"Of the Monstrous Pictures of Whales"

Moby Dick, chapter 55


Ishmael was right. Anything big as a whale
isn't easy to catch in art: based on legend

the creature elongates, it twines around anchors--
too much like a serpent, myth imitating myth;

but wait for a whale to wash up on the beach
and it's dead, or dying, crushed by its own weight.

To see the whale rise, whole and breathing,
you have to row for miles, time after time,

in hopes the flukes of the tail flash up, splashing,
or the head with its enormous brow and tiny eyes

as the flanks keep moving, in waves that keep moving,
the contours of the beast always more than half submerged.

The best you get is a glimpse at a time,
black and sleek within the blue.

You have to be focused, unpremeditated,
happy with whatever shows itself today--and get close enough

to smell the salt the whale resides in

as the water that buoys him up
tosses, like flotsam, your own small craft.

(First published in Crying Sky.)