Thursday, February 15, 2007

Dying & Poems

A week or so ago a reader asked about death & dying on Ocracoke. I didn't post a reply to the question (I suppose I just got distracted -- I'll blame it on Lachlan!), but I have been using that question as the catalyst for my next monthly newsletter. I am working on that article right now and will be ready to upload it in a week or less. So be looking for the link in an upcoming journal entry.

Yesterday a reader alerted me to the poems of Pablo Neruda. I have to admit that I'm not so knowledgeable about literary matters. But I did a Google search and came up with a host of wonderful poems. You might want to do the same. Were I a poet I might attempt to convey some of the magic of Ocracoke in verse here in this journal. Come to think of it, if you are a poet you are encouraged to use the comment option below to post some of your very own poems, especially if they pertain to the island. I might even copy and paste them into a future journal entry.

This month's Ocracoke Newsletter chronicles the story of commercial fishing on Ocracoke, and tells of the efforts of the Ocracoke Working Watermen's Association to save the island's last remaining fish house. Click here to read the entire newsletter....and learn how to make a donation.

1 comment:

  1. Anonymous9:40 AM

    (For Jerry and Norma, With Love)

    We're not quite O'Cockers yet, I reckon,
    But we're workin' on it.

    The good old boys next door, Jeff and Beaver,
    Make torpid flails at their fishnet
    With sticks, in the manner of parochial beadles
    Grown weary of their God-given commission
    To correct the lazy
    In the buzzing blaze of midday.

    We sit here in the heat.
    We feel in our own hot blood why their flailing's torpid.
    Our dozing kitten stretches her skinny bones full-length,
    Passive, yet alert for a breeze; life itself
    Heats up and slows down in these parts come July.

    We sense our inbuilt clocking devices shifting
    From chronometer time to calendar time
    (measure by tides, stars or phases of the moon).

    But, in spite of ourselves, our wishful thinking,
    In spite of this tidal pull toward the languid,
    We still think about the day's schedule, don't we?
    What must we get at the store?
    What shall we make for supper?
    What shall we do next?
    Do we have time to go to the beach?
    We can't just sit here idle, can we? And...

    When (why?) do we have to go home?

    Nope. We're not quite O'Cockers yet.
    But it’s workin' on us.
    — Clem Page
    Ocracoke, July 24, 2002.