Voyage to the Beginning

This is a story told in ten poems. It concerns a man, diagnosed as "Terminal," who chooses to deny his prognosis and sails around the world in search of freedom from the many origins of his disease, only to discover that the secret of his quest lies within childhood haunts. In this journey into history, what he discovers becomes his "Voyage to the Beginning."


It is written in three "voices." The first is Mayflower's Child (opening poem of the same name) - it's flavor is Olde English. Tradition demands that he speak in no other way. The second is that of the Captain, a twentieth century Puritan - a modern stoic - although resistant to his poetic past, that aspect of his expression cannot be suppressed for long. And thirdly, we have the Sentinel, an ancient tree still standing in the Puritan's childhood lair that sings the songs of time - her voice, if listened for, can be faintly heard throughout the Voyage for 'tis she whose at the heart of rhyme.


The tide's aright for midnight sail
Make ready thou on stern 'n bow
To cast off fore yon misty pale
Ye captain's yarn from then to now. 

1. Mayflower's Child 

A Connecticut Yankee I was born
after the War to End All Wars.
In March, my stoic trek began
unfurling by Nor' Eastern wind.
Of Mayflower Pilgrim's lot am I
twelfth generation on these shores. 
I would see four decades pass
before my lineage became known.

Idyllic childhood times were spent 
in ancestor's footprints yet unknown - 
places first wrought from unforgiving land
where oft times my heart felt "home" 
but not always in places where we lived.
New England is like that for those 
who have it in their blood. 
There is an ethos defying thought 
reverberating in principle and dream 
of the oppressed-unbound who landed here 
not sure of what they'd find, so much as
what it was they hoped for:

Freedom!

The mere word chokes me even still. 
Freedom - the ultimate expression 
of one's Self, a Soul's portal into being - 
begged for and bought with blood 
long before passage unto Plymouth.
A thing so exquisitely simple, it is
more than taken for granted - it is abused 
by those who would be guardians. 
'Tis my lineal charge to know this and 
be weary of all who lightly tread upon it - 
usurping governors least deserving 
of honor, more deserving of contempt. 

Twelve generations prior, a people different
cast their fate upon the waters - willing to enroll 
in Terra Nova's radiance, or perish in attempt.
Those were not the privileged but the scorned - 
not proud in who they were but what they dreamed.
Willing to die than be oppressed or bonded 
into service of a lessor crown, my ancestors 
forged this into bone, and by their legacy 
passed on desire: thy destiny to uncover this - 
my life-long vision quest. My Fire!

What land is this where people hear
and see what to believe over air
whose silence once was so revered - 
where practice differs so from parchment
and everyday more laws are passed
that limit the very rock upon which 
they were founded? What land is this 
where murderers rise from martyr's blood 
and defile the altars of Freedom's praise - 
a land where people different must beware
denied birthrights ere their fathers fought?

I, physically sickened to my core
unwilling to bow to mass belief
as forebears strove to free their bounds
made vessel bent for heavenly place 
and sailed away from hostile shores
with hope and dream I too could find
the destiny their vision sought - 
a home where Freedom might still live 
to unleash the bondage of my Soul.

2. Sailing Beyond Expectations

A Soul adrift 
lost among people
heart hidden from light
set sail over worlds of water
through doldrums and storm 
to the center of his Self - 
discovering in near-final fury 
he must regain land, and love
to continue the healing 
he so desperately sought
by leaving. 

Fear of people drove him away
obsessive inward rage, disastrous 
relationships and a disease 
they called "Terminal" - 
a verbal agreement to flounder 
and drown as surely as by sea.
Survival meant separation
to die by his own hand
or that of nature
in either case he would know 
the source of his unmaking.

Years passed. Many words written.
Openings and beginnings unraveled 
from life tangled and bound 
beyond Sargasso Sea. 
As he sailed, lost one moment 
in hope the next, 
insights into life's paradox 
came clear, then hidden
among diaphanous mists
years passed. More words written.
All seas crossed until finally cornered
near to his beginning.

Dread stillness before sunset
horizon darkened and obscured
b'rometer falling so suddenly 
ears popped as hair became electric.
What seemed darkness was not night.
Ten stories of water! Rising.

Wind's sound arriving afore
like freight trains in tunnels
slashed sail from stay
left ribbons flying from mast
ocean gaining near-vertical slope.

Ship upside down. Life inside out.
Night under water 
muffled sounds of hull overhead 
twisting under pressure. 
Lashed to the helm 
compass' binnacle
ghostly green glow 
his only point of reference
in a world ripped from reality.

Time stopped. Breath frozen.
Moments pass in even slowness
then by another rogue forced upright.
Lungs, inwardly shouting, inhale fast 
once more and held, as twice 
the boat turns turtle. Again 
the green glow and black water.
No fear then. No glimpse of life's collage
only cold darkness of watery tomb.

Increasing pressure
Poseidon's catapult 
grasped the hull, as seas 
rose to cast forth its Jonah.
Held captive no more
pitch-polled upright 
surfing the downward slope 
sending captain and craft 
toward shore. As dawn broke 
on a day he thought unlikely.

Colder than he could remember, shivering 
as he held the downwind course, laughing 
louder than the gale that drove him, realizing 
he had nearly killed himself
trying to prove how much 
he still wanted to live.
He had beaten the odds. 
He had survived, and sailed 
lifetimes past his doctor's
"Terminal" prognosis.

3. In Search of Yellow Boots

I had no conflicts while at sea
aside from those that nature cast.
Now once on shore, there seems to be
no end to tangles with my past.
I cannot relate, although I try - 
others so resist my pleas.
Lines on my face will not let cry 
truths that carved their furrows deep.

What changed in passage, how I feel?
Still lost among my own - 
a heart afraid to be revealed, and 
Soul demanding to be reborn.
Five years passed with listening ear
showed future, not chiseled into stone - 
the metal of man I was born to be 
in New Hampshire's hills alone.

If I sat in places I did as boy
locked in child-like wooded land
maybe the secrets of my toil
could be unearthed from withering plan.
What's hidden of me on Webster's farm
keeping me alive while others die?
Memory believes there's something there
still holding the Promise for my life.

A child with future visions then
I yearn again to know my roots 
to feel the limbs that molded me
and walk in boyhood's yellow boots.
Retracing my steps from sea to see
what was lost that hides within 
praying the truth will flood for me
re-christening the voyage I once began.

4. Reunion

Of many cousins on both sides
two came closest to my age: 
Randy, my doppleganger pal 
while David was my sage.

Marionette strings enwrapped our hearts
as Randy and I at playwrights played.
David, I mostly followed 'round
in wonder of his joy and grace.
On one fine summer afternoon
golden in all he said and tried 
beneath our mirrored lake he slid 
my friend beloved most of all, and died.

This cannot be! I cried within
that God would take our fairest son.
I stood in abject disbelief 
as he was lowered into ground.
Life, afterwards, contained no joy
as if he took it all with him.
Our fragile family fell apart
with David gone, our seraphim.

My mother's quarrel with Randy's dad
made end of plays we'd yet to write.
Our last of childhood days were sad
as most of sunlight turned to night.

Forty years of life did pass 
not knowing where Randy went.
Rumor had it he'd gone to war - 
"Did not return," was all they said.
Not accepting this childhood loss
I held it sacred in disbelief - 
that Randy was gone like all the rest 
leaving none but too-familiar grief.

It wasn't so, came far reply
from respondent to my hopeful ad.
Randy lives in Vermont's green hills
with brood of five to call him Dad!
He returned from war a broken man
damaged by horrors he made real
and married the nurse who held is hand
as he trudged long corridors to heal.

Held fast through darkened days
and guiding him to finding light
were dreams of marionettes and plays
for children's stage he'd yet to write.
He and his bride with life renewed
made puppets for their plays
raised a family in the woods, presenting 
tales of Grimm in wondrous ways.

I knew him and he did me
as I stepped slowly from the car.
It wasn't long in reverie
before we covered paths thus far.
We laughed and shared our adult years
in wonderment and communion
and for the many decades past
did celebrate our reunion.

Now quest begun in childhood places
I made my way to ivy halls
to reconvene with ghostly faces
and find my substance most of all.
After David died, I'd left home
to study in private tutelage
that I might shape a future still 
uncovering talent upon the stage.
.........
5. A Preppy Borne to Be
(Berwick Academy, 1791, So. Berwick, ME)

To Berwick Academy then I came - 
a timeless place on ancient hill
castled by granite ne'er to wane - 
with inner embers by muse enflamed.
Childhood-radiant, blooming-live
I quickly fell to preppy line
with all in class of Sixty-five
to stretch and bend pubescent mind. 

Upon arrival, I chanced to see
green fields with boys in blue.
Pondering what it was for me
to be here, and what to do.
Classics then were taught by rote
and e'er so sharp the masters' lip
did give us challenge by the day
while we, by night, gave them the slip.

Cloak of excellence is quick to wrap
knuckles of those gone slacking by.
'Twas here I learned to recite a script 
singing aloud with arms held high.
Time in New England's oldest school
of private endowment richly blessed
did shape my future well and true - 
forever thankful and in its debt.

********

Almost limerick, remembered years
fast to form in measured rhyme. 
Four decades later, standing here
in very spot rewound by time
on ledge of window leaning
looking down on players fine 
as I, a freshman, dreaming: 
I am peering at the older I.
Thinking, I knew he had it in him 
to be one of the spry and true
oceans crossed, potentials gained
a credit to the valiant Blue!

Would that I could say that then
to the man that I've become
but this fails to pass from me
and lays bitterly on my tongue.
Where did time go slithering
that left so many dreams undone
and has me standing here the Fool
in mockery of my younger one?

If looking for whips to wield
there's no shortage of cats to find.
I've lost my way this journey's proved
rememb'ring ideals left far behind.
There's not much time for me to learn
of what it was my life would make
of chaos now, things gone wrong
to put to right the devil's take.

*****
To Berwick then I came - 
Burning burning burning burning
From Berwick, I leave again - 
Burning burning burning still.

6. The Daymere

Would that I could know 
I might survive, not the letting go 
so much as the nothing 
that would replace it. 

I have an easier time imagining 
what it would be like to wake up 
as Jesus tomorrow than the mere glimmer 
of the notion - no longer being "Me!"

At this point, my toes 
are curled over the edge. 
I could take the final leap 
and trust myself to be able 
to create my existence newly. 
But would I? 

What is this thing 
that so miserably wants 
to hang onto my littleness and suffering? 
Does it not know how much more 
I might be? So much more 
with less of that?

Is everything a matter of
what we do for love 
or do when love's denied?
Perhaps, if not love to blame 
then what -- Nothing? The Nothing
left when dreams of children die?
Or Nothing There when grownups forget 
who they really are? It seems 
so few wake up to remember:
Everything's inside.

Maybe that constitutes the fear 
that wishes I did not wake 
rather than to relinquish 
my own subject of complaint - 
Shaw's ailing clod, always bitching 
the world is not dedicated to making me happy.

A nightmare, not ending with the day 
clings to cloth of well-worn robe 
so tenaciously that no specter of chance 
will allow me to see my face reflected
not even darkly. Yet I know it's there. 
Why not accept the fate of Everyman?
Why? I will not to! 


7. Reflections in Fogg
(Fogg Memorial Building 1864 - Berwick Academy, So. Berwick, ME)

My Berwick now has changed - 
buildings new stand next to dear.
Of places loved, most remained
to echo some who once were here 
reminding me why it was I came.

Life-lost loves came flooding back.
Sad embrace holds who I've been.
Did I leave them here in wintry mist?
My paths ne'er crossed with one of them.
By introspect I became contained
visions of worldly dreams now feared 
idealism long betrayed, potentials waned - 
then worn away by wastrel years.

What happened to those who were with me 
did Fate suffer theirs, such as mine?
Were they lost for years on storm-tossed seas 
or crushed by wars. left far behind? 
Recalling names for so long passed
said grateful prayers for love of many - 
I, ever-desperate for approval then
'tho inwardly sure, not deserving any.

Sadness seems all that's left of he
who graduated Cum Laude. 
But, then again, not carved in tree 
there's more to me than he did say!
Perverse, this boy so criticized then
should attack the man that I now be 
his arrogant pride by jibe offends
in judgment of the enlightened me!

Good thing I picked a foggy day
seeing past one moment, while present still.
Aged phantoms have their way
'tween misted pines upon The Hill 
who remember me when I was fey
as again, not anyone, ever will.

*******

Grim loathed I uncertain grey - 
my wits it mocks and blurs my sight
but sets the scen'ry well for they
who chase their dragons by fading light.


8. In New Hampshire Woods Alone

At last! This place by memories wound
yearned for reunion with mountain stone
I prayed decades to be re-found 
in New Hampshire woods alone.

I return to see The Homestead there 
proud above the river's shore
four thick chimneys, thin smoky trails 
from fires that lit the hearths of yore.
Rolling lawns and well-farmed fields
black shutters open, and pristine white 
the many barns of differing use
burnished hard with colonial pride.

Webster grew there when a boy
and studied in rooms as did I
ran naked round the leafy mount
and watched the river passing by.
Walking the paths that I too strode
he dreamt of liberty ever strong.
Like he, I too was spiritually bound 
by New Hampshire woods alone.

*******

What happened? All my landmarks gone?
Surely, they would not destroy the past - 
a heritage home of New England's best
cannot wither; it was made to last!

Alas, 'tis there! Oh God NO! Not this!

Of the once-proud colonial manse
a hackneyed remnant is all that's left.
How can I continue my root-bound quest
with spirit crushed and Soul bereft?
For every question comes an answer
though none that I would e'er call "Home."
This cruel trick, this necromancer
left near New Hampshire woods alone.

*******
Stumbling blindly up the lane
formerly our wagon trail 
to tobacco mountain of Webster's farm
now a tract called "Cricket Hill."

(Though long named Mount Rattlesnake!)

Winding my way past prefab crates
I descend into ravine
a sense of place came back to me. 
It was my fort! My canon, where?
The ancient conifer stump, my gun
'twas nowhere to be found
my noble and well-used friend
had returned to mulchy ground.

I found the spring that fed the farm
but could not find the fields.
I stood amidst young stand of trees
and found the bordering sentinels.
Gargantuan effort took then to clear
the mountain reclaimed in forty years! 
Becoming petty in my thoughts
thinking I, in-part, returned to loom
like these fields and Berwick's dorms
loved on and in, no longer there
in New Hampshire woods, alone.

In a corner of the stand
a single spine of granite rose
pointing to heaven in disbelief
it once did raise a barn above.

Standing there upon Barre's block - 
the granite slab that found the porch - 
before main portal (sans its door):
The Homestead, my home of youth.
Elegant archways left and right
to dining and meetings formal here 
long corridor to kitchen back - 
All Walled Off! No longer there.
Grand staircase without runner
treads cupped deep and bare
banister's exotic ruddy wood
now painted grey and marred - 
abused to point of long despair
my stairway began a trek well-known
somehow misplaced direction bound 
and vanished into air..

Did I imagine that in coming home
I would reclaim it as my own?
Maybe, if I knew that it still stood
the values in my heart and life
would yet course strongly in its wood.
Standing in hallway no longer there
just something painted grey to cover
devastating beatings it had suffered. 
A nondescript grey to hide the blood 
of splintered heart, barely struggling 
to continue, although it should.

My roots must be by other claimed
or I no longer could hold my ground.
Surely I would have gone insane
with all the irreverent wreckage found!
How can it be for me to stand
if I am not my sum of parts?
I be the things I own within.
Or, am I not? And so I start.

Turning my back on what once was
and walking towards wending path
rising gently to my childhood lost
bordered by briar and sapling lath.
Before I made the end of lawn
my legs came crumbling lame 
as I became some part of stuff 
the mountain must reclaim. 

Roots to fold in with the rest 
no longer still among the strong 
only memories of impressions left 
and by the winds now gently sown - 

all I was and might have been

in New Hampshire woods

alone.


9. Uncertainty


My confusion struggles 
with understanding - only wrapping itself 
more tightly in layers of reality 
I hoped to unravel. 
No unraveling possible now 
as trailing edge becomes bitter end 
slowly distancing itself 
from my frantic grasping. 

Lost! Whirling through blackness
not so black as to be without outlines 
but black enough to dull distinctions - 
making recognition of even the most familiar 
frighteningly uncertain. 

Certainty, which launched this quest 
certainty, or pursuit thereof, held hope breifly
before unveiling its deception 
fooling my faithfulness so completely 
that I no longer sense the filament 
connected to my Source. 

Betrayed by promises and abandoned 
by wayfarers, faltering at the brink 
and losing balance. The fall 
seems so much less than 
what I dreaded - almost 
like Freedom now 
as razor-edged fears slice 
the slender reins of reality 
releasing me into uncertainty 
so long resisted and maligned. 

Why was I not told that hanging onto 
what seemed past, would deprive me 
of what might be? 
Are forward and future such fragile illusions 
as to be pierced and shattered by mistake? 

Damn the victims who taught me well! 
Had I known their subtle whining to be false 
I might have chosen a different course. Surely 
not this one that has taken me 
beyond firm footing, sailing speedily 
to what I do not know. 

A whim passes: Better to know 
and believe the victims' lies 
than to be so totally disoriented. 
I grieve the loss of false belief. As Now
a dawn begins unlike all others
I might have known 
and may not know, unless
I willingly surrender.


10. Sentinel's Song

A sentinel stands by yellow wood
singing in voice so low and clear. 
She's often taken for the wind - 
harken her wisdom and draw near:

My sentinel's song sails o'er the wind
for joy of he who seeks within
returning to me after worldly roam 
before and by me made known.

I watched the boy playing in the corn 
who came back when fully-grown
subtly changed, but same inside
his forebear Daniel was so alike 
struggling through riddles, far astride
wanting the answers most men shied.

Both asked questions from the heart
while sitting on my polished beam
I gave assurance, not advice
for sentinels never intervene. 

'Tis ours to connect heaven 'n earth 
by humming continuo in-between.

Daniel and he craved liberty most - 
they begged for it from their Souls. 
Always sailing deep waters free
not seeking safety betwixt the shoals.
When in woods, they sought Freedom out
'tho neither in water nor forest be - 
'tis in the heart, but hidden there
not among any that worldly see.

This later one who came to me
not sure if less than boy or man 
I relished watching him come aware 
that nothing here of outward worth
'twas only thing within most dear!

Few see life the way we do 
as centuries race before our bows
not holding onto earthly things
'cept circling rhymes of then and now.

His beloved home now feeds the stand 
that we protect from bitter winds -
they're letting go of gentle hands - 
our next adieu doth soon begin.

I will see him again before I go - 
his kind needs another saw to see.
Thriving on bonds that we hold fast
blessing us with all he's been.

.ours to connect heaven 'n earth 
by humming continuo in-between.

My sentinel's song sails o'er the wind
returning to us after worldly roam
the joy within it seeks to find
in New Hampshire woods, alone.

The Ende.

All writing © J.M.Stinson 1999. All Rights Reserved.