Over on the "Lariat" board, I asked a question about the Canadian poet, E. J. Pratt (1882 - 1964). I copy here some of the information I posted on that thread, together with the concluding lines from his long poem of 1935, "The Titanic". In my copy of Pratt’s Collected Poems (Toronto, 1944), this runs to thirty-one pages, over a thousand lines - a serious undertaking.
Several poems ("The Titanic" among them), as well as other information, can be found at the University of Toronto site (http://www.library.utoronto.ca/canpoetry/pratt/). In addition, Trent University, Ontario, has for some time been preparing a hypertext edition of Pratt’s works, including his letters at http://www.trentu.ca/pratt/. Out on the water was the same display Of fear and self-control as on the deck - Challenge and hesitation and delay, The quick return, the will to save, the race Of snapping oars to put the realm of space Between the half-filled lifeboats and the wreck. The swimmers whom the waters did not take With their instant death-chill struck out for the wake Of the nearer boats, gained on them, hailed The steersmen and were saved: the weaker failed And fagged and sank. A man clutched at the rim Of a gunwale, and a woman's jewelled fist Struck at his face: two others seized his wrist, As he released his hold, and gathering him Over the side, they staunched the cut from the ring.... Aboard the ship, whatever hope of dawn Gleamed from the Carpathia's riding lights was gone, For every knot was matched by each degree Of list. The stern was lifted bodily When the bow had sunk three hundred feet, and set Against the horizon stars in silhouette Were the blade curves of the screws, hump of the rudder. The downward pull and after buoyancy Held her a minute poised but for a shudder That caught her frame as with the upward stroke Of the sea a boiler or a bulkhead broke. Climbing the ladders, gripping shroud and stay, Storm-rail, ringbolt or fairlead, every place That might befriend the clutch of hand or brace Of foot, the fourteen hundred made their way To the heights of the aft decks, crowding the inches Around the docking bridge and cargo winches. And now that last salt tonic which had kept The valour of the heart alive-the bows Of the immortal seven that had swept The strings to outplay, outdie their orders, ceased. Five minutes more, the angle had increased From eighty on to ninety when the rows Of deck and port-hole lights went out, flashed back A brilliant second and again went black. Another bulkhead crashed, then following The passage of the engines as they tore From their foundations, taking everything Clean through the bows from 'midships with a roar Which drowned all cries upon the deck and shook The watchers in the boats, the liner took Her thousand fathoms journey to her grave. And out there in the starlight, with no trace Upon it of its deed but the last wave From the Titanic fretting at its base, Silent, composed, ringed by its icy broods, The gray shape with the palaeolithic face Was still the master of the longitudes. Clive Watkins |
Rough and Tumble stuff, Clive, absolutely amazing stuff. He reminds of Richard Murphy, and this conclusion is way more powerful than The Convergence of the Twain. I look forward to reading more of him.
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