Featured Collection: Some Poems Responding to Moby-Dick
The Poet: Wilda Morris
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I made the mistake of not taking any literature classes in college. A number of years ago, I decided I should fill in some gaps in my education. I was working part-time and had a long commute, so I borrowed recordings of such classics as Anna Karenina, The Heart of Darkness and Moby-Dick from the public library. I fell in love with Herman Melville’s use of the English language. I started writing quotes. Inevitably, some of them inspired poems. I signed up for a class on Moby-Dick taught by Will Hansen, Curator of Americana, at The Newberry Library in Chicago, and actually read the book for the first time.
I don’t remember exactly when I decided I would try to write a full-length poetry book responding to Moby-Dick. A two-week writer’s residency on Martha’s Vineyard provided impetus, as did attendance at Poetry Camp at The Clearing in Door County, Wisconsin. Engagement with Moby-Dick led me to imagine the back-stories of characters in the book; write letters from wives back home to husbands at sea; comment on contemporary politics, inspired by relevant quotes; retell incidents from the plot; and write notes to Melville asking him what he was up to when he made certain statement. Some of the poems are about Melville’s life. Some seem like digressions. I use a variety of poetic forms. Most of the forms I have used have a history in English literature. I invented the “snake” form used in Part 3 of “Lamenting Fate” (or at least I have not seen it used by other poets). All this variety seems appropriate, considering the numerous genres Melville used in his novel, and his many digressions. These ten poems are just a sample of my collection. The big questions now are: When do I stop? How much is enough? Are there major themes I have missed? How do I organize this collection of poems? I don’t want my book to be as long as Moby-Dick, but I want, as much as possible, to do justice to the characters, plot and themes of the novel, and to the troubled literary genius who wrote it. There has been a resurgence of interest in Moby-Dick, the novel by Herman Melville, over the last couple of decades. Sena Jeter Naslund’s novel, Ahab’s Wife, was published in 2005 (I haven’t read it yet, because I don’t want it to influence my work). In 2010, The Dallas Opera premiered a new opera (music by Jake Heggie; libretto by Gene Scheer) based on Melville’s novel; a performance by The San Francisco was broadcast on national TV by the Public Broadcasting Service three years later. Mat Kish’s book, Moby-Dick in Pictures: One Drawing for Every Page, was published in 2011. David Catlin’s stunning stage adaptation of the book, first performed at The Lookingglass Theater in Chicago in 2015, returned to the city of its birth in 2017 after a national tour. Numerous celebrations are planned for the 200th anniversary of Melville’s birth in 2019. I hope my Moby-Dick poems can be a part of the celebration of the great author and what many people believe is “the great American novel.” |
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Phantom at Arrowhead: For Herman Melville
“. . . one grand hooded phantom, like a snow hill in the air.” ~ Herman Melville, in Moby-Dick I peered out the porthole of your office at Arrowhead and saw Mount Greylock pale blue in summer light. Whale-shaped, seeming to swim, calm in tranquil green waters along the horizon. Nothing haunting or horrific. Nothing malevolent. But when winter wraps the Berkshires in frigid air and snow sweeps in from the west, that creature turns phantasmagoric, a great white poltergeist. Mist rises from the specter like the spouting of a sperm whale, mesmerizing, menacing. That apparition disturbed your sleep, Herman, pursued you in dreams through the dead of night as you pursued it. Obsessed as Ahab, you rose each day to write again about gods, cultures and people as changeable as Mount Greylock, as unpredictable and sometimes malicious as Moby Dick. Archy Reflects on His Life
I Sent by Mother to collect blue mussels from tide pools, I’d squat on rocks, peer into the watery garden, wishing I were small enough to swim among pebbles, periwinkle snails and plankton. Sea anemones shrank into small blobs when I ruffled their tentacles with a twig. I touched the stick to spiny sea urchins, laughed as they pointed quills at me and called them poor little porcupines. I examined dog whelks, picked up star fish, flipped them over in my hand and imagined their stories before I turned to clusters of mussels, filled my wicker basket and headed home, taking the mysteries of the sea with me. II On Saturdays in the parlor, my sisters sat up straight on the settee, proud of flowers, scripture verses, alphabet and numbers stitched across their samplers. Big brother Johnny and I ran out the door and down to the docks, watched carts bring provisions to outgoing vessels while incoming whalers unloaded barrels of oil. We admired sun-leathered men high in the masts or spilling off ships into the city, heading for homes, bawdy houses, or bars. We climbed linden trees, pretended to stand watch in a crow’s nest as we looked out over the water. Many evenings, by the light of sperm-oil lamps, we read tales of adventure on the sea. We pricked our fingers, signed a blood oath to sail together someday, searching the ocean for sperm whales. II I miss those days when we were young and fearless. I miss Johnny’s jokes, his teasing and how we raced each other up the rigging to watch for whales. Now Johnny’s home with consumption. I wonder what he would say of Ahab, our half-mad captain. We all took oaths to wreak vengeance on the cursed creature Ahab hates, the white whale that took his leg. When I lie in my hammock trying to sleep, I can’t help counting the omens: the typhoon, lightning, the three masts lit like candles the compass needle turned backward, the moaning of mermaids, a sailor falling into the sea, the lifebuoy sinking, the black hawk swiping the captain’s hat. I fear I will never see Johnny again, never again gather mussels for Mother from the serene tide pools of Nantucket. Starbuck Ponders Fate and Free Will: Terza Rima Variation:
I heard the old man mutter that he must, as always, play the cards he’s given by fate. He’s moody, lunatic, unhinged, and cussed. He stalks across the deck but does not prate, is not dissuaded by the shrieking gale. The sharks will gather round, we’ll all be bait if that white whale strikes at us with his tail. Old Ahab thinks his destiny is near-- to kill the source of evil. If he fail, the sea will bury us, the sky will clear with nothing left to show that we exist. Why won’t he turn, and why has he no fear? What is it makes his wild emotions twist, refusing to forgo the unholy tryst? The Song of the Maltese Sailor: a Pantoum
“Now would all the waves were women, then I’d go drown, and chassee with them evermore:” Maltese sailor in Moby-Dick If all the waves were women I’d happily drown and chasse forever. I’d glide through sensuous oceans with my wild and willing partners. I’d drown and happily dance forever between the fishes and the kelp with those waves, those willing women sliding, gliding and caressing. I’d bow to the fishes and the sea birds. Caught in each voluptuous swell, sliding and gliding, I’d sashay to the rhythm of the dance. Another wave would waltz me off, hug me, kiss me and caress me as we feel the rhythm of the dance side by side in smoothest motion. The waves would all embraced me. Happily, I would drown if forever I could match the rhythm of the ocean’s magic dance and finally feel I’m living—vibrant and alive. Happily I would drown. Yes, forever I’d share the rhythm of the ocean’s dance and feel that I’m completely, fully alive, if all the waves were women.
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Ishmael Writes to a Friend Back Home: a Golden Shovel Poem
“Better to sleep with a sober cannibal than a drunken Christian.” ~ Ishmael in Moby-Dick by Herman Melville Depressed with life on land, I thought it better to head for Nantucket and set sail, to find contentment on a whaling ship rather than sleep walk through another winter. I left home alone with meager possessions. In New Bedford, I met a harpooner. An experienced whaler, sober and strong, Queequeg was a cannibal, but so congenial—more like a brother than a friend. His mistake—trusting me to select a ship. I picked the Pequod, whose captain was drunken with vengeance, having few values I’d call Christian. The Sailors’ Song
We are the lads to hunt him up his whale! ~ English sailor, in Moby-Dick by Herman Melville He is the man whose face is mysterious, the man with one ivory leg. He is the man who is paces the deck while plotting his vengeance. We are the lads who are seek great adventure, the boys who sail out in search of sperm whales. We are the lads who are testing our manhood against all that is wild. He is the man the white whale unmasted, the mad captain whose moods we all fear. He is the man sworn wholly to vengeance against the white whale. We are the lads vowed to hunt for his foe, the men who drank to his need for revenge. We are the men who give our wills over to the will of our captain. We are the crew who were drowned in the sea, the men whose wives are now widowed, forlorn. We are the lads whose children are orphans, victims of our misguided sail. Mary Starbuck’s Letter: an Abecedarian Poem
April 25th, Dear Husband, Each day our Boy eats his porridge, then insists I take him to the crest of the Hill to look for the Pequod’s sails. He drops his toy ship & jumps up & down each time he sees a Mast, sure his father has returned. While you are at sea, he grows so fast—he’s learned much & now asks to hear the fates of Captains & first mates. He’s 2 inches taller than when you left & says he will join a whaling crew when he’s a man, so he can kill Whales just like his papa. Every night we reread the letter The Bachelor delivered. I’ll endeavor to start my garden plot before the weather’s hot. Nothing fills the time so well as to plant & weed onions, potatoes, corn & lettuce seed. The beach plum’s in bud & the birds are no longer quiet, so I know ‘tis spring. Piping plovers ran across the sand above the tideline today. I sent Maid to buy Sea Beans & cod. She cooked chowder tonight. Our Boy had a headache. He was unhappy and ate little. When I put him to bed, I told him your voyage should end soon. I went outside so I could listen to waves and see the lighthouse. I so want to know xactly where in the ocean you are, Husband, & when you’re coming back. I pray that before the rockrose blooms a Zephyr will bring you safely home. Your loving wife, Mary Weaving
Erasure poem from Chapter 74 of Moby-Dick I was the attendant or page of Queequeg, while busy at the mat. As I passing and repassing the woof of marline between long yarns of the warp, using my own hand the shuttle Queequeg slid his sword between the threads carelessly unthinkingly drove home every yarn it seemed the Loom of Time and I myself weaving away at the Fates fixed threads of the warp necessity I weave my own destiny into these unalterable threads Queequeg's indifferent sword hitting the woof slantingly crookedly strongly weakly producing contrast shapes and fashions warp and woof this must be chance aye, chance, free will, and necessity interweavingly working together chance has the last blow Oyster
“Methinks that in looking at things spiritual, we are too much like oysters observing the sun through the water, and thinking that thick water the thinnest of air.” ~ Ishmael, in Moby Dick by Herman Melville Ishmael says we are like bivalves, denizens of the intertidal zone, our lives built on reefs of the old and the deceased, that we lie here day after day, with shells cracked open, filtering and feeding on phytoplankton, ready to snap shut at the least sign of danger. We peek through plankton, peer through brackish water, thinking we see clearly when actually we’re like the cave dwellers Plato described. So is everything we’ve have been taught just a record of shadows on dark walls? Are all facts fabricated? Do science texts come closer to the actual or are they just new pictures of the possible? Even St. Paul said what we believe about God or the gods comes from looking through a glass darkly. Let’s not snap our minds shut when we hear someone speak a different truth, seal ourselves into closed shells, afraid to listen, afraid to look. |
Lamenting Fate
“Here some one thrusts these cards into these old hands of mine,
swears that I must play them . . . .” ~ Ahab in Moby-Dick
Here I am, another fall without a tenure track position.
Some days I wonder why I keep on teaching, but the
one thing I most love is to see how great literature
thrusts a torch of truth into the minds of
these students, the ones with serious intent, not the
cards who joke like Stubb in Moby Dick and party their way
into academic trouble, but thoughtful collegians.
These young folks want to absorb both new and
old material. I see them in the cafeteria, their
hands holding open books, Kindles or Nooks, spinning heads full
of ideas, expanding their worlds, ideas not just
mine or the author’s anymore, but their own. Every good teacher
swears she can see it in their eyes, hear it in voices
that speak up in class after months of silence.
I assigned Melville’s great novel again. It’s a
must read for anyone who wants to understand the
play between free-will, fate and destiny. I see
them all in my students’ lives and my own as much as Ishmael’s.
II. Behind the High School After Reading Moby Dick
(Golden Shovel)
Don’t call me no more names! I belong here
much as you. You’re scum! I promise some
day you’ll be sorry as hell that I’m the one
you picked on. Every day someone hits me or thrusts
a foot out to make me trip. You’re mean as hell! These
attacks, and things you stole—my little brother’s Pokémon cards,
my lunch money, the rotten tomatoes you stuffed into
my book bag, lies you told my girl about me, these
I can’t and won’t forgive. The white whale in that big old
book Mr. Jones made us read got his revenge. I’ll get my hands
on you someday, drown you in a barrel of
boiling oil. I made this promise of mine
to my brother. When you beat him up, he swears
at me for not protecting him. Someday I’ll have the courage that
I need to fight you. Just you wait! I
will some day, I swear I will. I’ll be fierce! I must
take you bullies on and make you pay. Then I won’t just play--
and then you’d better be with friends! You’ll need them!
III. Nursing Home Lament after Watching Moby Dick (Snake)
Here is where my children chose to put me, crowded
like some mariner on an old whaling ship with just a hammock,
and one or two small spots to keep stuff in. One
nurse thrusts a needle in my arm with the strength of a
harpooner. These things put me in a bad temper
even greeting cards don’t dispel. Then I can’t knit,
can’t read or get into a movie. Roommates try to
cheer me up and drive these melancholic moods away, but I
know each day I’m more old than I was yesterday. Just look.
My is back bent, and my hands—see these bruises and visible veins.
And I have almost as much of a limp these days as Ahab with his whale-bone
leg. This twisted spine of mine betrays me constantly.
My roommate often swears, and on these grey days I
feel like doing just that, too. I want a life of my own again. Like Starbuck
in that movie we say, I want to go back home, but all
my children insist I must stay here where everything smells like urine
and chlorine, and play their game. Whatever cards we draw from the deck,
we must play them, like it or not.
“Here some one thrusts these cards into these old hands of mine,
swears that I must play them . . . .” ~ Ahab in Moby-Dick
- In the College Adjunct Office after Teaching Moby Dick (Acrostic)
Here I am, another fall without a tenure track position.
Some days I wonder why I keep on teaching, but the
one thing I most love is to see how great literature
thrusts a torch of truth into the minds of
these students, the ones with serious intent, not the
cards who joke like Stubb in Moby Dick and party their way
into academic trouble, but thoughtful collegians.
These young folks want to absorb both new and
old material. I see them in the cafeteria, their
hands holding open books, Kindles or Nooks, spinning heads full
of ideas, expanding their worlds, ideas not just
mine or the author’s anymore, but their own. Every good teacher
swears she can see it in their eyes, hear it in voices
that speak up in class after months of silence.
I assigned Melville’s great novel again. It’s a
must read for anyone who wants to understand the
play between free-will, fate and destiny. I see
them all in my students’ lives and my own as much as Ishmael’s.
II. Behind the High School After Reading Moby Dick
(Golden Shovel)
Don’t call me no more names! I belong here
much as you. You’re scum! I promise some
day you’ll be sorry as hell that I’m the one
you picked on. Every day someone hits me or thrusts
a foot out to make me trip. You’re mean as hell! These
attacks, and things you stole—my little brother’s Pokémon cards,
my lunch money, the rotten tomatoes you stuffed into
my book bag, lies you told my girl about me, these
I can’t and won’t forgive. The white whale in that big old
book Mr. Jones made us read got his revenge. I’ll get my hands
on you someday, drown you in a barrel of
boiling oil. I made this promise of mine
to my brother. When you beat him up, he swears
at me for not protecting him. Someday I’ll have the courage that
I need to fight you. Just you wait! I
will some day, I swear I will. I’ll be fierce! I must
take you bullies on and make you pay. Then I won’t just play--
and then you’d better be with friends! You’ll need them!
III. Nursing Home Lament after Watching Moby Dick (Snake)
Here is where my children chose to put me, crowded
like some mariner on an old whaling ship with just a hammock,
and one or two small spots to keep stuff in. One
nurse thrusts a needle in my arm with the strength of a
harpooner. These things put me in a bad temper
even greeting cards don’t dispel. Then I can’t knit,
can’t read or get into a movie. Roommates try to
cheer me up and drive these melancholic moods away, but I
know each day I’m more old than I was yesterday. Just look.
My is back bent, and my hands—see these bruises and visible veins.
And I have almost as much of a limp these days as Ahab with his whale-bone
leg. This twisted spine of mine betrays me constantly.
My roommate often swears, and on these grey days I
feel like doing just that, too. I want a life of my own again. Like Starbuck
in that movie we say, I want to go back home, but all
my children insist I must stay here where everything smells like urine
and chlorine, and play their game. Whatever cards we draw from the deck,
we must play them, like it or not.
Interested in being our next Featured Poet?
When you submit for the next issue, make sure to submit ten poems and tell us a little about yourself. Your work might be picked for our featured poet section, or as a featured collection. However, only one poet and one collection will be chosen each issue, so only one or a few of a poet's work sent together might be published in the journal. The Basil O' Flaherty requests the right to only publish one featured poet and one featured collection, and to consider all collections of poetry submitted for each issue as also part of the general submissions (i.e. we can pick and choose the poems we like if your work is not selected as the featured collection.)
When you submit for the next issue, make sure to submit ten poems and tell us a little about yourself. Your work might be picked for our featured poet section, or as a featured collection. However, only one poet and one collection will be chosen each issue, so only one or a few of a poet's work sent together might be published in the journal. The Basil O' Flaherty requests the right to only publish one featured poet and one featured collection, and to consider all collections of poetry submitted for each issue as also part of the general submissions (i.e. we can pick and choose the poems we like if your work is not selected as the featured collection.)
