A Peek Into the Muse

I was rummaging through some my poetry the other day and I found this piece. It's not too old, wrote it somewhere around June last year, when just about everything I put to verse was in tribute of the sea. Now, I'm not usually one for praising my works, but this one is not all that bad. Rhythmically, it follows the same pattern as most of my quatrains do and, I know, a writer is supposed to be open to trying new things and all that stuff. However, I adore the raw flow of my 8,6,8,6 on the count. Now, if that were feet that would be a different story, but I've found English Meter to be too stuffy for my own liking. Besides, with syllables one has more freedom for personal taste in alliteration and assonance then they would under the demands of the iamb.

Anyway, I'm rambling. What I really like about this piece is the wonderful blend of color I put into it. Not so much afternoon tones, but the bright sunlight of the morning or the dull red blaze of the setting sun. When writing it, I swear, I could almost taste the salt. But enough of that, just read it for yourself:

The Village by the Sea

The winters’ fog does sleep upon
A filmy, sunken sand
While mothers' sons do play anon
The solid, stony land;

A playful breeze tossed to the shore
With foam upon her heels—
Her salty sweat does sing of lore,
Of Angelfish, and eels.

And fishermen set sail within
The charming grasp of sea,
Their limbs, to water, as akin
As grass is unto me.

Where creeping turf and tundra grow
Clambering up the cliffs,
The whistling waves do beat below
With loud and violent fists;

The morning sings while whalers come
To gather bric-a-brac,
For, when the rising tide is done
They’ll go a-whaling back.

Their iron tubs a hollow gourd
(Hence their daily toil)
But, whence they’ve whaled—almighty Lord—
Lard be turned to oil!

The monstrous beast with foaming jaw
And terror in its eye,
Is ready prey by Natures law
To deal out death, or die.

Hark! The whale-ship with harpoon
Is ready now to strike,
And bets are made with bronze doubloon
As if the beast will fight;

Yes, fight it tries with ivory teeth
Yet steel does pierce its skin,
Until its breath is brought to cease
And flail its dorsal fin.

And, when they're through, to dock they come
To taverns on the brink;
For when the day is good and done
Forget all else and drink!

The stars reflect upon the shore—
A dazzling diamond haze—
Recalling thoughts of nights before
And thoughts of future days,

While lighthouse flares do part the mist,
For fishermen at night
Return to maidens they once kissed
To finish their delight.

Near docks and dunes recalled by me:
The little village by the sea.