a literary j urnal
The Penlogue
An Ode to Return
Nhat Ha Pham
Panic-stricken,
They ride the waves that ambush
Endlessly, to no avail.
An unbridled sail thrashes the deck,
Akin the striking thunder.
And a ticking in his head
stretches the agonising hours
As the brave men steer the galley,
steadfast through the storm.
At mercy of a god’s trident,
A cyclopean surge plummets.
Hulking boulders flung with
Rancor, bludgeoned the ships.
Twelve sunk battered, down the
Murky water of the Black Sea.
Not a sunlight’s ray slips past
The gaunt mass of darkness,
Nor does the abyss bear hope.
But as he leads his last-standing men
Towards the horizon, the mere thought
To be enveloped in his rose
Offers him a strange comfort.
Panic-stricken,
They ride the waves that ambush
Endlessly, to no avail.
An unbridled sail thrashes the deck,
Akin the striking thunder.
And a ticking in his head
stretches the agonising hours
As the brave men steer the galley,
steadfast through the storm.
At mercy of a god’s trident,
A cyclopean surge plummets.
Hulking boulders flung with
Rancor, bludgeoned the ships.
Twelve sunk battered, down the
Murky water of the Black Sea.
Not a sunlight’s ray slips past
The gaunt mass of darkness,
Nor does the abyss bear hope.
But as he leads his last-standing men
Towards the horizon, the mere thought
To be enveloped in his rose
Offers him a strange comfort.