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A sandy-haired cartographer
dipped a feather into India ink,
his hand a link to his immature voice.
The other boys sang arm-in-arm,
a raucous cantillation with shouts
of ARRR! and swab the deck!
but he secreted away
worked under candle, in the cave
between skinny body and arm.

The map is the color of apple juice,
worn bare at the creases and curled
at corner and tear. A tight French cursive
guides us through this ill-scaled world
of chevron mountains and birds,
lollipop trees, and a pirate ship
in the middle of l'Océan Atlantique.

And we, the daughters of his daughter’s daughter,
cannot divvy this treasure,
this child’s map from France to America.

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previously:
Did a sandy-haired cartographer
dip a dainty feather into India ink,
his hand a link to his immature voice–
a low murmur remembering details?
Did the other boys sing arm-in-arm,
a raucous cantillation with shouts
of ARRR! and swab the deck!
or did he secret away
and work under candle, in the cave
between body and skinny arm?

The map is the color of apple juice,
worn bare at the creases and curled
at corner and tear. A tight French cursive
guides us through this ill-scaled world
of chevron mountains and birds,
lollipop trees, and a pirate ship
in the middle of l'Océan Atlantique.

And we, the daughters of his daughter’s daughter,
cannot divvy this treasure,
this child’s map from France to America.

Your very deep Manna...very deep. So, where do clouds go to die? That is so poetic. Did you know that clouds are formed in mountain tops containing minerals like ore and uranium. One day we will be cloudless but where is your cloudless sky? Nevada?

iris wigle-cutforth wrote:Your very deep Manna...very deep. So, where do clouds go to die? That is so poetic. Did you know that clouds are formed in mountain tops containing minerals like ore and uranium. One day we will be cloudless but where is your cloudless sky? Nevada?

I'm headed to Nevada this weekend, what a coincidence! If the hot air doesn't get you, the beauty judges at the Chicken Ranch will.

Casey

Casey,
I hope you are not visiting whores?

Georges.

clouds die where the lake meets the hills. Clouds don't go to the dessert, neither to live nor die. I live here, and we we trap them in our mountain cloud nets. In the morning when I am coming down the hill, I am above the dying clouds. I can see them resting down below, near the water. Sometimes when the first ray of sunlight bounds over the trees, those low fog clouds get edged in silver and gold, and it looks like a wedding. But you know what's going to happen to that cloud after a few minutes of sunlight.

George.Wright wrote:Casey,
I hope you are not visiting whores?

Georges.

No, I'm visiting their judges. :-)

Casey

Manna,
Back to your poem, I was charmed by the story and the whimsical way it was told. Especially liked the image of '...the cave between skinny body and arm.' as your g. grandfather-child worked on the drawing.

Thanks, I.F. I'm glad you liked it.

This isn't a true story. To be the daughter of his daughter's daughter, I think that guy would have been Italian or German, but I liked French better for the poem. His last name was Spalti, (Spall-tie) which folks generally consider to be a German name. According to him, he was Italian, but the parents of his German bride-to-be didn't want a stinking WOP as their son-in-law. They assumed he was German, with a name like Spalti, and he never corrected them. At least not until after the wedding.

Picking French wasn't entirely out of thin air. I am also French, but that would have been, "Daughter of his son's daughter," which just didn't have the same ring.

And anyway, as I said, this isn't a true story. My sister and I never found any treasure map drawn by any ancestor in any box tucked in anyone's attic. I just got the idea one day to write something about a treasure map. I had this corny idea that the map would be metaphoric for anything that tries to tell you how to live. Once I started I got more interested in who would draw a treasure map, and in who would find it.

Manna wrote:Thanks, I.F. I'm glad you liked it.

This isn't a true story. To be the daughter of his daughter's daughter, I think that guy would have been Italian or German, but I liked French better for the poem. His last name was Spalti, (Spall-tie) which folks generally consider to be a German name. According to him, he was Italian, but the parents of his German bride-to-be didn't want a stinking WOP as their son-in-law. They assumed he was German, with a name like Spalti, and he never corrected them. At least not until after the wedding.

Picking French wasn't entirely out of thin air. I am also French, but that would have been, "Daughter of his son's daughter," which just didn't have the same ring.

And anyway, as I said, this isn't a true story. My sister and I never found any treasure map drawn by any ancestor in any box tucked in anyone's attic. I just got the idea one day to write something about a treasure map. I had this corny idea that the map would be metaphoric for anything that tries to tell you how to live. Once I started I got more interested in who would draw a treasure map, and in who would find it.

Sounds pre-conditioned to me, a recipe for how to live without risk, and how to die without trying [Edit: "to live"].

Casey

Casey, Casey, Casey.

imaginary friend wrote:Casey, Casey, Casey.

Sorry, but I just can't wrestle survival of our species into the metaphor of a "treasure map" invented by somebody trying to tell you how to live.

And, again, I didn't read the cool poem she didn't like before I left this message.

I'm sorry.

Casey

what cool poem that who didn't like? I'm lost, Casey man.
who said anything about survival of our species?
the idea of a map as a metaphor for anything that tells you how to live (ie, holy texts, tradition, etc). "X" = heaven. but it was corny anyway, and I didn't end up doing it, so the point is moot.

Manna wrote:what cool poem that who didn't like?

"drug", the poem is down the list now...

who said anything about survival of our species?

You did! That's the only treasure map that matters...

the idea of a map as a metaphor for anything that tells you how to live (ie, holy texts, tradition, etc). "X" = heaven.

Yes, well, this is heaven the man said. Land of treasure maps. If it weren't for all the treasure maps it really would be hell, we wouldn't just call it hell to blow off steam.

1984 it would be, in spades.

All the fake treasure maps spice it up - but they're not really fake, they're just metaphor.

but it was corny anyway, and I didn't end up doing it, so the point is moot.

Define corny... I thought it was cool.

But as you can see I'm a little like square peg here. :-)

Casey