I'm Going Surfing and Will Never Commit Journalism Again
Cervantes, wounded three times, nearly died,
and, luckily, his left hand had been mangled,
which saved him from a slow death in the galleys.
The Moors would hold him captive for five years,
but, even after three escape attempts,
they let him stroll at leisure on the the beach.
Waiting for ransom, he beguiled his captors
with palm readings and astrological
prognostications, helping them resolve
disputes, while scheming, desperately, for food.
Barefoot, in rags, he paced around the fort
and wrote his verses in a crumbling tower;
wrote them by memory, wrote them in sand,
to keep a tenuous hold on fading powers.
Watching the sea until he thought the sea
was watching him, he lost all track of time,
dreaming of indecipherable books,
and monsters that his sword would never wound.
Back home, he took great pride in his survival
and knew those years of wrangling with corsairs,
those years of starving on the beach, had taught
him more than patience in adversity.
He could, at will, dissolve into the ether,
dissolve into the empty golden shore.
- George Green, "Lepanto"
Organizer
Mark Judge
Organizer
Washington D.C., DC