Sunday, March 04, 2007

Ryme II


The surf finally has calmed down a bit...
Just in time to catch a filthy cold...
That has me laid up and in misery...
But I can rejoice in the knowledge...
That by the time I have healed...
The surf should once again be unsurfable.

Anyhow, here's part two of my adulteration and butchery of Coleridge's "Rime"...

Ryme of the Ancyent Waterman


The glowing Sun it rose in the east,
Slow warming wet clyffs came he;
Then in angry torrent 'pon the left
Went down deep in the Sea.

Easterlyes styll raged behynd,
And ne clean peaks could follow
Every day spyte'd soul or play
Ne would answer the Watyrman's hollo!

The ocean it done many hellysh things
That would e'er work men to woe;
Aye for all beseech'd, i't fail'd them each
All that made the dream world glow.

Ne trough ne lyp, just mine own tryp,
Then thy glorious swell upryst:
Whylst all were cow'd, I dyss'd the dry crowd
That had brought hollow claim and boast.
T'ys wrong, styll is, such a swell should be myss'd
That bryngs massive peaks to our coast.

The offshores they blew, and whyte foam it flew,
Whils't chargers they follow'd most free:
We were the fyrst that ever did burst
Into that rag'd and violent Sea.

Then down drop't the breeze, and the boys all with me,
T'were as glad as they glad could be
And then we dyd take and thus sought to slake
Our thyrst for the gifts of the Sea.

But soon came a hot and copper'y sky
With a fyery sun at noon,
'Pon my back it dyd pile,
Far stronger than lady moon.

Pulse after pulse, ayn wave after wave,
We stroked, wi' ne breath wi' ne motion,
As aggro as any Aussie bloke
Upon a most bryllyant Ocean.

Waves and water every where
"Grab the boards" they cry'd;
Waves and water every where,
Yet ne not a wave to ryde.

Then how the deeps dyd rise: O Chryst!
As never thy waves could be!
Yea, soulful things dyd stand 'pon two legs
Far out 'pon the soulful Sea.

All swung about, some in reel some in rout
With Death-tubes they danc'd in fryght;
While the water, just lyke a fear'd wytch's eye,
It spun green it spun blue and spun whyte.

Some in their dreams assuredly they were
Of dark hollows promyse'd them so:
Nyne fathom steep, and faded so deep
That from the depths of dark foam we'd blow.

And then every tongue thro' utter stoke
Soon were wyther'd and quyet at roots;
We could ne speak no more than if
We had utter been choked up by hoots.

Ah hell-a-day! And what sated looks say
Had I all from the young, mid and old;
Instead of a skunk we scored on that day
And of that sweet memoryes are told.
Local Report:
...rolled out early AM to catch the proper tide...Got there to see head to head and a half barrels rolling through. Escalator took us out, waves took us in. Not as many as I would have liked but steep drops and the wrong stick made it a bit hairy. Made our way north and checked a few other places, got some food and settled on a crowded second sesh. Got some really fun ones there and paddled to exhaustion. Just the kind of weekend to take the edge off. ~nash