Reports from the Economic Front

a blog by Marty Hart-Landsberg

Exile From A Future Time

Although this is not my typical post, I hope readers will find this poem, The Bellbuoy by Sol Funaroff, useful.  I read it periodically and it strengthens my resolve.

The most moving part for me follows:

I am that exile

from a future time,

from shores of freedom

I may never know,

who hears, sounding in the surf,

tidings from the lips of waves

that meet and kiss

in submarine gardens

of a new Atlantis

where gold colored fishes

paint the green gloom.

 

Here is the complete poem:

The Bellbuoy by Sol Funaroff

 

At the ebb and flow of the sea

near the shore’s edge

I stand and watch the low grey clouds

whistling in the winds weather,

and hear the bellbuoy,

rocked with the sea swell,

give sound and meaning

to the unknown currents, seawhispers,

subdued voices, the undersea of living.

 

New world navigator

I sound uncharted depths.

For the longings of sailors

I sing a voyage of discovery;

lands where bleached river beds

like mammoth bones lie dry;

and ancient cities,

built by slaves,

doomed by the slaver’s whip,

Crumble in their wreckages.

 

In a city of hulks,

battered tenements,

with creatures swarming

in slime and weeds,

stars lit by electric fish

flash in the marine night

and the moon sinks down,

a foundering ship.

 

In this human deep

the derelict’s dreams are drowned

in absinthe solitudes,

and hopes are drowned

with the dreams of drowning.

There are dark gulfs,

hollowed by the tears of oceans,

where the weeping of waters

is like the weeping of women

in a nation at war

and the sea is salt and bitter

with the blood of the slain.

 

There in subterranean caverns

the long rains,

in travels underground

seeping through the graves of paupers,

drip an age of sorrows

frozen in stalagmite;

and from the abyss,

deep as the tones of organs,

echos swell in reply,

a surge of voices

the rebel exile often hears

in the far, hidden tides

of his native land.

 

I am that exile

from a future time,

from shores of freedom

I may never know,

who hears, sounding in the surf,

tidings from the lips of waves

that meet and kiss

in submarine gardens

of a new Atlantis

where gold colored fishes

paint the green gloom.

 

And where the cracked heart of the world

sobs through great fissures

whose boiling hells

raise volcanic fires

and tears of stone,

in huge convulsions,

waterspouts and steam,

eternity gives birth,

and from its watery womb

emerges a continent

from the slime of oceans.

 

Then tossed by seas rebellious and proud

with stormy syllables in mass cascades

my songs are sung.

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