Wordle 11 of The Sunday Whirl, http://sundaywhirl.wordpress.com/, almost defeated me. I started with it just like all the wordles before; except, the words did not fall into place this time.
I’m still caught up in enjambment and wanted to push the limit. ‘Siren’ decided it was going to be the dominant theme and a police poem shaped up . . . and fizzled. After trying to write it from a police point of view, I took evil’s point of view. It still didn’t work. Alternating stanzas between police and evil didn’t work.
Finally, I scrubbed the whole process and contrived a poem without a heart. Every line was forced and it shows. This may be one of those poems on which to practice editing. Maybe it has enough viable organs for a heart transplant.
Some waste their lives in constant search
for flecks of scattered gold. They dream
of wealthy treasure ships in seas
of shallow clear. Their lives, they scheme
with charlatans for worthless charts
to wrecks that don’t exist. They seek
the isle of Sirens songs, the fear
of which some men still dare to speak.
Off Anthemusa’s rocky shore,
where King Odessius prevailed,
there rests the bones and limbs
of many bygone ships which sailed
to ground to hear the Siren’s call.
The rigging on their broken masts
for years has flossed the morning skies.
They are now part of Earth’s great past
where fading dead await fresh hands
to pull on oars no longer there.
That phantom ship just clears the reef
and hurtles on the rocks before
the crew can get her turned away.
Again the sand obtains its gold
below the land where Sirens flew.
Tossed and buried by tides turned cold
awaiting men who dive and search
and add their spoils into the pool.
They do not know the Sirens live
and call the empty minds of fools.