{"id":1263,"date":"2016-01-16T16:25:24","date_gmt":"2016-01-16T21:25:24","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/rasmusen.org\/special\/ameliajane\/?p=1263"},"modified":"2016-01-27T12:12:22","modified_gmt":"2016-01-27T17:12:22","slug":"the-man-and-the-dolphin","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/rasmusen.org\/special\/ameliajane\/archives\/1263","title":{"rendered":"The Man and the Dolphin"},"content":{"rendered":"<p align=\"LEFT\">Here&#8217;s some 2014 poetry. It is more a vision than anything else. A man makes a journey on the back of a dolphin, and sad, whimsical things happen. I&#8217;m not sure what influences are on it. Written as it was at the farm, it is immersed in echoes of past days that I knew as little about as Coleridge knew about the sea, not being able to experience the reality (curse you railroad of time!). Perhaps I may give credit to that old dresser in that one bedroom, or the creaky floors, perhaps to the satin and velvet roses in the glass bell, or to strange memories. Wherever it came from, I do know this poem is a simple tale, told by a child, and I hope you enjoy it.<\/p>\n<p>Her eyes struck him with starshine<br \/>\nand he dropped into the sea.<br \/>\nThe fishes nibbled on his toes<br \/>\nall serendipity.<\/p>\n<p>His vacant eyes they swept the sands<br \/>\ndeep blueness shot with gold.<br \/>\nA red heart caged in whitened tusks<br \/>\npumped blood with passion bold.<\/p>\n<p>He took a dolphin by the fin<br \/>\nit dragged him to the sky.<br \/>\nThey leaped together in the dusk,<br \/>\nthrough nighttime long and wry.<\/p>\n<p>Their conversation grew quite dull &#8211;<br \/>\na sigh, a saddened gaze.<br \/>\nFor man and beast were held in chains<br \/>\nwithin the ocean&#8217;s haze.<\/p>\n<p>The dolphin longed for waters<br \/>\ncalm and sunny, clear and light &#8211;<br \/>\nThe man, he longed for woman<br \/>\nwaiting with her eyes so bright.<\/p>\n<p>They cried and cried &#8217;til morning,<br \/>\nwhen the somber sun came up,<br \/>\nto steady their hands (or fins)<br \/>\nwith strength to drink the bitter cup.<\/p>\n<p>Dark fury bathed the man&#8217;s strong brow<br \/>\nthe dolphin&#8217;s smile was grim,<br \/>\nthe man would find another love,<br \/>\nthe dolphin swim and swim.<\/p>\n<p>But when again the stars awoke,<br \/>\nreflecting in the pool,<br \/>\nthe man thought of his lady&#8217;s eyes,<br \/>\nand thought himself a mule.<\/p>\n<p>Upon the dolphin&#8217;s back he stood,<br \/>\nrocking a lullaby,<br \/>\nthe moon said, \u201cHold on tight, m&#8217;dear.\u201d<br \/>\nHe gave a pond&#8217;rous sigh.<\/p>\n<p>Crouching down, the man looked up,<br \/>\nhe wondered if heaven was true.<br \/>\nHis last sight was the Northern star,<br \/>\nhe shouted, \u201cNow adieu!\u201d<\/p>\n<p>Down through mazes of eerie depth<br \/>\nthe dolphin delved its way.<br \/>\nThe man went limp and<br \/>\non the current floated far away.<\/p>\n<p>She found him sprawling on the shore,<br \/>\nhis face was whitewashed clean.<br \/>\nWith agony she begged to God<br \/>\nthat it were all a dream.<\/p>\n<p>Far away, Timbuktu,<br \/>\nthe dolphin found the best;<br \/>\nits waters sunny, clear, and bright,<br \/>\nat last some joy, some rest.<\/p>\n<p>But weak in fin and bleared of eye,<br \/>\nThe dolphin was overtired,<br \/>\nOn the sunny shore of Timbuktu<br \/>\nit finally expired.<\/p>\n<p>From impulse perished one,<br \/>\nthe other intentions grand,<br \/>\nand far away a woman weeps<br \/>\nand a dolphin lies in the sand.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>Here&#8217;s some 2014 poetry. It is more a vision than anything else. A man makes a journey on the back of a dolphin, and sad, whimsical things happen. I&#8217;m not sure what influences are on it. Written as it was at the farm, it is immersed in echoes of past days that I knew as&#8230;<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","default_image_id":0,"font":"","enabled":false},"version":2}},"categories":[6],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-1263","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-writings"],"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p4WcVY-kn","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/rasmusen.org\/special\/ameliajane\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1263","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/rasmusen.org\/special\/ameliajane\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/rasmusen.org\/special\/ameliajane\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/rasmusen.org\/special\/ameliajane\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/rasmusen.org\/special\/ameliajane\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=1263"}],"version-history":[{"count":4,"href":"https:\/\/rasmusen.org\/special\/ameliajane\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1263\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":1284,"href":"https:\/\/rasmusen.org\/special\/ameliajane\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1263\/revisions\/1284"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/rasmusen.org\/special\/ameliajane\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=1263"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/rasmusen.org\/special\/ameliajane\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=1263"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/rasmusen.org\/special\/ameliajane\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=1263"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}