Monday, March 05, 2007

Ryme III

People are finally out getting some after a long stormy Oregon drought...
Ryme of the Ancyent Watyrman

I espy'd a dim glymmer 'pon horyzon's edge
It seem'd ne bigger'n a lyne;
Fyrst it appear'd a dream'd of myrage
Then it soon seem'd to be nearly fly'n:
It warbl'd it grew, and it took on at last
A soul shape, a fat swell, wave syne.

A peak, a wedge, a wave, how I wysh't!
Aye styll on it near'd on it near'd;
Then it dredged down and rear'd up it's head,
Then it plung'd and it track'd and it veer'd.

Throats came unslack'd, slack lyps were crack'd
Ne could we laugh, ne could moan, ne could wail:
It throw'd wi' great might, all dumb at the sight
Turn'n quicklyke, I spun then I stroked
Cry'n out in hope, ne fail! ne fail! ne fail!

Yea! throats unslack'd, and slack lyps all crack'd
All agape they all hear'd me call:
Awooo! for sheer joy dyd they grin
Their deep breath dyd draw in
And as one they were stoked as one all.

The gun doth not track from syde to syde--
But rather it seeks the true lyne
Ne corrupt'd by wynd, ne slack'n'd by tyde
She'd stay'd steady, stay'd true and was fyne.

Now far western waves were all in a flame,
The swell it was near well nygh done!
All alone I dyd ryde 'pon that pure western wave
Aglyde'n on myne own sleek fast gun;
Then a crystalyne roof came suddenly
Betwyxt my poor self and the Sun.

Damn strayt the Sun was all fleck'd with spray
(Heaven's mother dyd send us her grace)
And as if thro' a mysty veil he peer'd
Wyth a leeryng and burnyng sunface.

Alas! (thought I, and my heart it beat loud)
How rapid she neres and she neres!
I admyr'd her veil that fylter'd the Sun
Lyke restless and pure gossamere.

Abreast these lyquid rybs, which reel
Below the sun that behynd them peers
Are the only two I call true
Thys wave and her lyght cast'n spheere.

I straighten'd my back and was off wyth a crack,
All in black and aglysten, you see
Jet-black and head bare, I surf'd with great care
O'er urchyn'd reef and shell crust'd scree
Thyck bull kelp spread purple and green.

With thyck lyp o'erhead, I strayn'd and I sped,
The back door was lock'd and before me:
The skyn of the sea's all a'shymmer,
The room I am in is lyke Death is lyke syn;
Yet I thryll'd and drove on a glad synner.

Then down below sleek Hulks came asyde
The sea gods they'd play'd me a gamble;
"The Game it is done! We have won, We have won!"
Quoth the hulks even as I dyd ramble.

Then a hale gust of wynd start'd to bend
It held up and hollowed that wave out;
Thro' in my mynd's eye from thy gaping wave's throat
I hear'd curses, shrill whystles, loud shouts.

I shot out wyth a whysper
Dart'n forward lyke a Spectre;
I clymb'd and I drop'd and I threw
Below the Horned Moon, I swung it about
And I goug'd that great wave ryght in two.

Gouge after gouge 'neath the Horned Moon
(Lysten! Brothers! my solemn decree)
With each slash I cut furrow
Once agayn the gun rescue'd me.

Face'd seething sets four tymes fifty
Some heavy some waves just pure fun.
All deal't a smooth drop, a swyng off the bottom
They were rydd'n down rypp'd one by one.

The wave's very souls from bottom dyd fly,--
Whether fled to sheer blyss or sheer woe;
Lyke every wave soul that has ere pass'd me by,
I suppose I wyll never true know.