Philip Naude

Sailing

Words travel with startling ease across still waters, skipping like stones, traveling to places unintended by those from whom they came while words spoken on the ocean in the presence of even the slightest breeze can change meaning, and sometimes disappear as if never spoken at all. These words have been heard for thousands of years, each one evoking the traditions that they both formed and were formed by, and as they mix with the ever present sound of water coming in contact with itself, with this vessel, and with the wind that we harness to drive her forward, one can not help but feel a very deep respect for everything else and only measured amounts for oneself. Perhaps the calls and responses of sailors have been shared across admiralty miles aided by these winds of change, formed and altered, arriving sometimes complete, other times frayed like the sailors themselves may arrive at port, while some never return only to become part of the ever expanding myth and mythologies of the sea.

There is no finer reminder of the constant presence of change than that which exists on the deck of a ship under the fickle blanket of gust and gale while moving across the give and take of an undulating sea. To be humbled by the delicacy that exists at every instant between these two most powerful forces, those that turn the faces of cliffs to sand, and carve canyons between mountains, was a right of passage for so many who have come before us, and it is perhaps to our great detriment that for so many, it no longer is. There is neither limit to their patience, nor cause to their petulance as they wait for no one, and speak only to each other in a language we can only listen to in hopes of comprehending a single word or perhaps a passing phrase within our lifetime.

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The Divine sits further away these days

The Book of Jubilees describes the physical demise of the last allegorical effort on the part of humanity to work in unison, collectively (or by virtue of some, "great leader's vision") desirous of attaining a nearer proximity to the Creator. In some cultures and other Books, the structure is intended for sanctuary from another impending deluge brought upon the meddling masses by (apparently) the elusive and aforementioned Head Honcho, when in fact we usually have only ourselves to blame for the wrath of the gods. As the story goes, the great tower was razed by the powers that Be as a reminder to the mortal that this construction was indeed a fool's errand, and to punctuate the statement, the people of the world were dispatched to the four corners, and left to speak in a plethora of languages thereby foiling any future attempts at such lofty, and essentially arrogant ambitions. Perhaps the repercussions of this act of divine intervention were not lost on the Divine, but one cannot help but wonder if we truly deserved the subsequent untold number of future misunderstandings that continue to result in fear, folly, anger, and bloodshed, or if this was a rare, and obviously undocumented case of Deus Doofus.

Regardless, a mighty wind is fabled to have toppled the immense phallus, so in effect it could be stated that a great burst of Immortal Flatulence was unleashed upon Mankind in response to our misdirected efforts, which would easily account for the quick and even dispersal of the people in every direction, but does leave the confusion of the tongues unresolved. Osmosis runs it's natural course, and there is only a faint lingering of that original and sobering stench, so little that we seem to have collectively located it among the other less palatable arrivals to our olfactory system (with our garbage, last weeks tuna casserole, and the overworked, underpaid slumped on the downtown train, ripe at 6pm in August) and therefore no longer recognized it for what it is, or was. The result is the obvious and rapid recommencing of construction, but this time, without the aid of a common language, it is no longer a single physical structure nor a unified desire, it has become several, and all are geared for the sole purpose of preserving themselves. No longer seeking shelter from a catastrophic deluge or any of the other more colorful plagues of yesteryear, this time it is protection from other mortals and this time there is no great tower rising to reach one Almighty benefactor.

As far as the eye can see, these shrines grow steadily upward toward any number of aspirations, proud, dedicated, but blind to their commonality, deaf to the shared muse, and dumb. Another great wind blows, more gently this time, but the emissions from any omniscient and ever-present Creator are fueled by the furnace of their being and powerful enough to scorch the fields even from such a distance, for the Divine sits further away these days, unable to watch the buildings rise, and because the babble has grown unbearable.

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Warning: Poetry can be harmful to your health.

It might be advisable, especially for the benefit of the hopeless romantics, quixotic artisans, and the legions of troubled adolescents to label poetry with warnings, as is done with the cigarette package and more recently, alcohol advertisements. Not that one should always consult with the family physician before taking a poem, but caution and pause should be heeded for in the wrong hands, and more accurately, in the wrong hearts, poetry can lead to unnecessary discomfort, misplaced affections, phantom afflictions, and in some cases a slow and painful death. Additionally, try to be aware of where your poetry comes from for not all of it, while still perfectly beautiful, comes from a source you can trust. The majestic lilt of poetic reflection, in combination with the layers of symbolism, the distance between the subject and the subjected, the carefully chosen and often floral vocabulary have the intended tendency to lead the reader unto pastures where life becomes serene, even in it's darkest hours, and for the more malleable among us, this can be dangerous.

Now while some will argue that this is precisely the purpose of the poem, of prose, the novel, and more accessibly, the fantasies of celluloid and the doomed 'great educator' television, consider looking past the immediate response of the doe eyed reader, or viewer, and observe what the long term effects of this relationship truly are. Any premature attempt to meld the poetic with the actual moment that is creating it can have numerous and adverse side effects. The label should read: Can cause dizziness, shortness of breath, loss of perspective, insomnia, delusion, nausea, and the operation of heavy machinery should be avoided. The moment is course, it is real and can smell badly, taste bitter, look ugly and sound shrill, and it is best to see the beauty in it for what it really is rather than wish it come in leather bound quartos. Until experience is gained, the only means by which this gentle melding can occur, poetry is best left for later, by fireside, over fond recollections or on the docks in the gloaming as stories are told. This is where poetry flourishes, and where it can in fact be quite healthy.

Perhaps this is a more personal reflection than an analysis of a common experience, as your intrepid author falls flatly (on his face) in the hopeless romantic category mentioned above. Having recently written on the aesthetics of sailing after a beautiful afternoon on the water, this novice was invited back for another sail, this time an overnight race, and those words were tucked lovingly and metaphorically into breast pocket for the journey. From the first moments on board, his sophomore experience was qualitatively different and clearly at odds with the words so fluidly laid to paper. The ocean was strong, and everything understandably damp while bodies worked every moment to maintain advance, sails tipped acute as if pointing to a low flying bird blown off course by the relentless winds. There sprung no eloquence from lips save the more clever expletives, and an orange that had tasted so sweet only an hour before was released to the sea as an involuntary albeit mandatory offering of forgiveness. Gazing at the wash rush past only inches away he was flush with the sense that this experience was a less than gentle response from the elements to having brought that prematurely rhapsodic diction on board.

Before words must come actions, and before any further meditations on the nature of the sea are to be shared, there must come a deeper understanding of her, a more through knowledge of his own limitations when tested by her, but first and foremost, many more hours in her arms. Only then will those words hold real meaning, have even the slightest essence of true poetry, and belong to the moment that created them.

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Hong Kong

Another in a long series of fortunate circumstances, I have been lucky enough to have recently become familiar with the dynamic streets of this unique city, and the throngs of people that employ them. The vertical stretch of it's skyline boasts three of the world's ten tallest buildings, all surrounded by a staggering number of equally impressive monuments to architecture and finance while needle like apartment buildings peek sibling about them, eager to make a similar impression as countless more rise daily, and densely along the edges of Victoria Harbor.

Similar fortune should be awarded to be living in Wan Chai at this particular moment in time. The Urban Renewal projects are moving quickly, and the small streets, sidewalk vendors, old apartments and specialty shops are soon to be diminished substantially by their expedience. There is a certain sadness people express at the loss of Hong Kong's last 'old style' neighborhood in the heart of the city. The benefit I have, despite being accompanied by a similar sense of regret, is the kinetic atmosphere of men assembling and climbing towers of bamboo scaffolding, streams of sparks from welders falling amidst the dense smell of wet concrete with trucks loading or unloading at all hours while the alleys below are filled with hawking vendors and wandering buyers, all lit warm by countless red and gold New Years lanterns, decorations, and presents all heralding the onset of the Year of the Golden Pig.

Through my windows this Saturday morning comes a deafening combination of workers calls, of tools severing walls from floors, and of their sections being heaved into enormous waste containers with the thud and echo akin to a timpani for the gods. It is the building adjacent to my apartment, an old secondary school being dismantled, obvious as stacks of small desks pile up on the street awaiting removal, and it is certain that before I leave in a few short weeks the remaining shell will be encased in a weave of bamboo scaffolding, as elegant as it is durable, to be brought finally down as the foundation is laid for a building that will rise five times the height of the land's former tenant. Meanwhile, a woman in her twilight years, seemingly unaffected by the commotion moves gracefully through a series of slow deliberate movements on her patio as she has done since long before the window I watch from ever existed.

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Sahha

Departure has few synonyms. It is a word that is as clearly defined and understood as any, but able to conjure a profound response few are capable of. Leaving little ambiguity, it is used euphemistically for death in so many cultures, a staple of the gentle turns of phrase in solemn eulogy. Change and action are inherent, and it holds a significant poetic burden as countless references made to it over the centuries have left it lonely, somewhat unwanted, an annoying uncle perhaps, lacking in social graces, aloof, and stubborn. Even the more optimistic, cyclical belief systems still regard it with trepidation, and lavish it with ceremony and lore regardless of any inevitable returning awaiting embrace. It marks an instant, or passage when one becomes other, a junction of present and future, and most often a place where friends and lovers part ways, where words become heavy as if gravity grows kudzu at it's threshold.

The occasion of departure becomes tainted and obscured by it's own importance, altered by the tension of the past pulling against future, the center in a mammoth game of Tug o' War where both sides are juggernaut, insistent and unyielding in their quest for influence over the moment. By definition the future will always prevail, as past tumbles awkwardly into a muddy pile of limbs at odd angles, groans of loss, and raised eyes looking toward the euphoric victorious. The past will have its revenge as it becomes draped in nostalgia, spoken of at length, framed and placed on mantles, in glass cabinets, on walls and in wallets. Meanwhile, the moment is silent and introspective. In the muster of emotions that accompany any given departure most are present, but not all, for while the moment is always the same, every departure is different, and pity stands alone outside the ostentation watching and feeling for those who are so helplessly in the throws of the others.

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