My Oar My Pen

My Oar My Pen

All I write
I write longhand,
the page my scull,
my pen my oar,
words, the river
I row, calm
water, whitewater,
water of glass, water of froth,
sculls vulnerable
to rock, to pebble,
to grain of sand in my path
the ink of my oar attempts
to navigate.

Philip Kuepper
17 June 2014

The Workout

The Workout

The warm drapery of sunlight
dragged across the cold
colbalt water in the Nordic
morning.  The sculler
shivered as he slipped
into his scull.  The quiet
drip of his oars into the lake
began the measured
conversation between
himself and rowing,
a conversation warmed
by the efforts of his strokes.
Then he felt the drapery
of sunlight brush his shoulders.
And he took the conversation
deeper into the morning.

Philip Kuepper
22 June 2014

The Phoenix Boat

The Phoenix Boat

After the race, the boat
was broken up
and burned.
In the flames, rose
the robed gorgeous
Bird of Fire,
flight of flame fanning,
with brilliance, the air.
Afterwards, ashes
lay white-hot on the ground,
like the whispers of spirits
already discussing
next year's race.

Philip Kuepper
20 June 2014

Ghost Rower

Ghost Rower

I saw,
reflected in the gleaming
hull of a yacht,
a sculler scull past
in the harbor crowded with craft,
though I never did see him
in the flesh.

Philip Kuepper
19 June 2014

The Boat of Life

Photo: JBar Cycling

The Boat of Life

A life of privilege?
Life is a privilege,
life, that place
for one to find
the pair of oars
to row the boat
to which one was born.

Philip Kuepper
17 June 2014

Scull Cap

Photo: Northeastern University

Scull Cap

A crew carrying their boat
upside down, overhead,
back to the boathouse
after practice.

Philip Kuepper
11 June 2014

Rower in Moonlight

Rower in Moonlight

Late returning
along the ink-blue
river, moonlight shone
on the rower's shoulders,
shone along his arms,
twin streams of light glistening
through the darkness;

the gentle splash
of the blades slicing
the water, the cake
of the water, the dessert
of the feeling of accomplishment
at the finish of his workout;
moonlight frosting all.

Philip Kuepper
6 June 2014

Recreation

Recreation

Watching the waves
caused him think
to whittle wood,
the pieces of wood
he had gathered on his walks
along the beach.  From whittling
he turned to carving,
crude replicas at first,
of sea life, otters, a trout.
He attempted a plover.
But the toothpick thin legs defeated him,
which drove him to attempt
more solid appearing things,
a rowing scull and oars,
and, with practice,
the rower himself.

Philip Kuepper
1 June 2014

Arts and Crafts

Photo: FISA

Arts and Crafts

I

The rowers sat waiting
in their sculls
to begin the race,
like tattoos drawn
on the skin of the river.

II

How like a sampler, the river,
on which the rowers
embroidered their race,
their oars, needles
sewing the watery
fabric with design.

Philip Kuepper
31 may 2014

Rowing in Basque

Rowing in Basque

In Basque country
fourteen men crew
a trainera,
rowed in competition,
fishing village against fishing village,

a competition evolving
out of the 12th century
when rowers would race one another
out into the rough
Atlantic to harpoon
whales sighted off the coast,

men powered by the survival of their culture,
men powered by the ocean,
men made men of
by the ocean, men
getting in touch with
the fish in their blood,
the ancestral fish
in all our bloods.

In Basque country, men
row their civilization.

Philip Kueeper
30 October 2013

Shapeshifter

Shapeshifter

As I watch him row,
his oars and arms
became one,
his powerful arms like oars
propelling his shell
through the chop
of the water, spray
clinging like a t-
shirt to his chest;
oars, arms, arms, oars
the act of propelling
allowing him
penetrate the morning.

Philip Kuepper
19 May 2014

The Naming of the Oars

The Naming of the Oars

The rower had a tendency
to give name to things.
The oar, in his left hand,
he dubbed Persiflage,
in his right hand, Soporific,
simply because he liked
the sounds of the words,
the syllables, rhythmic,
as he dipped his oars in the river.

Yet, also, their meanings,
the left, light banter,
the right, calming, restful,
each in contrast
playing off the other,
to move his scull forward
with just enough tension,
while simultaneously
improving his vocabulary,

A bespoke rower, well-spoken.

Philip Kuepper
5 May 2014

Prairie Rower

“Rural America: Wheat Fields and Train”

Prairie Rower

'Luke?  What are you doing?'
'Rowing.'
'With hay rakes?'
"I'm keeping in practice."

Luke would be reminded to row
seeing the wheat in the fields
blowing in the breeze;
and trees set to motion

when a storm would begin
to brew, grow restless,
break over the land;
and the windshield wipers stroking,

rhythmically, the window of his truck.
At night, the rhythmic
click-clack of a passing
train would race across

the fields to him, row him
to sleep, row him to dream.
Once the harvest was in
he could return to the river, the river.

Philip Kuepper
25 March 2014

Vanishing Act

Vanishing Act

In the flash it took
for the fish to arc
out of the water,
his soul touched the rower's soul.
And the fish and the rower became
one.

Philip Kuepper
1 January 2014

Rowing to Stay the Course

Photo: Levator.com

Rowing to Stay the Course

I keep blowing the dust
of my flesh off my soul
to prolong my earthly transit,
to remain cognizant of the beautiful
mystery of the universe.

Philip Kuepper
25 July 2013

Of the Will

Of the Will

The scull sits still
in the quiet Sound
awaiting the rower.
But the water rocks,
the water that won't wait,
the water that rows, regardless,
the water a will
unto itself, a will
it is up to the rower
to harness, to come
to terms with.

Philip Kuepper
1 January 2014

The Trireme, Remembered

The Battle of Salamis. From News Network Archaeology.


The Trireme, Remembered

'All right.  This is how it was.
We rowed into position.
We lined up on the seam
where West and East meet,
to meet the enemy.
For us it was a matter
of democracy, of keeping free
the West from hierarchs.
It had come down to being
us or them
at Salamis.  Our triremes
outmaneuvered theirs, our rowers
just that much more smooth
in executing moves
that made the difference.  At the end of the day,
we hoisted a few
at the tavern, men, free,
not shackled.'

Philip Kuepper
1 December 2013

He Rowed For This

He Rowed For This

He bartered his time
to row between
the twin islands
of his classes,
of engineering and design,
set in the river of his junior year
at university.

For him, life was design.
And as he rowed he drew
in his mind measures
of his own template
he laid on the world
at large as he went.

He knew the design he rowed
on the river could not last,
erased it as he rowed it, in fact,
which made him
want to barter more and more
of his time to row,

this the vanishing
point of design he sought,
to transcribe on drafting
paper in class the design,
invisable, underlying the visible
design of the universe.  He rowed for this.

Philip Kuepper
29 August 2013

Rowing Beneath a Lowering Sky

Rowing Beneath a Lowering Sky

Thick light made viscous
by the river
coated his oars
in the overcast
morning, the river
syrupy to which
the light adhered.

He pulled slowly
the oars through the syrupy
river, the light
thickening as he went.
The overcast morning pressed
against him, oppressed any attempt
at his rowing further.

His oars dripped syrup
as he lifted them
to lay them to rest
on his shell.  He would float
where he would until
the oppressive overcast
cleared, the sky

so low he could reach
and touch the substance of it.

Philip Kuepper
22 March 2014

After the Thaw

After the Thaw

All the way down
from the country
he rode hopeful
past the cold
clear rills, past
creeks afroth with run-off,

toward the bay--
would it be asweep with light,
as he imagined it--
where he would meet the crew
with whom he would become
one of.

With them he would be
the rower he always was,
only more so, once he was
pulling oar in rhythm with them.
If asked, it was this
he would define as love.

Philip Kuepper
(18 March 2014)