Becoming Ishmael in Moby Dick,
whenever I find myself growing grim
about the mouth, whenever
it is a damp, drizzly
November in my soul,
it is time to take to sea.
And armed with next to nothing, just
the word that is almost less than a breath
a gust with which I fill the sail and part
in two the air and the water that carry
the soul’s wing and the body’s hull
to meet the beautiful beast
that beckons from the horizon with
his gaze green and lively: the Not-known,
the always most welcome, twin-
brother of creation, the stealer of fire
surrounded by clouds who throws
through the windows of my lodgings
the following flash: all water
around your house is stagnant
pasture for hordes of mosquitoes.
And hearing, turned Ishmael
I part the sea in two—the poem
always one step from the abyss.
© Antônio Moura. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2013 by Stefan Tobler. All rights reserved.
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