Great Throughts Treasury

"To All My Mariners in One - Forget the many who talk much, say little, mean less and matter least Forget we live in times when broadcasts of Tchaikovsky's 5th precede announcements of the death of tyrants. Forget that life for governments is priced war cheap but kidnap high Our seamanship is not with such. From port to port we learn that "depths last longer than heights", that years are meant to disappear like wakes, that nothing but the sun stands still. We share the sweeter alphabets of laughter and the slower languages of pain. Common as coal, we find in one another's eyes the quiet diamonds that are worth the world. Drawn by the song of our keel, who are we but horizons coming true? Let others wear their memories like jewelry We're of the few who work apart so well, together when we must. We speak cathedrals when we speak and trust no promise but the pure supremacy of tears. What more can we expect? The sea's blue mischief may be waiting for its time and place, but still we have the stars to guide us, we have the winds for company. We have ourselves. We have the sailor's faith that not even dying can divide us."

"Because poetry is the language of felt thought and utterance… of admissions and oaths as sacred as life itself, it is evident in an economy by its absence. As long as people are perceived in economic terms alone, poetry (and all the other arts, for that matter) will be regarded as ornamental or irrelevant or simply dispensable… the disregard of poetry will be as fatal to their spiritual lives as the deprivation of oxygen would be to their physical lives. Why? Because poetry tells us who we are, what our surroundings mean to us, and what waits to be discovered beneath the apparent.…It is the language of the heart…It is at the same time the language of the senses."

"A minor brush with medicine in eighty years was all he’d known. But this was different. His right arm limp and slung, his right leg dead to feeling and response, he let me spoon him chicken-broth. Later he said without self-pity that he’d like to die. I bluffed, “The doctors think that therapy might help you walk again.” “They’re liars, all of them,” he muttered. Bedfast was never how he hoped to go. “In bed you think of everything,” he whispered with a shrug, “you think of all your life.” I knew he meant my mother. Without her he was never what he might have been, and everyone who knew him knew it. Nothing could take her place— not the cars he loved to drive, not the money he could earn at will, not the roads he knew by heart from Florida to Saranac, not the two replacement wives who never measured up. Fed now by family or strangers, carried to the john, shaved and changed by hired help, this independent man turned silent at the end. Only my wife could reach him for his private needs. What no one else could do for him, he let her do. She talked to him and held his hand, the left. She helped him bless himself and prayed beside him as my mother might have done. “Darling” was his final word for her. Softly, in Arabic."