I was a lot younger when I wrote this poem. At this moment, when I read it again it seems so good. This happens probably because time has passed between the moment of production and the moment of (re)reading. This aspect has always fascinated me: along with the dust that accompanies time there is also a movement at the level of perception. The poem doesn’t seem to be written by my own hand and when I try to experience a sensation of alienation the pleasure of reading is even greater. If I remember well, my ‘ship of death’ was inspired by the reading of Lawrence’s ‘ship of death’ and now I can really sense the influence. It appears that time does not only bring dust, but also pleasure. However, this pleasure is just something temporary because the passing of time is always painful, even inevitably painful. Pleasure follows detachment from this process of passage. Nevertheless, detachment is particularly difficult. Difficult but not impossible. The usage of irony could be a verisimilar solution. Here is the poem I wrote approximately 2 years ago (it may sound pathetic but I assume the risks implied by it):

in life’s autumn

when the eyes turn to gold

towards oblivion

the horizon fills its arms

with dark waters of tears

when the sands of memory

stand still

and no wind disturbs

their mortal immobility

a ship rests…

 

it has no sloping masts

no dipping prow

it is a tiny ship

like a nutshell

which you could keep

in your pocket

hidden from the eyes

of those who walk the ignorance

into nights of cold

(yes, your parents do that too)

 

it has little space inside

as little as the word death

it is all you need

when the dancing days are gone

you shall not need elegant clothing

nor fancy buttons for your shirt

nor shoes that shine in the moonlight

nor flamboyant haircuts

but just a white blanket

to cover your soul

it is everything that you have

everything that you need…

 

it has a match to keep you warm

a book that tells the longest story

to keep you entertained

a piece of paper to catch glimpses

of the whisper of the wind

 

don’t be angry on those who built the ship

it’s like blaming the dead

the price of your life did not cover

first-class furniture and lcd screens

it is a small ship

it contains everything you placed in it

including food that has gone off

 

it is your fault

nature’s fault you think

there are things in the ship that you could put

but impossible to take out

the ship contains everything

even worthless things

like your mom’s voice that says

that you should dress properly

in the spring…

 

you’ll be amazed

you’ll see kings and queens

descend from luxurious dens

to little ships like nutshells

you’ll see yourself floating

towards oblivion

you’ll wonder dreadfully

how could you descend

from luxurious dens

to little ships like nutshells

 

don’t try to beckon the ship

or try to make another ship

out of a rope and a tree

only when the sands are silent

your ship shall come

and it will be at that moment

the most beautiful thing

that your eyes have seen…