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Poetry News Post #3478

Ode on a Shiprace

Written by: Page Gnaash Bora'k, Arya-Ksiradhi
Date: Tuesday, August 19th, 2008
Addressed to: Everyone


High up in the rigging, the shipmates tend the sails;
At work upon their canvas like a team of lofty painters
Touching up the fine details.

Below, upon the glassy Sea, the ships take to the line
Or drift apart suspiciously with sidelong glances, hoping
To anticipate the sign.

They're off! A stalwart Seastrider has passed the starting mark
Bearing steadily southwest, sailing reach and rowing,
Spraying foam on the bulwark.

At twenty knots, the wind is brisk across the larboard rail.
The first leg is over quickly. As the Strider comes about
The crewmates trim the luffing sail.

Close hauled and fighting choppy waves, the ship begins to slow
Giving ground to a Windcutter that flies the arms of Hermes
Up the mast, above the crow.

At the helm, a doughty satyr nods and barks out a command
Swiftly echoed by his officer who directs the crewmates
With a firm and steady hand.

"Sheering southeast!" shouts the satyr as the sun shines on his face,
"On to Mysia, me hearties! Put your backs into your oars, mates,
Luck alone won't win this race!"

On the Strider's quaterdeck, the captain contemplates his foe.
He turns into the wind and makes the call to strike the sails.
On the benches, crewmates row.

"We'll catch him with the oars," the Strider captain thinks aloud.
Round the horn and through the strait, Ulangi passes by to port
As mighty waves break on the prow.

The crewmates pull the halyards once the two ships come about.
The Strider sails a broad reach, gathering speed before the wind
To turn the race into a rout.

Then an unexpected cry goes up as someone wins the race!
"It wasn't luck," the satyr captain says, his mouth turned in smirk,
"In fact, it's called 'Displace!'"


Penned by my hand on the 17th of Valnuary, in the year 487 AF.


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Poetry News Post #3478

Ode on a Shiprace

Written by: Page Gnaash Bora'k, Arya-Ksiradhi
Date: Tuesday, August 19th, 2008
Addressed to: Everyone


High up in the rigging, the shipmates tend the sails;
At work upon their canvas like a team of lofty painters
Touching up the fine details.

Below, upon the glassy Sea, the ships take to the line
Or drift apart suspiciously with sidelong glances, hoping
To anticipate the sign.

They're off! A stalwart Seastrider has passed the starting mark
Bearing steadily southwest, sailing reach and rowing,
Spraying foam on the bulwark.

At twenty knots, the wind is brisk across the larboard rail.
The first leg is over quickly. As the Strider comes about
The crewmates trim the luffing sail.

Close hauled and fighting choppy waves, the ship begins to slow
Giving ground to a Windcutter that flies the arms of Hermes
Up the mast, above the crow.

At the helm, a doughty satyr nods and barks out a command
Swiftly echoed by his officer who directs the crewmates
With a firm and steady hand.

"Sheering southeast!" shouts the satyr as the sun shines on his face,
"On to Mysia, me hearties! Put your backs into your oars, mates,
Luck alone won't win this race!"

On the Strider's quaterdeck, the captain contemplates his foe.
He turns into the wind and makes the call to strike the sails.
On the benches, crewmates row.

"We'll catch him with the oars," the Strider captain thinks aloud.
Round the horn and through the strait, Ulangi passes by to port
As mighty waves break on the prow.

The crewmates pull the halyards once the two ships come about.
The Strider sails a broad reach, gathering speed before the wind
To turn the race into a rout.

Then an unexpected cry goes up as someone wins the race!
"It wasn't luck," the satyr captain says, his mouth turned in smirk,
"In fact, it's called 'Displace!'"


Penned by my hand on the 17th of Valnuary, in the year 487 AF.


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