme of the Ancyent Watyrman
There is an ancyent Watyrman,
Yet he rydeth one with three:
"Thy long grey beard and sun stained eye
"Wherefore dost thou blocketh me?

The ocean's maws are open'd wide
"I am as next of kyn;
"The crest is met, the ryde is set,--
"May'st we hear no flapping dyn.

Relaxed he holds hys board outstretched--
There was a break, quoth he--
"Nay, if thou hast a classic tale,
"Watyrman! come wyth me."

He gryps me with hys synewed hand,
Quoth he, there was a ryp--
"Nay, get thee out, grey-beard Loon!
"Fore the clean up makes thee skyp.

He holds hym with hys clouded eye--
The ocean grom turned pale
And lystens lyke a learning chyld;
As the Watyrman spun his tale.

The ocean grom sat 'pon the burl,
He cannot change the plan:
And thus spake hym on ancyent ways,
Of the grym-eyed Watyrman.

Hys rydes were cheer'd, lyneups clear'd--
Ere heavily dyd he drop
Below the ryp, atop the rap,
Besyde the Lyght-house top.

The Sun rose up out of the east,
Whence from the Sea came he:
And he shon bryght, and in the west
Sank down unto the Sea.

Hygher and Hygher every day,
Always over head by noons--
The ocean grom then beat hys breast,
For he suffered loud buffoons.

The ocean Bryd pac'd to the trough,
A precious gem is she;
Arching backs before her go
The stern-faced barrelees.

The ocean grom gayn beat hys breast
He could not chuse hys clan:
And as such accepts hys fate,
Like the squint-eyed Watyrman.

Lysten, Kooks! Storm and Wynd,
Aye Wynd and Tempests strong!
For days and weeks they'v play'd us freaks--
Lyke lubbers we string along.

Lysten, Chargers! Myst and Dryft,
Yea, it grows wond'rous cauld:
Peaks head-hygh come rypping by
Shymmering green as Emeraulds.

Thro' the dryfts the watery clyffs
Dyd send a dysmal sheen;
Ne shapes of men ne shapes we ken--
The froth was all between.

The cold was here, the cold was there,
A freeze was all around:
It seep'd and sough't, it grab'd and caugh't--
Causing heads to pound.

As promys'd dyd come a Levyathan,
Thorough the rising Fog it blew;
Whyle far beyond our Chrystian Soul,
We hail'd hym a God anew.

The Watyrman gave hym wide berth,
As out and down he flew:
Water dyd splyt in thunderous-fyt;
Yet the Gun it steer'd us through.

A stiff east wynd sprung up behynd,
The Levyathan did follow;
It every day dyd frolyc or play
And came to the Watyrman's hollo!

In myst or hail by typ or tail
It breached'd for vespers nyne,
Whils't all the nyght thro' [fog-smoke whyte]
He glymmer'd in whyte moon-shyne.

"God save thee, ancyent Watyrman!
"From vaults that vye to crush you--
"Why wail'st thou on?"--with hys try-fyn gun
He shot the hollow tube.


Gaz said...

Takayama? This lack of waves happens to bring the poet out.........nice stuff Doc.