[Marion Shore]

A Passenger

- Lake Tinnsjo, Norway, February 20, 1944


You do not know what lies within the hold.
Calmly, you walk the deck while down below
clocks tick toward their appointed time. You go
about your business, unaware of bold
decisions, grand designs; obey when told
to show your papers. Soon, plastique will blow
apart the ferry’s bow. You’ll never know.
You simply note the night has gotten cold.

But if you knew what this trip held in store,
would you still see the beauty of the moon?—
the rising haloed moon that just now broaches
a mountain pass above the darkened shore
and, full, resplendent, sends a white harpoon
across the water as your hour approaches.


The apparent simplicity of this poem belies its underlying complexity. The poet skillfully juxtaposes the description of the beauty and peace of the traveler's passage with the impending violence and destruction that lie below.

The poem powerfully contrasts the beauty of the natural surroundings: the "rising haloed moon that just now broaches the mountain pass" (note the portentous "just now") with the "the ticking clocks," "the bold decisions and grand designs," the efficiency of the machinery preparing "the plastique [that] will soon blow apart the ferry's bow."

There's yet another layer to the poem. The narrator not only contrasts the horror taking place below with the heartbreakingly beautiful scenery above, but asks if the traveler would see this beauty if he "knew what this trip held in store?" The poem not only captures this brief moment in time, but addresses the same question to all of us, none of whom know "what lies within the hold."