Poem by the Norwegian poet Bjørn Aamodt

Anchorage

Bearskin and gold. The story hangs on the word

like a rusty hulk turns on its anchor in the tide.

The small porthole of consciousness.

The compass needle quivers towards the magic word-pole.

Haul in the chain, 4 shackles out.

Steady the feet on the deck against the black wall

that towers up and surges in over the port bow.

Shift the weight over onto the right foot

while the lashing spray slams at the wheelhouse window.

Steady so! Anchorage, Antwerp, down under

and home. The word like a threadbare ritual

for getting one’s sea-legs, standing

almost still. There the next second comes, foam-whipped.