The Lost Whale

Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem

The scrimshaw works are eloquent in bone

In Salem, eloquent of boredom, souls

Of sailors on the whaling ships, alone

The men surrounded by their mates and shoals

Of fish, the prows that pass in ocean waves,

Alone because the sailors like all men

Are lonely and alone.  Cathedral naves

Are built because of this.  Alone and then

Alone again throughout their lives, in death

Alone again.  We die alone, we all

Alone in dying with each scrimshaw breath

We carve.  We breathe in life’s long shortened pall.

  The whales, alone, are eloquent in noons

    And nights, awaiting love and carved harpoons.

© Phillip Whidden