17 October 2026

By Philip Kuepper

An immense black satin ocean
spreads wide, outward, from where I stand.
On it chips of moonlight sparkle
when tips of waves cut the light.
The only sound is the slight slurping
of the water, water that has known
the oars of rowers for millennia:
Phoenicians, Greeks,
Romans, Vikings,
Basques, Portuguese,
commercial fishermen trawling;
soldiers, conscripted;
men, enslaved, in galleys;
native youths setting out to fish
suppers, from the depths, for their families;
athletes, in competitive heats;
life savers;
and rowers out for pleasure.
Read the water, and your read
the history of man, and the womb
from which man sprang,
the ocean the place of birth, itself,
the ocean an endless stirring
of motion, that made life possible,
that makes life possible, still;
the womb of the ocean that rowed
man onto land,
and those who row returning to the source
from which they sprang.

(27 September 2026)