Castaway I, II, III, and IV
Edward Baranosky
Castaway I
Such wandering corpses are common enough in the North Atlantic, which is haunted by all the terrors of the sea ...and one feels like the empty shell of a man...There was nothing but myself between him and the dark ocean.
― Joseph Conrad, Lord Jim
Long has the vast ocean been star-charted,
Yet solitude itself remains a marine’s escape.
Your brush moves in a dancing rhythm
With waves that a camera cannot grasp,
The moonlit, ascended surf rolls on,
Embroidered into a mackerel sky.
Wind-driven wanderers are a special breed,
Their wide wings read the currents, day and night.
Dawn is a vision of wildfire
As if flights of demons follow the sun,
Trimming our sails as the day begins
As if on a promontory where
Eight bells are clearly heard
Above the roaring breakers.
In a strong wind the wooden ships
And iron men gallop into deeper surges,
But there is no treasure in faraway islands
Worth the amnesia of bitter times.
Transparent to fellow drifters
Held in naked secrecy.
Castaway II
Call him, and he would come; not sour
In spirit, but meek and reconciled.
Patient he was, he none withstood.
Oft on some secret thing would brood.
Herman Melville; Clarel/Part 1/Canto 37
The sky is frigid, overcast,
And we swagger through
The narrow lanes, leaning
Against the salted wind
On the slippery ballast,
Alone with our past-- leaving our
Footprints in the wet sand—
The blind dog recognizes
Our voices, and any hour
Call him, and he would come; not sour.
In winter, the salt marsh
Freezes the final surge of surf
Encircling lagoons of black ice,
Sealed in the inlets of the heart
Of what we loved and once were --
The marginalia of dreams beguiled,
In the residue of faded memories
Awakening in a February thaw
Though the journey back is not mild
In spirit, but meek and reconciled.
And in the penetrating silences
Between the breakers’ thunder,
A solitary seagull soars in the high winds
Through a sacred emptiness
Established in the frigid distances
Of a forsaken childhood.
There is something missing
In the expression of a castaway,
Beached with marooned driftwood--
Patient he was, he none withstood.
Often evasions are trophies
Of remorse, the burden
Of irrecoverable loss, of survival
Beyond seasonal expectations
Drawing attention to the unseen
Accounts of forgotten relics' mood —
The narratives of shipwreck survivors
Are often unheard in the noise
Greeting indelible solitude.
Oft on some secret thing they would brood.
Castaway III
This is the end of running on the waves.
We are poured out like water. Who will dance
The mast-lashed master of Leviathans
Up from this field of Quakers in their unstoned graves?
--Robert Lowell; The Quaker Graveyard in Nantucket
From the raw edge of the seaside cliff
Dropping away into the roiling surf,
You stride through the October mist--
Your dream house hollow now behind you,
A chair drawn up against the corroded
Bait buckets and yard sale staves,
Between your evening gaze and vision
They hang, framed by aching stillness,
Water, as motionless as forsaken graves.
This is the end of running on the waves.
Seaside pines stand cool and dark green
In the autumn nights, the accumulation of salt
Airs, the diluted mackerel skies paling moon,
The space between the blood and fire of maples
And the intervals of silence between heartbeats
As motionless as your lost, held glance--
Looking across the bay's horizon, toward
The cobbled drive leading down to the dunes'
Region between two desires; into that expanse
We are poured out like water. Who will dance?
Southern New England farmland
Hugs the hardscrabble coastal highway,
Time transported castaways drifting
Sideways with the tide, roaring with the breakers
Calling from the shoreline, and the dim sun
Through the uneasy mist-laden complaisance.
You are there, or here, castaway with the past,
Leaving the sweet pine, heading to the city.
As motionless at a mirror's entrance,
The mast-lashed master of Leviathans—
You have wakened from your October sleep
To listen to the distant wild geese call,
Freeing great wings in "V" formations
Over the city streets of lost nights,
Punctuated by the sound of seabirds driven
Inland by a storm— passing over the stainless lights,
Empty, yet lighting the dark skyline; a lone cab
Radio trolling for unnetted fares— Good morning heartache.
Is this what you wanted to remember, tidal waves
Up from this field of Quakers in their un-stoned graves?
Castaway IV
A night patrolman on the quay
Watching the bales till morning hour
Through fair and foul.
Never he smiled.
Herman Melville; Clarel/Part 1/Canto 37
The scent of ozone in the fog
And the rain turns into a fine dusting
Of snow etching the slack rigging
Reflected in black harbor ice
That shatters with the rising tide
Lifting anchored boats across the screen—
Cold swells clang the outer bell buoys
Accenting the distant headlands
Breaking pearl green over an indigo bay,
As a night patrolman on the quay
Sights his telescope on the far horizon
Watching for a returning fleet, listening
To the deceptive nearness of creaking spars,
Whistling rigging and canvas billowed out—
Unlike many survivors, he once was
Animated by the desperate power
To relate his forsaken narrative.
Now his old anchorage seems foreign
But by moonlight he’d glower,
Watching the bales till morning hour—
Dawn breaks, and another day
Awakens to the growl
Of harbor foghorns,
Lifting beneath a mackerel
Sky swarming with seabirds–
Make and break engines prowl
Between the ice-coated wharfs
As dory men prepare to coast
The deep-sea swells’ Chthonic howl
Through fair and foul.
The haven of protected innocence
Is an accident of nature.
The white geometry of salt water
Leaves little margin for error,
No sacred amulet among the driftwood
In harsh weathers or mild—
The cobbled roads lead inexorably
To a deep-water harbor
Where a castaway may be beguiled,
Though never he smiled.
Edward Baranosky
Edward Baranosky's work emphasizes the ever-changing moments of the sea. As a poet-artist he crosses the channels and pathways between the visual and the textual. His work is published in Eastern Structures, Haiku Avenue, Lynx Journal, Northern New England Review, Mid-Atlantic Review, Crossing Lines, Comstock Review among others. At 79, he is still emerging. He currently lives in Toronto, Canada. You can find him online at: painterpoet.weebly.com