Titanic
by
James Fitzpatrick
Smashwords Edition
Published on Smashwords
James Fitzpatrick 2011
The right of James Fitzpatrick to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with all copyright, Designs and Patents acts
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James Fitzpatrick is an Irish writer who uses both ‘Triplicism’ and ‘Elemental’ forms. He lives in Dublin, where he focuses on Theatre Poetry and Film.
Contents:
1. Titanic (Full Length)
1. 2 Titanic explanatory notes (Excerpt)
Selected Other Poems
2. Chevalier before bed time
3. The Admirael of Skulls and Whiskers
4. Les Marionettes
5. The ordinary masters
6. The bulls of the yellow house
7. Tricoteuses, for maudlin Troy
8. A full life of narrow streets
9. A Snowball and Napoleon
10. New teutonia, the burning of Proust
and Hemmingway
“I looked and there before me was a white horse! It’s Rider held a bow, and he was given a Crown, and he rode out as a Conqueror bent on Conquest”
Revelation 6:1:2
Titanic
Queenstown Cobh, Southern Ireland
1:30p.m.Thursday April 11th 1912
In salubrious Olympus attire,
Boasting of mesmorphic physicality,
We embark, at neap
Silhouetted by the shimmering glare
Of Journalistic Ballroom strobes.
Our hulk, now well laden
Drifts easily to cruise speed,
Jollifying the bridging Elite
Silencing those fading horns.
Above, some of the well fed Euro Nexus,
Who, denied the turbine’s churn,
In cooling Waters
Off western Isles;
And The taste of zephyr cries
In stifled breezes,
Lay Well wrapped,
Top decked,
Heated by a noon time
Tipple.
Beneath such players
Are the Others, stacked high,
Auditioning in Jacquarded Patterns,
Sitting, observing,
As the boards above creak
Of Mahogany, and cannily crafted
Jacobean.
From here, through telescopic cannon slots,
They spy the landlocked working,
Dappling final Scenes of Great Departure
Philosophising on her faith.
North Atlantic ice flow Saturday
Afternoon 13th 1912
With a warming Winter Morning thaw,
Snaking rivulets of silver
Tunnel, crawl through jagged cliffs,
Carved in furrowed brows.
These far flung Mountains would Calve, Crack
And twist, in to gurgling growlers,
Swimming under eastern suns
While freezing over Greenish Seas.
Here, Bonded in Prehistoric ice
Skulking, Stalking and Underknown,
Between the changing peaks of melting caps
Beyond the view of Coenobites.
Prophesising Scribes would say,
‘Big Blue’ Lay hidden and undetermined
Sharp at all it’s edges,
Challenging a Captain, who’d long since
Tossed the Map.
North Atlantic 10.00p.m. Decks inspection
Sunday April 14th 1912
With the sparkling stars aligned
I Press on from the Prow,
Passing Crews quarters
And whiskered Trimmer,
Delving down in to an assortment
Of Secured Gentried Cargo.
Here I’m met by an
Oasis of Deciduous Colours,
In an unpruned fruit forest of dulling brown.
The background music
Is a cacophony of folk and chatter,
Coupled with colourful shouts
Debunking rumours of stock, and Sinkability.
These lower Berths brim of Women and
Children, Shinning in their prismatic
Greys and Blacks, As working men
Starch their collars, stitch their britches.
On one such bed,
In a shadowy room,
Where two bunks should
Guard a lone sink, I glimpse a babe
With quick mellifluous eyes,
Wrapped suckling in the white
Shawl of Aegis,
T’is Your poor mother, drifting off.
For most, All which was had
Was sold, or pawned,
For the purchase of a self made coffin.
But for some, these side streets
Sing of diligence and warmth,
Two tubs, for seven hundred strong.
Their entertainment, is manacled
To the parky boards
Of Poop, where games of bouncing
Hooks and horse’s shoes, dance
Beyond the luck of throwers,
In amongst the canine waist.
I leave the sweaty
Environs of engined muscle
Weakened metal,
For the reserve of first,
Which echoes off the hardened walls.
On this route, gleaming shoes
Marry sparkling blouses,
Honeymooning over rails of gold,
Where two new shillings
Gets you a racquet and a court.
The playing pitch is vast,
But segregated from above,
As we look and lean,
Always balconied from the duelling men.
Beside me, stand two Girls,
Feet upon the gilded bars,
One eighteen with a blue hat,
The other younger scarfed,
Both Purloined of natural interest,
But all encapsulated promise.
From here, I skip through a third class corridor
Checking post,
Returning impromptu nods
With far less humorous enquiries.
Some new innovation
Had brought us sea baths and
Turkish delights,
Where the English kipper,
Sucks from a fountain
In Arabian surrounds,
And where Asian teak brings you
Mediterranean, in the middle of the
Cold Atlantic.
A quick canter through third’s dining
Brings nictationary replies to crews
Compliments,
With Vassals of all faiths
Congregating for prayer,
And waiting to eat in an open room.
The two older men of cloth,
Quietly list Their groups Last Supper
Uncaring of my presence,
Turning silver in to Gold.
Tonight they Start
With a thin Greek Rice Soup,
Which is followed quickly,
By Irish Corned Beef with Cabbage
And boiled potatoes,
Finished off with a desert
Of Portuguese Peaches and Rice.
With every meal came a daily treat,
Cabin Biscuits and Fresh Bread.
I pass the Galley on my way to Scotland,
Having spent a Friday Lunch
Deep In the vast delirious sprawl,
Of the cloistered classes kitchens.
They spanned from back to front
Compartmentalised in punctilious fashion,
Rhythmically contracting at hours
Of function.
Basins, stock pots, hot water boilers, all
Lined walls, where someone’s brand sat
Covered in grooved tile.
Healthy fumes flowed from the stocked
First class bays,
Never short
Of wines, beers and virile Oysters,
All protected by a chef
Of distilled years.
In second’s Berths, through open Doors,
Ironed Curtains split rooms
Left from right, with the new
Edwardian systems, now in place.
Bedroom stewards hurry
Economic measures of hot liquid,
To pitchers in rooms of
Stressed bunks,
Housed by the voting mute.
I stroll by
Grabbing an evening menu in
Second’s dining,
Catching the paradoxical
Statements of unlucky builders,
And listening to the premonition stories
On the smell of ice.
Here mealtime started with
Belgian Tapioca Consommé,
Followed by A Swedish baked
Haddock and sharp sauce,
An Eastern European Spring Lamb,