For me, a poem about how little real control any of us have over our lives
and relationships, but does it matter?
Enjoyment and understanding of poetry is so very subjective - every now and
then a poem seems to match our own experiences or emotions and we are
delighted that someone else understands them, and can express them so
clearly. If we miss the poets true intention, it's probably because it is
outside our experience and therefore has little meaning for us. This poem
(which I like very much) seems to me to be about being so preoccupied with
our inner struggles that we fail to communicate effectively with the people
who are important to us, and about how these invisible conflicts change the
course of our lives. I can see how it could also be a metaphor for the
poet's preoccupation with expressing himself through his craft, to the point
where he is not able to express himself in any other way, but I'm not quite
sure how the storm and the general hopelessness of the ending fits into this
interpretation. Perhaps the emotions that he is struggling to express in his
work simply overwhelm the poet, and he descends into an inner chaos from
which he feels there is no return, and that is why 'Even if I learned to
control these oars,
it would make not one whit of difference'. Or do these last lines refer
specifically to the lost relationship earlier in the poem? I'm not
suggesting that these questions should be answered in the poem - one of the
joys of poetry is the questions it leaves hanging in the air. Anyway, it's a
lovely piece; I have really enjoyed reading it, and will do so again. Thank
you for that.
Sarah
My Craft
If I could only control these oars,
everything would be all right,
but they donīt seem designed
for the transmission of intention - mine -
into control - of my craftīs direction.
I know which way I should go.
I saw your friendly wave from the bank
and didnīt respond only for fear of releasing
my grip on these uncertain oars.
Did you wonder at my failure to stop?
my apparent preference for some other spot?
I noticed your look of puzzlement
as I drifted past without sign or signal,
my smile at that distance, perhaps,
not clear, or strained into a grimace
by my efforts. No matter, I thought,
I would explain all later and we would laugh
over how my course had not been smooth.
That was before the wind got up.
How this small boat rocks.
One oar paddles the air
while the other, buried deep in the swell,
almost pitches me into the black water
and my bow rotates at right angles
to where I would go. Boat and oars
are quite impervious to my desires.
The waves buffet with a wilful persistence,
trying to tell me something;
we are in control. No surprise considering
my best instrument for wresting dominion
from the unruly elements
is a long stick with a flattened end.
Itīs too late now, anyway.
Even if I learned to control these oars,
it would make not one whit of difference.
Mike
A poem about rowing or a poem about writing poetry?
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