On a Wild Shore


So here you are on a wild shore.
Your boat is wrecked, your broken oar
Floats on the foam; and here you are
Under a sky with one lone star.

What happens next, you will decide,
Though on your back still demons ride.
Take courage, friend, blink back the tear—
Leap, leap, and the net will appear!

— XANADU, Translations from a Lost Language

11 thoughts to “On a Wild Shore”

  1. You want me to jump into the sea. That sea. And pray that a magical net appears? Wait a minute, is this a satire about migrants? 😉

    Yes, yes it is a great poem (as usual) and it will be hard to shake from my mind. And yes, I can use it to inspire friends, relatives, myself! — when times are hard. However, you do realise that there is nothing more deadly than gaining the ire of a bad poet?

    Floats your boat
    Will never
    Get the vote
    Nor sever
    the watchful stoat…

    I’m still working on that one, ahem, but you have been warned. I have an arsenal of cliche, winching imagery, gibberish and the “truly Awful”, with which I will assail these heartfelt and inspirational Poems. The Day of the “Pome” is at hand…

    …and I have no idea were I’m going with this bulls**t 😉

    1. WOW! You’re heading for trouble, Flopot, the way you’re going!

      One of these days you’re going to get a visit from three men in bowler hats and pinstripe suits from the Ministry of Silly Walks. And they are going to say: “Mr Flopot, we have read your inspired pomes on the Darkmoon site and would like to appoint you Poet Laureate of Great Britain. However, we can’t do that as we are a different department from the Ministry of Culture and Inspired Poesy. So we are here to offer you instead an even greater honour: the presidency of the Silly Walk Society (SWS). Please accept, dear Mr Flopot, and sign here on the dotted line! 🙂

      And the next thing you know, Flopot, you will be in the Guinness Book of Records as the only poet in Britain, if not in the world, who will be reciting inspired pomes while hopping down the street on one leg! 🙂


      1. Lasha,

        Great poem! Thanks for sharing. Don’t mind our high jinks…. Must read it to my Abbot and ask him what he thinks that cryptic last line means: “Leap, leap, and the net will appear!”

      2. Lol. I would sign immediately — the ‘oppin’ Poet of Old London Town is me name, and Pomes is me game 😉

        Yes: time for the clowns to bow out.

  2. During the past year, I have ventured into deeper waters of the lake we, denizens of Nowheresville, have named Poetry. Kudos to LD. She continues to instruct me. I hope to honor her poem with this post. By the way, as you depart calmer shores in reading my missive, please know I have left you a treat, should you survive, wade back to shore, perhaps surfing your way inside, riding on the following waves of words!

    I share first my baptism into the religion called Poetry. While still adolescent, I heard, over and over, a song on the radio. O a Tree in Motion, What a Sight to See [Was it Johnny Tillotson? I won’t GOOGLE it). I cannot tell you how many years later it was that I learned the title of the song was POETRY IN MOTION. In the interim, I came to appreciate the psychedelic dancing of trees, even when I myself felt no breeze! And the faces, transfiguring, malleable, morphing, each and all peering back at me! Trees be mirrors, I learned, as all else!

    I deeply appreciate this forum, so I offer my best to you all. Learning to swim, I keep close to shore. When storm clouds hover above the hills of our valley, I retreat to higher and dryer land!

    Enough. The treat.

    Learning Lessons
    LL #1: Burning Tracks to Lead Distracted Ones Back Home

    We can learn more from past mistakes than grow from current success.
    We repeat rotely ’til later results reach heights ever lower and much less.
    After all, “luck of the Devil”, gain a matter of guess, how the die might fall,
    Then come to rest. Insight denied, Fortune faintly smiles, then takes it all.

    How both random and rare! Do what you will, but do as you dare!
    Burn your bridges! Destroy your abode, mired in middling evil.
    Go dark, go wild, go away, go to Hell! Create total upheaval!

    Life is a hard teacher, one that tests first, then later offers the lesson.
    Both your life and your rod spared now, why not join our procession?

    When you come back to me, I shall welcome thee in Love.

    acd 21Jan2019

  3. Dear Darkmoon Denizens with a penchant or affection for poems and, more abstractly, poetry,

    Having some experience — nothing less than light years away from that of Ezra’s ABC of Reading, still a bothersome burr beneath the saddle of the sorry ass I sit upon, not Palm Sunday here, I can assure you! — I offer to you the following hypothesis.

    Some poems never seem to finalize, no matter the authoring poet’s judgment.

    Certain poems, I put forth for discussion or debate, can lead a life of their own, long after authoring poets let go. I certainly find that true of the “word arrays” I produce on occasion, seemingly random though my dear Suz the Muse has her ways. I use the phrase “word arrays” due to stark distinctions drawn between poetry and prose, Ezra Pound foremost among them. Not a student of either prose or poetry, I can name no others as strident and dogmatic! Reading The ABC of Reading gassed my mostly deflated balloon of humility to near bursting.

    Ever since, when I put pen to paper, fingers to keyboard, I give greater attention to meter and rhyme. Then there is meaning, intent to communicate, communing with heart and soul and mind. Hey! What’s not to like about writing poems?!

    An example:

    On a Wilding Shore: A Still Short Poem

    So here you are on a wilding shore.
    Your boat wrecked, broken oars
    Floating away on foam, you now
    Landed under a one-starred sky.

    What happens next, you will decide,
    Though on your back demons still ride.
    Take courage, friend, blink back your tears—
    Even planted on sand, salvation appears.

    So, but for the original equation, the derivative cannot exist. For a time, long usually, we tend to live derivatized, not knowing our origin. We seek on high seas answers (for they are many! and we are one!) to questions of birth, death, and the near infinite meanings inbetween. We come ashore, planted by shipwreck or banishment. We grow anew!

    Comments welcome.

    WILDING: 1 a: a plant growing uncultivated in the wild either as a native or an escape especially: a wild apple or crab apple.

    1. This is it. As Neil Young sang, Tonight’s the Night!

      Poetry as a Skilled Occupation
      A poet’s detail work seems never, ever done.
      May Night last forever before the rise of Sun!
      Minor edits take fun from native inspiration,
      Final product still subject to renegotiation.

      Case in point:

      On a Wilding Shore: A Short Poem

      So here you are on a wilding shore.
      Your boat wrecked, broken oars
      Floating away on foam, you cry,
      Landed under a one-starred sky.

      What happens next, you will decide,
      Though on your back demons still ride.
      Take courage, friend, blink back your tear—
      Planted on sand, your Savior shall appear.

      10-4 folks.

  4. Alan, I’ve aleady made the Big Leap twice (that I know of)
    and both times someone threw me back!
    There’s a poem in there somewhere, I’m sure.

    Then there were those four times I had a girl just like yours.
    Yeah, another four poems.. (lol)

    BTW Alan, as per one of your previous comments I must ask you why would the spiritual worlds not also be spiritually differentiated/variegated for the SOUL-SELF (jivas) the very same way the material worlds are materially differentiated/variegated?

    Makes sense as opposed to the inferior material possesing qualities/facets the superior spiritual lacks.

    1. Ah, yes, relationships as living, breathing poetry.

      ‘O a Tree in Motion, what a….well, not to worry. While falling in love, then forcibly expelled, we produce carbon dioxide in that dear a-bun-dance, feeding trees and other plants. They (not (((those))) in need of differentiation, depending on the topic at hand) return to us oxygen to continue foolish ways, that is, enough rope to hang one’s Self. Thus we live to fail another day. In fact, some (e.g., unsuitable suitors whose love languished unrequited) take advantage of the consequent, spectacular growth of trees to hang themselves, sans sheet and jail cell! Imagine that, Mr. John (Let Him Be) Lennon!

      Consider: If everyone under the sun appreciated how well we loving fools channel inspiration from the soul-self for fun and profit. then we might create a successful dating service for poets! I write my line, you write your line….Our lines intertwine so loverly, I can’t stand the space hovering between! Could use Lasha’s touch here, I know.

      By the Way, where I reside nearly every day, seriously committed to moving ahead, procrastination my land-based anchor (actually, the bane of my life, I’d say, as would the Wife!), striving to lose that weighty albatross before I drop stone dead, I do accept what you wrote without quibble or elaboration: That spiritual worlds — realms, levels, layers, as in Seven Heavens — are as spiritually differentiated/variegated for the SOUL-SELF (jivas) the very same way the material worlds are materially differentiated/variegated.

      Finally, imbued with what I can gather as Light and Love and Life, I hope to go consciously through what some call transition to begin exploring these now forgotten spaces myself. Though I cannot now be sure, no interdimensional guru guide or companion has yet offered a hand, I hold that dying consciously in a high state of consciousness is just the ticket to Paradise (no longer intact in Kalifornication, as you may well have heard). Some say Aldous Huxley (Doors of Perception, a formative book for me) exited this plane in just that manner. I hope to catch up with him some time. We have a lot to discuss.

      Through meditation, contemplation, with assistance from able psychedelic helpers, we can grab a taste or two of the feast awaiting right here & now, as Ram Dass liked to tell. After all, it’s a long way back to the One, and O! the fun to have as we set our controls incontrovertibly to the heart of the Sun! And, the best saved for last: If I err in thinking so, I won’t go to the grave knowing any different than that!

      GOD bless each and all of you DDs (Darkmoon Denizens).

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