I sweated blood to finish this for the Keillor competition, only to find it was restricted to U.S citizens, just as well, it would probably have given the judges chronic indigestion.
There are those that will no doubt ask why I have departed from my usual rigid format.
If one does not know the answer, then a coastal sea journey in an Arab dhow may provide a turbulent clue.
Silhouettes float across a lambent sphere,
lineation’s scheme, rims turbid turquoise seas.
A crimson sun sinks imperceptibly,
as men and craft, set sails of exigency
and pray for winds of latent fears.
Barques bring burdens of their lade obesity;
athwart Arabia’s wide self-lotic scene;
o’er land, Khamseen blows through allotted span,
while man and beast stay in, as best they can
to breathe life through, their shemagh screen.
As gyre’s aureole, seeks roil its salty bree,
in attitude set for yet, new points unseen.
Far mountains rest in stern solidarity,
to save sweet moisture for rare swathes of green
and sheep herded in their shorn docility.
Time’s ancient dhow sails its own lonely quest
it hugging close to shore, as best it dare.
Beyond, its now, rufesent molten dree
to leave its crew, no moments rest to share.
For danger lies, where they too least do see.
Where zephyr winds trade with wild nature’s task,
to fill lateens, no lesser self so ask.
Khaliya safin sings on, in voice to please
frenetic shrouds; who vie with venery mask,
and rhythms of now affected ease.
O how sound resonates and cadence seeks,
wave’s own light slapping notes to tease.
‘Til man and dhow chaste in their hegemony
bound celibate to their aged belief,
still race, towards their acronychal destiny.
With hemps, own strange-minded sad relief.
and shisha’s own sweet servile pleasantry.
Sends many minds to restful pause and sleep
with those dreams, we destined ne’er to keep,
when dawn becomes own righteous thief.
For morning star now red Rosetta’s glow
horizons held to proof o’ westwards point.
Where a Socotra’s land to starboard show
its distant palm and often-dated head.
Bows there to none, beyond those it’s so fed
as resting sun seeks, Red Sea’s to anoint.
Before, such coming night those sailors dread
"Afreet/Afreeti" fire spirit of the dead.
‘Til where indigo will have its surer claim
o’er skies that would, so show copacetic fame.
For night, it is Jaheem’s own black address
from which a devil may so wish to caress
those further thoughts, of desired darkness.
Apollyon, your volitation; where be yon shore
to where the wings of sin may sear no more,
must we too, another boatman’s hand implore.
To seek escape those miseries of distress
where baying hounds of Khawārij fidget pace
who ne’er their endless tasking’s self-digress.
Nigrescence stay; night’s hard routine of hand
where sextant seeks by stars; lost sight o’ land
those endless waves whose self- tends to repine,
lest mercur-maudlin light seeks, a rondure line
to so encircle man’s own opacities of mind.
To where past days were from their shadows brought
to strains of aura’s lonely sound and lure.
Those polysemy, of man’s own sought design
What grievousness, would be there of its lot
when nature too, provides its program of unsure.
Before Luna’s, own caritas site of lighted scene
such ancient seas behove, a bright Selene.
Wherein man may and many compasses can
seek some projected path; them self so plan.
And trust Manāt belays her thought to intervene.
Where pilot porpoise streak their luminous light
display to sailors, shows of sheer delight.
When moon so beams upon such silvered sea,
an ancient land looms out on lighted lee.
As nature dresses all, in rebus subtlety.
Where, distant deserts, beckon too their mysteries
as waves, again change nature’s own emprise.
Embattled man sees life’s as no surprise
when even though the truth he knew, were lies?
like changing sands they too grieve no, remise.
Sweet thereon such savoured sylph o’ sound
the tangled smells of Persia’s aqueous abound.
As from envelopes full darkness of a sky,
a crimson frigate bird belies its cry,
and swooping, searches a passing bird it prize.
For it does herald aurora’s new-hosted day,
as blood red breast reveals a bright display.
For graceful flight it does new dawn’s obey
were lesser birds, they are such pirate’s prey.
Yet still, it dare not touch one drop of spray.
For truth, may ne’er, in such aquatic mean adhere
it fraught in fragile feathers aqueous fear.
Its sanctuary seeks arakib’s own lowly tier
to shelter from the rained storm of night,
or to a Dhow’s black prow, its pride debere.
How cruel nature, to such winged flight.
For currents need had gathered its ascendancy,
to there decide the ill fate of seasons man.
Where austral winds held back their clemency,
to let dance, death’s rage-waters of élan.
or foam in treacherous ways, its self may plan
Heed now harsh roar of raging Hell’s reality
where swift of wing, would now so fear.
Bab el Mandeb cries back man’s own futility
when sails beyond, the Gate o’ Tears appear;
as hopeful plans of man evanish there.
For doom of countless sailor’s endless toiling,
who there upon those straits, their life’s so ply.
Curse they now devil’s voice of its dire calling,
when weary frigates would to sky, so fly.
To leave behind safe shelter’s now late failing,
for they too heard, those rocks own siren cry
“Beware, beware says Sawabi, turn you away,
turn you away, this time, I say, or die”
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But enough about me. Your poetry is grand enough to win the Keillor prize, but the purveyors of the prize are not grand enough to accept writers from abroad… What a shame. They would probably kick out Shakespeare were he alive today.
Ron