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I am recovering nicely from December foot surgery. Even as I am able to do more, the little colored pencil drawings I made when I was entirely couch-bound continue to talk to me.  Perhaps it is not for me to determine if they are enough (good enough, interesting enough) or too much (too long, to rhyme-y). This one was dictated to me by the drawing of the two people in the boat. In the spirit of letting the art and the words flow, without censor or judge, I share it here.

Run-Away Quatrain with Boat

Finn met her first in late July
the summer he was working
gutting fish for a Killiney market
though he was often shirking

the duties he was given
to earn the meager check
that would go towards tuition
for his schooling in high-tech.

Backstory: ‘twas his parents choosing—
he’d be the first at college
in a family of trawling fisherfolk
with no extensive knowledge

of the world outside the Irish coast
where they’d lived for generations
they wanted more for their golden boy
than the economic frustrations

that they perceived had held them back
from doing more, and better
in changing times, when their traditions
felt like their children’s debtor

But Finley was a different sort—
his only real ambitions
had naught to do with money,
status or competitions

what really brought the boy to life
were stories and poetry,
when he was to be mending fences
he’d hide behind a tree

reading the tome of verse he’d found
clearing his neighbor Tam’s shed
he’d asked to have that big old book
for payment then, instead

of money he wasn’t keen to make
savings he’d no real use for
and so he took the book away
and hid it in his drawer.

At night, by flashlight under covers
he’d read with rapt attention
words that danced on yellowed pages—
of this he made no mention

to teachers, friends, his family
anyone he thought would sneer
at his penchant for the art of words
and his dreams of a career

marrying words upon the page
poems, maybe short stories
that spun emotion from syllables,
lessons from allegories.

So during that one summer
he paused to take a break
from cleaning fish and hosing docks,
trying to stay awake.

He’d been up in the night again
reading rhymes and tales
which made it hard to focus
on his job and its travails.

He stretched his legs, let out a yawn
‘twas then he saw her walking
along the pier, straight towards the boats
the fishermen were docking.

Her dark hair shining, eyes obscured
beneath her wide brimmed straw
she turned to him, the faintest smile
softening her firm jaw.

I wish to buy a boat, she said
nothing too hard to steer
something rather quiet
I can tie up at this pier.

Her accent was from someplace else
her manner warm and kind
but when he asked her for her name
she seemed quite disinclined

to share with him her moniker
or to find out his own,
said she was on a mission now
one she could not postpone.

“A boat I need, today I pray
and cost is no concern”
said she to Finn, whose shyness
made him appear taciturn.

He looked around, considering
who’d have a craft to sell
and recalled his neighbor’s shed
which housed a wood-clad shell

It wasn’t big or fancy.
It could probably use some care,
but if old Tam would part with it
might that answer her prayer?

I know a guy, Finn said just then
who may have what you seek
let me talk to him and then
can you come back midweek?

“I cannot wait that long,” she said
“I really need it faster.
If I don’t find a vessel soon
It could be a disaster.”

“Ok,” said he, “I’ll take you there
just tell me who you are.”
“Heena,” she said, and smiled then
“does your neighbor live very far?”

So Finn took Heena to meet Tam
and see about his boat.
They made a deal hinging upon
proof that the craft could float.

That very day, the sun still high
the three gathered more muscle;
Tam’s oldest kids and Finn’s strong friend
with whom he’d lost a tussle.

That motley group, they gave their all
hefted the vessel high
and, carrying the thing aloft
astonished passers by.

To the docks they weaved and staggered
tied the boat up quite well
then waited, sweaty and spent,
watched how much water she’d repel.

The sea was choppy, that vessel rocked,
rose and fell with all the motion,
stayed dry inside, to Heena’s pleasure—
this craft would withstand the ocean!

Tam and Heena stepped aside,
their words low beneath the wind.
Agreement must have come quickly
for their smiles appeared twinned.

Heena reached inside her velvet bag,
withdrew a wad of quid.
Tam took it, counting once, then twice,
and shook her hand amid

smiles of relief from all involved
(transport had not been easy),
and then the helpers began to disperse
which left young Finn uneasy.

He turned to Heena and declared—
“You’ll need help with your boat!”
She smiled a bit, then laughed instead
and gently cleared her throat.

“I’m more than very capable
of refurbishing this dory
but you can help me, if you’d like,
to bring her back to glory.”

Finn raised one eyebrow, then the other,
nodding while wond’ring how
he’d fit this in around his job
(which he’d rather disavow).

As if reading his mind, she spoke,
“You will certainly have to quit
this tedious work you’re doing
and you’ll need to recommit

to the thing that you’ve been wanting
since you found that grand old book!
You convinced yourself a life with words
would cause a donnybrook—

that your family would disown you
and your prospects would be grim
none of which is true, my friend—
poeting is not mere whim.

So, turn your notice in today,
cease this work you’ve been despising.
Believe me when I tell you that
your family’s been surmising

you were born for different things
than what they’ve always known.
They want your happiness, dear lad.
Your fear’s been overblown.

So come tomorrow meet me here.
We’ll paint my sweet aquisition,
and then we’ll talk with your family
bring your visions to fruition.”

Finley was flabbergasted!
His mouth was open wide!
How could she know the secret wishes
he’d carefully kept inside?

How did she come to be here?
Was he dreaming? Was this real?
Finn was desperate for the answers
and afraid of what they’d reveal.

He went on home, head spinning
at supper was subdued
that night he slept quite fitfully,
his dreams were all imbued

with what he knew of mentalists,
who could peer inside a mind
and know, just know the very things
he’d always kept confined.

Finn awoke at dawn, then,
and hurried to the pier
wondering if he’d just dreamed it all,
or if she’d reappear.

When he rounded the last corner,
when he turned towards the pier
there stood Heena near her old-new boat!
And then it was quite clear—

this was real, his heart began to drum,
part fear, and part elation
at what would unfold next for him
after his abdication

from the work he’d never wanted,
and a life he thought quite bland
towards this seeming grand adventure
quite unscripted, quite unplanned.

But first he had to ask her,
this strange woman from afar,
“Are you a witch? Why me? Why here?
This all feels quite bizarre!”

She looked at him and smiled,
but she didn’t say a thing.
Instead she handed him a note,
motioned for him to bring

it over to the dock boss,
the man in charge today.
Finn opened it and read the words
he never thought he’d say:

To whom it may concern his morn,
I hereby do retire.
I must move on to bigger things.
my Muse says I ought aspire

to weaving words and penning poems
and forming fertile fiction
and so I thank you, head wharfman,
for my dockside conscription.

In awe, Finn turned and gave his boss
the note, without delay.
He turned again to Heena,
his thoughts in disarray.

Her gaze was kind; calm and steady
while his was a bit wary
“You mean to tell me you’re a Muse?
And this is good? Not scary?”

She sighed, seeking to quash his fear,
told him he’d understand
in a few days, when he would feel
his confidence expand.

“Today we paint the boat, my friend
tonight, with your kin dine
in three days time we will set off
on a journey quite divine.”

And so it was the paint transformed
that old boat to amethyst.
“The color of inspiration,”
Finn’s new Muse assured in earnest.

That eve the two went to Finn’s home,
had a lovely family repast
topped off by easy conversation,
any awkwardness bypassed.

After she left he wondered—
where is it that she goes?
How does a Muse sustain herself,
buy food, lodging, and clothes?

In two days time dockside he met her
at the appointed hour
a small rucksack upon his shoulder
in which his things embowered

the faded book of old-time verse
he’d got from neighbor Tam,
the tome that started all this magic
which I now attempt to enjamb.

Wait! Who am I? you may well ask
if you’ve read along this far.
I am the Muses granddaughter
and this, quatrain-ish memoir

is the story I was told
to tell you to tell others.
Creativity is the seed
from which your soul discovers

your dharma, what you came here for—
what you were born to be
for the world needs just what you have—
your work is to let it free.

But getting back to young Finley
and Heena, his wise Muse:
they stepped inside the boat that day
and set off on a cruise.

The boat moved of it’s own accord
Nary a motor, oar or sail
sometimes they’d glide along smoothly,
other times high winds would prevail.

Finn lost count of hours,
it seemed time became trivial
as he and Heena road the seas
their company quite convivial.

Sometimes there’d be silence,
sometimes sparkling conversation.
Sometimes through telesthesia
they’d share some inspiration.

They’d meet each dawn down by the pier
and set off in their craft
Heena would sit up by the helm,
and Finn, he preferred aft.

The young bard kept a notebook
as the boat sailed day by day,
and he penned glorious poems
which he and Heena gave away

to all the folks who worked the docks,
to family and friends,
to the good townsfolk in Killiney
and beyond, out towards the glens.

At sundown they would head to shore
and bid the other g’night,
then Heena would just disappear,
returning at first light.

Finn never knew just where she went
or if she ate or slept
days with his Muse seemed magical
and he grew great respect

for the mystery woman who’d appeared
and offered him a vocation
he’d really only dreamed about
in his erstwhile mentation.

I wrap this run-on with an ask:
What is your secret yearning?
And could there be a Muse about
that you’re not yet discerning?

Perhaps if you look carefully
as you move through your days
you’ll spot a light in someone’s eyes,
a warmth their smile conveys.

Don’t turn away or disavow
the very possible chance
there is indeed a presence
not obvious at first glance.

Someone, something to cheer you on
when you choose to believe
you came here with a mission
and you’re not meant to leave

without giving all of it away—
those things that light you up.
This hurting world is thirsty for
the contents of your cup.

And while you’re out there being real
cast your gaze towards the sea.
Perhaps you’ll spot a purple boat—
a Muse and her inductee.

Don’t let hardships quash your hope,
nor worry cloud your vision
much depends on your attitude
so make the right decision

to find your way by listening
really hard to that small voice
and try ignoring the louder one
that tells you there’s no choice.

I drew this picture couch-bound
while my new foot was healing
and then the drawing spun this poem,
a long-winded revealing

that the road’s not always linear
the right path rarely clear
but Heena and Finn said to tell you
helpers often can appear

as ordinary creatures,
human, animal, some divine.
They also think this got too long
so this is the last line.

The End

 

–Melinda Coppola

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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