I began this poem around my 40th birthday, 2 years ago, while visiting Seattle. The imagery and theme of this poem, Crossover, come from that area, that mind-set.
Since I began, I've also been studying prosody, the structure of poetry. In particular, trying to answer the question: Why structure?
My own answer: Because a poem has a structure whether we intend it or not. To ignore structure is to ignore half the tools in our kit. Structure, well-done, is a pleasure of the poem, especially when it serves the purpose of meaning.
This later version of the poem is an attempt at more formal structure, with special attention to line-endings and stanza endings. Also, line lengths that support the "mood" of each of the poem's 3 sections.
I've included the first version below it for comparison.
Crossover
by Frederick Mead
It takes a heretical, decisive step
to become a man, to crossover water
without caveats, insecurities, failed courage,
mad infatuations, or need weighing heavily
upon the iron horizon.
Without desire pulling up coastal pine
by the roots, unquenchable desire
discarding tree trunks like flotsam to the shore,
constructing a haphazard barricade of driftwood
that fog washes over.
Yet through dense fog,
our ferryboat bravely
navigates the chain
of channel islands,
green quartz emerging
then receding, jagged-
edged in the fog.
We can see no stars
or sun to guide us.
Is it heresy to trust
an unseen Captain?
Whose permission
do we need
to take command?
Breathless on the farther shore, surprised
at the brevity of the journey, we disembark
safely at the terminal.
We trace our fingers over contours of
the relief map, and apprehend in retrospect
the winding, circuitous path
we have traveled. What guidance do the stars
and sun provide? Stars are wishes and dreams
achieved through possibility.
The sun? Merely an egg yolk
melting through our fingers--food
for the next voyage.
________________________________________________
Crossover
by Frederick Mead
It takes a heretical, decisive step
to become a man, to crossover water
without caveats, insecurities, failed courage,
our need weighing heavily on the iron horizon,
or mad infatuations. Without desire
pulling up coastal pine by the roots,
unquenchable desire discarding trunks
like flotsam to the shore, constructing a barricade
of driftwood, which only fog can wash over.
Yet through this dense fog, our ferryboat
bravely navigates the chain
of San Juan islands, green quartz
emerging then receding, jagged-edged
in the fog. We can see no stars or sun
to guide us. Is it heresy to trust
an unseen Captain? Whose permission do we
need to take command?
Breathless on the farther shore, surprised
by the brevity of the journey, we disembark safely
at the terminal. We trace a finger over contours
of the relief map, apprehending in retrospect
the winding, circuitous path we have traveled.
What guidance do the stars and sun provide?
Stars are wishes and dreams achieved
through possibility. The sun? Merely an egg yolk
melting through our fingers. Food for the next voyage.
