Atlantic Seafarers and Apple Stations

For most of human history, 'literature,' both fiction and poetry, has been narrated, not written — heard, not read. So fairy tales, folk tales, stories from the oral tradition, are all of them the most vital connection we have with the imaginations of the ordinary men and women whose labor created our world.
~Angela Carter

Today we are adding poems by Diane Mayr and Megan Arkenberg to the Directory. My thanks to Diane and Megan for giving me permission! If you'd like to read more about the Irish legend of Máel Dúin, go here, here, or here.

Máel Dúin, Seafarer of the Atlantic
by Diane Mayr

Part I

All you need know is this:
Máel sets forth to avenge
the death of his father, a
rapacious, godless, man.

It would seem a simple task
for a fit young knight. Along
with 17 companions Máel
discovers the island that

harbors the murderers,
and yet, unconquerable
winds prevent their exacting
revenge. Not to worry!

Part II

Máel Dúin puts his trust
in a god that will lead
them where they need
to go. Sail on! Sail on!

Island to island to island
to island. Isles of magic fruit...
spectral horses...intoxicants.
Isles with fences of gold

and crystal, or sheep that
switch from black to white.
Isles of enchanted cats.
Isles of raining fish.

Isles of uncontrollable
hilarity, lamentations, lust,
maidens, demons, and
creatures red with flames.

Part III

Seafaring men. Trusting in
a god to lead them to their goal.
Decade upon decade they sail.
Too many years to tally.

Thoughts of revenge forgotten.
They travel home again with
tales dictated by God, senility,
or simply, a fertile imagination.

****************

Swan Feather by Amy Palko

We Pay Our Fare in Apples Here
by Megan Arkenberg

Everything in this station has a story, he said.
The walls are curved in such a way that the echo
of a penny dropped in the exact center of the tunnel
sounds like an apology from your late father.
If you crawl beneath the turnstiles in the wrong direction
the next train you board will take you
to every place you’ve ever forgotten,
and the ride will last for seven years.
One time, a woman fell off this platform
and touched the edge of a rail.
She turned into a swan.
Commuters find feathers in their briefcases,
sometimes. They always smell like summer.

****************

Today's Little Ditty has Today's Little Poetry Friday round-up.