A (Bad) Semester at Sea Love Poem
Night falls at sea.
The ship churns
through water ink black,
with purpose and direction.
It’s late.
Snack time is way over.
Just hours ago games were being won
and lost, clumps of cheering jeering,
pony tails and baseball caps,
latte slurping, pajamas, and
fuzzy slippers, flirtations, and
bravado, laughter, a few sad sighs,
and in the corner, desperate sentence
makers punctuate the air
with fevered
click click, click, click, click,
Oh my god it’s due
in the morning,
like artillery,
click click click click click,
international perspective this
and expanding world view that,
the contemporary world of today
that we live in now---
click click click click, click.
But all that urgency is now over.
All have now pushed ‘save”
and folded screens like giant clams---
The games have been lost and won.
The room is empty.
Successful hook ups,
abortive hook ups,
no hook ups---
all have gone down.
We have all gone down for the night,
except for the man at the snack bar,
solitary, stoic, handsome, dark,
with epaulettes on his blue sweater,
keeping silent vigil
over Reese’s Cups and Hershey bars
and Skittles,
standing guard over the expresso
machine, an altar to the God
of caffeine, whose name we take in vain
each time our lips touch grey plastic.
In our cabins down below,
we are horizontal,
movies looping at our feet,
over and over again, movies with
no ostensible plot, no beginning
and no end.
One by one,
we have fallen into our beds,
our small little beds,
our cots---let’s call them what they are,
our cots with preternaturally tight sheets,
that grab our fins.
We line up like sardines
from Lisboa,
one by one,
crank the key
to the tin can,
and peel back the thin metal roof,
careful not to slice your hand,
whoever you might be---
and you would see
The silver fish of Semester at Sea.
Here the metaphor fails.
She stops dead in her tracks.
She flounders.
No, no, no, the professor rails,
you cannot introduce a flounder into the sea
when the poem is about sardines--
Don’t you see?
And that clunky clam in the first stanza,
a computer clam, now what is that?
And by the way, fish have no tracks---
not to mention the metaphor’s
more salient flaw---saline and salient:
The fish in your tin can
are neither dead,
nor on the menu.
Well, not much is on the menu.
Still she has some traction,
even without fish tracks---
this metaphor.
She’s right:
We do all line up
at night at sea
like silent silver fish in a tin can,
asleep, each of us churning
through our own water
ink black,
perhaps with purpose and direction
like the ship who holds us all.
Perhaps not.
Dreams have their own secret maps,
their own system of navigation.
But on a ship, on this ship
quarters are tight.
Our dreams have no place to go.
Dreams of the young and
dreams of the old.
The heat of loves remembered
and of loves hoped for
seep out through the cracks
of fireproof doors
and into the hallways
where they mix and mingle
with each other,
fear and sorrow too
wind around the corners,
making tendrils on
the stainless steel railing,
and creeping up the stairs,
wispy braids of
dreamstuff curling up the poles
In Tymitz Square,
forming low clouds on deck seven,
pale nimbi of memories
of things forgotten
and things to come.
We sleep together
on Semester at Sea.
We dream together
on Semester at Sea.
Crew, children, students, professors, family members
life-long learners—who have I forgotten---
The dreaming silver fish
of Semester at Sea.
Wait, the professor sputters
her furious phdful sput,
you can’t do that.
She circles words, she scrawls:
fish and braided dreams do not swim
together, rhetorically speaking.
She spills blood upon your poem,
in the thrall of a mandate,
dare I say—an illusion--of how things
ought to be.
To her I say, a poem is a noble thing---
even a bad one.
A poem means you have something
inside you that can’t stay behind
the sternum, and things
that can’t stay behind the sternum
are good for the world.
They push out with passion
and confidence and love---
and that’s what this is---
a love poem
for all of those I sleep with
for all of those I dream with
on Semester at Sea.
Louise Harmon/Fall 2013 Semester at Sea
(She is my Global Ethics and Philosophy of Human Nature professor)
MC SAS and the SAS Attackers Song
Oh my God Katrina
Look at that ship
It is so big
It looks like one of those learning cruise ships
But who understands those SASers
They only talked to us because they want to be cultured okay
I mean their group is just so big
I can’t believe they’re all around and like out there
Look.. most of them look like students
I live on a ship and I cannot lie
You other SASers can’t deny
When a SASer walks in with a purse around their waist
And a camera in your face. you say cheese
No pictures please
In some countries
Unless you got
Durham, Rubles pounds
Euros dominate this town
Oh baby I want to come with ya
But my luggage won’t fit ya
Dr. Dave he tried to warn me
But these free condoms got me so horny
Damn Schuchardt family
You got so many kids
So use these
Use these
Cause you don’t need no more groupies
SASers be drinking
Security drunk tanking
In Russia, Spain, but Morocco gave us stomach pain
I’m tired of this cuisine
Is pasta the only thing?
Take an average SASer and ask them what they want
They want to bring food back
So SASers
(YEAH)
SASers
(YEAH)
Does the ship got what you need? (hell yeah)
Tell them keep cruising
Cruising
Cruising fall 13
We lay around
And get burnt
On the 7th deck we just cant help ourselves
Cause it’s a study day
So here’s my schedule
I wanna sleep till 2
But ERRRR double-up ERRR ERRRR
I aint talkin bout rita’s voice
But these muster drill things got me annoyed
I got a paper for class due
So ill smoke ten cigs with puddles
Man im in trouble
Gotta skip class real subtle
Ill just keep watchin these foreign videos
While yall keep watching game of thrones
This loop got my education flow going
A word to the sick crew members
I just wanna thank ya
For being so patient,
I wanna STEER till the break of dawn
Jeremy got it goin on
But he probably wont like this song
Dean nick just thinks hes funny
Dean kathy’s been to space
But they’re smart
And they’re strong
And they make us all get along
So teachers (yeah)
Teachers (yeah)
Does the lounge get real crazy? (hell yeah)
Go up
Get a drink
And sneak it back down to me
SEMESTER AT SEA!
The RDs sang a version of the 12 Days of Christmas:
One drag queen for a dean
Two astronauts
Three lifeboat drills (NO COSTUMES!)
Four continents
Five overpriced drinks
Six channels playing
Seven Schuchardt children
Eight seas of students
Nine ladies tanning
Ten cabins searches
Eleven bald women
Twelve types of pasta
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