Rowing the Bay of the Mind

4 October 2020

By Philip Kuepper

The point of my pen
whitecaps, with words,
the bay of this page.
They break against the margins.
I row my boat of thought among them,
whitecaps cutting, at times,
sharp as stropped knives.
At other times, they froth,
soft as foam oozing
between fingers.

The boat of my thoughts is built
to withstand whatever seas
come at it.  How could it not.
I know the shoals of opinion lie
hidden just beneath the oft
deceiving surface.  (It is the depths
that remind me keep in mind
the eye cannot see itself;
the knife cannot cut itself.
Yet, I ask, can the flame burn itself?
Can the rower unrow what has been rowed?)

I am alert to the shores of emotions
being sharp-edged.  They are as apt
to rip open my hull, as not.
I am cautious about who I
take on board.  An alter ego
is the extent of my crew,
he and I enough to make smooth
the course, however rough
the seas, the point my pen making being,
words can be
a bellwether,
or prove disaster.

(22 July 2020)

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.