A Ship Went Sailing

A ship went sailing,

Sailing on the wind

Above the whispering waves and shivering oceans,

And it was scaling,

Scaling clouds now thinned

That veiled the distant stars’ celestial motions.

Tonight, the curtain’s failing,

Failing to obscure the whole

Whereon the wandering ship is traveling high.

Tonight, our love is trailing,

Trailing after every soul

Remembered like the starlight in the sky,

Whose memories are sailing, sailing,

Sailing back to brush a waiting eye.

I've heard that poetry is best when read aloud, and I think that's often true. I feel it applies especially well to this poem, with its repeated words, the rising and falling rhythm of the lines, and the sustained rhyme that runs throughout. Thematically, this poem offers one imagined scenario of what happens to souls after they pass on - riding upon a ship sailing into the night sky, while those who remember them catch a glimpse from below.

Another Home Another Day

The red-brown murram road is running,

Cutting through the landscape filled with green,

From woody hills’ horizons, stunning,

Basking in the sunlight’s golden sheen,

To wetland lily pads and reeds

Leading toward a town of memories.

Each building, shop, and pathway bleeds

Into an image drawn from melodies

Of years gone by.

And all that I remember

Comes rushing back, and as the visions fly,

I think of what you said that last November

When I flew off to find another home

But promised to return another day.

To paraphrase: No matter where I roam,

A part of me would always stay

With you, beneath the leaves of ffene trees.

In every other home that knows my gaze,

I hope I leave some blessing on the breeze.

 

My guess is that this will be the last poem related to my recent trip to northern Uganda. The northern part of Uganda is certainly different from the south, which is where I lived for a few years. But going there and spending a few days definitely brought back some memories of my previous time living in the country. I'll note that I did mix in a couple words that some folks may not be familiar with. Murram refers to reddish brown laterite soil that is common in East Africa, and ffene means "jackfruit" in Luganda (the local language in central/southern Uganda).

Higher than the Clouds

Go higher than the clouds

That hover round the mountaintops,

Surpass the wispy shrouds

Before their waiting water drops

And see another mountain-scape

Whose fluffy summits billow up

Where unimpeded sunbeams drape

Themselves upon the slopes.

An open hole suggests a cup

For light to pour its shining hopes

That touch the ones below the clouds

Whose vision does not penetrate

The layerings of spreading shrouds,

To see the brighter things that wait

Beyond and in each shadowed head

Where hope springs new and angels tread.

This is another poem that comes out of my recent travels. Whenever I'm in a plane and watch as we ascend above the clouds, I'm always struck by the landscapes that appear to exist on the upper side of the cloud layer. They seem to contain hills and valleys, as well as holes that reveal bits of the actual landscape far below. The beauty of it all never ceases to evoke a sense of wonder in me, and this poem attempts to begin to convey that.

Leaky Gutter

The drizzle outside was amplified

By a leaky gutter nearby.

Escaping drops drummed on the tops

Of iron roofs that lie

Just beyond my open window

As I stayed in bed, awake

But drifting in and out of dreams

That drew me, through a fool’s mistake,

Forgetting they were less than real.

But consciousness was soon restored

By the truth that drummed on rusted steel

Where the leaky gutter’s water poured,

Reminding me the rain was real.

 

I was in northern Uganda last week, to help support a new project we are starting there. Before coming back to Kenya, I spent a night in Kampala (Uganda's capital city), waiting for my COVID test before I could fly. When I woke up in the morning, it was drizzling, and the water leaking from the gutter just above my window, falling on a corrugated iron sheet just below, made the rain seemed much louder and harder than it actually was. So, this poem is just a slice of life during my travels.