An Edmund Fitzgerald poem, of all things

[ohcaptainmycaptain]

Thanks all. I appreciate it.

Also, just a note: Joyce wasn't my wife, but she was the wife of a close friend, so I wrote it for him after she passed. Take care.

[Bookworm]

A beautiful tribute to your late wife, Captain. Thank you for sharing. My prayers are with you as you walk the path of grief.

[c ships]

Captain we commend your courage to post this . Amen. A senseless disease nobody should have to deal with. Joyce is in hearts.

[Guest]

Very beautiful words..... I'm sorry for your loss.

[ohcaptainmycaptain]

I'm more of a reader on these boards than a poster, but I know that the Edmund Fitzgerald is always a subject of interest. I'm a writer/editor, but a poet first, and I happened to write a Fitz-related poem, and it was included in a book that just came out, so I thought I'd share it.

Note: By way of background, the Joyce that I dedicated it to died of early-onset Alzheimer's (genetic) at just 66. The Fitz seemed an apt metaphor.

Thanks to you all for the site and for the conversations. I enjoy them, and your knowledge, a great deal.


What the Dead Tell Us About the Edmund Fitzgerald

"We’re holding our own" —the last transmission from Captain Ernest McSorley

It's true for a moment, or a week,
or a decade, then the radiologist finds a mass,
gray and grainy as a photo of a moon rock
or a friend starts forgetting,
first the little things, movie plots, appointments,
but soon she can't remember her favorite movie
or slip loose of her seatbelt. Eventually, she doesn’t remember
her children, her husband, her own face in the mirror.
Living like this must be like trying to read
from a burning book—the lucid moments
are a page or two, but the paper is already browning
around the edges and words are falling into ash
as fast as you can read them.

Now imagine that’s your wife:
standing fast with the water sweeping over the rails,
the ship listing, both radars gone,
the great black wave approaching
and the only way to go is down.

For Joyce