Cape Horn

Alan Gould

And so Cape Horn.
Like toppling from this world   we cried,
a staysail ripped like tissue from its bolt rope,
the wind- sweet Jesus no, not wind,
much more a jemmy banging at our handholds,
howling us to shadows,
our hands no more our own
grappling canvas that was plexing steel:
and foetal in our cots
the altitudes careering round us and within us.
Yes it could be busy,
though once I sailed it in a tinsel calm.

Small wonder our hauteur.
We wore each doubling like a badge.
Grant an ear and we were back
standing from Staten Island, wind a muzzler,
crowing   so I grabbed the monkey by his belt,
the sail beneath our bellies
like a maniac sloughing hell,
and there we hung   etcetera. Why not?
Our tack was hard enough to earn cabal.
We'd proved most humans lived like children,
and equal axioms to shrug the quieter pluck
of one who's looked across the years of grudge
and said to no-one special
Always I have lied. Your knowing matters.

No, that lively place ensured no manhood.
It showed the steady fury of a man
could outwait furious weather
or could not.
It stole some sleep, some lives,
and later watered self-deceptions,
even in the strong.
It is a place
where oceans and some men can find a level.
I've served a man so brave, so skilled,
I've wept to watch him,
and I've bloodied shirkers in their bunks.

Later in a crowd along a wharfside
both have melted equally
and this is proper.
That neutral crowd allows no more than afterthought,
the casual   Him I'd serve,
the spat   Malingerer,
while south, yes always south of here
the maelstrom looms or fades.


Main Location:

Cape Horn, Chile