{"id":7202,"date":"2010-04-02T10:17:08","date_gmt":"2010-04-02T14:17:08","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/?p=7202"},"modified":"2018-02-21T06:22:22","modified_gmt":"2018-02-21T11:22:22","slug":"across","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/2010\/04\/across\/","title":{"rendered":"Across"},"content":{"rendered":"

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[Image: “Waiting for the Ferryman,” by Jack R. Johanson (click for original). The photographer describes the location, along the Norwegian river Glomma<\/a>, as “a fine place to wait for the ferryman to take you to the other side.”]<\/em><\/p>\n

Oddly, whiskey river<\/em> was very prose-y in the last week. Think I’ll duck down into the archives there, a\/k\/a whiskey river’s commonplace book<\/em>, for a poetry selection<\/a>…<\/p>\n

Letter Written on a Ferry
\nWhile Crossing Long Island Sound<\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

I am surprised to see
\nthat the ocean is still going on.
\nNow I am going back
\nand I have ripped my hand
\nfrom your hand as I said I would
\nand I have made it this far
\nas I said I would
\nand I am on the top deck now
\nholding my wallet, my cigarettes
\nand my car keys
\nat 2 o\u2019clock on a Tuesday
\nin August of 1960.<\/p>\n

Dearest,
\nalthough everything has happened,
\nnothing has happened.
\nThe sea is very old.
\nThe sea is the face of Mary,
\nwithout miracles or rage
\nor unusual hope,
\ngrown rough and wrinkled
\nwith incurable age.<\/p>\n

Still,
\nI have eyes.
\nThese are my eyes:
\nthe orange letters that spell
\nORIENT on the life preserver
\nthat hangs by my knees;
\nthe cement lifeboat that wears
\nits dirty canvas coat;
\nthe faded sign that sits on its shelf
\nsaying KEEP OFF.
\nOh, all right, I say,
\nI\u2019ll save myself.<\/p>\n

Over my right shoulder
\nI see four nuns
\nwho sit like a bridge club,
\ntheir faces poked out
\nfrom under their habits,
\nas good as good babies who
\nhave sunk into their carriages.
\nWithout discrimination
\nthe wind pulls the skirts
\nof their arms.
\nAlmost undressed,
\nI see what remains:
\nthat holy wrist,
\nthat ankle,
\nthat chain.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Anne Sexton; whiskey river<\/em> includes only the first four stanzas, above, but I think you’ll want to read the whole thing, which you can do here<\/a> and elsewhere.)<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

Not from whiskey river<\/em>:<\/p>\n

Ferry Poem<\/strong><\/p>\n

The ferry is late today
\nWho knows what they’ll tell us today
\nAn engine this time, or a shaft our of line
\nThe ferry is late today<\/p>\n

There’s no room on the ferry today
\nIt’s summer and Sunday today
\nThere are kayaks in heaps, and five lanes of jeeps
\nThere’s no room on the ferry today<\/p>\n

The ferry is elsewhere today
\nIt’s shuffle the docks day today
\nThe Skeena Queen got the Cumberland’s spot
\nThe ferry is elsewhere today<\/p>\n

The ferry is puzzled today
\nThe new schedule is published today
\nIt’s green and it’s sleek, and it’s written in Greek
\nThe ferry is puzzled today<\/p>\n

The ferry won’t be here today
\nTheir contract talks ended today
\nA clause was misread, now the terminal’s dead
\nThe ferry won’t be here today<\/p>\n

The ferry’s not running today
\nIt’s a south-easter blowing sixty today
\nAnd my dog is verboten<\/em> at the last motel open
\nThe ferry’s not running today<\/p>\n

The ferry is on time today
\nIt’s me who is late today
\nI’m tired and I’m dirty, and I’ll have to wait till eight thirty
\nThe ferry is on time today<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(John Carlton (about whom I’ve been able to learn, like, nothing<\/em> — except that he’s a poet, possibly in the Tacoma, Washington area; I found the above poem here<\/a>))<\/p>\n

Edit (2018-02-21): <\/strong>The Web never seems to lose its capacity for surprise. The John Carlton who wrote “Ferry Poem” showed up here last night, and left the comment below<\/a>. As of right now, I know nothing about him but the basic fact(s) he mentions in the comment; a Web search has turned up various references to other “John Carltons,” at least one of whom is a poet (indeed, author of\u00a0<\/em>The Poet Laureate of McKaig, Maryland and other Poems) — but his full name is actually John Carlton Hagerhorst. The one “John Carlton” about whom I’ve learned much at all seems to be a curmudgeonly sort of Web-marketing consultant: in a blog post in 2005<\/a>, he even makes passing reference to his younger days as a self-styled “lost, romantic poet\/musician rogue.” If this should turn out to be the same fellow — or if I learn anything more about the John Carlton referenced in this<\/em> RAMH rumination — I’ll update this post again.<\/em><\/p>\n

…and:<\/p>\n

A river ran through the Underworld. It was as dark as the soil, and lapped at its banks in a slow, oily way.<\/p>\n

“Ah, I think I’ve heard of this,” said Roland. “There’s a ferryman, right?”<\/p>\n

YES.<\/p>\n

He was there, suddenly, standing in a long, low boat. He was all in black, of course in black, with a deep hood that entirely concealed his face and gave a definite feeling that this was just as well.<\/p>\n

“Hi, pal,” said Rob Anybody cheerfully. “How’re ye doin’?”<\/p>\n

OH NO, NOT YOU PEOPLE AGAIN, said the dark figure in a voice that was not so much heard as felt. I THOUGHT YOU WERE BANNED.<\/p>\n

“Just a wee misunderstandin’, ye ken,” said Rob, sliding down Roland’s armor. “Ye have tae let us in, ‘cuz we’s deid already.”<\/p>\n

The figure extended an arm. The black robe fell away, and what pointed at Roland looked, to him, very much like a bony finger.<\/p>\n

BUT HE MUST PAY THE FERRYMAN, he said accusingly, in a voice of crypts and graveyards.<\/p>\n

“Not until I’m on the other side,” Roland said firmly.<\/p>\n

“Oh, c’mon!” said Daft Wullie to the ferryman. “Ye can see he’s a Hero! If ye canna trust a Hero, who can ye trust?”<\/p>\n

The cowl regarded Roland for what seemed like a hundred years.<\/p>\n

OH, VERY WELL THEN.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Terry Pratchett, Wintersmith<\/em>)<\/p>\n

…finally: the British singer\/songwriter Ralph McTell<\/a> has been kicking around for a long time. His birth name was Ralph May — named after the classical composer Ralph Vaughan Williams<\/a>, for whom his father had once worked — but he changed it, as an adult, to “McTell” in homage to blues legend Blind Willie McTell<\/a>. Wikipedia tells us:<\/p>\n

As well as tours in his own right, McTell secured a prestigious support slot in 1987 opening the shows on The Everly Brothers’ UK tour. He greatly enjoyed working with Don and Phil who, he admits, were musical heroes of his.<\/p>\n

McTell’s end-of-tour gift to himself was Albert, an African Grey Parrot. In years to come, the bird would not only learn to talk but, by mimicking its owner’s cough, would spur McTell to give up the hand-rolled cigarettes he’d smoked all his adult life.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

Hold the ferryman off a little longer, eh, Ralph?<\/p>\n

Haven’t been able to find the song below — from 1971’s You Well-Meaning Brought Me Here<\/em> — anywhere in MP3 form. But some kind soul has uploaded it to YouTube, over static images. The song’s based on a passage in Herman Hesse’s Siddhartha<\/em>: oh yes, that was the early ’70s. (Lyrics below.)<\/p>\n