CIBC Poem of the Week

SEBAGO

There was rumored big ice, extending for miles.
Sebago’s set up, the first time in a while.
An expedition ensued to sort out the facts.
Iceboats were loaded and lashed to the racks.

They drove and they steered, like migrating geese
Converged as a group on the shore wearing fleece.
Traveling miles finding ice, what’s the reason?
Cause cold spells like this don’t come every season.

It was smooth, shiny, dark, and more like an otter.
This black pane of glass, surely must be water.
Closer inspection found a crystalline glare,
With clear, feathery branches and tiny bubbles of air.

With perfect reflection, an inverted tree line.
Clouds at their feet, the sun up it did shine.
The distant horizon, it too formed a slick plate.
Unloaded the iceboats; no one would wait.

Ice tales such as this have rarely been told.
Elders have said, but now they are old.
The winters are warmer, the seasons too short
Iceboats stay in lofts, the heck with this sport.

Now blades, spars and sails were merely implored.
To fashion the craft for this lake to explore.
Missing this day would be an error no doubt.
Ice pilots were chafing at their sheets to head out.

The air began stirring and soon had filled in.
The boats were assembled, the sailors willing.
Runners now cutting imperceivable grooves.
Sails billowed full and the boats they did move.

Away they now flew toward the sky in the east.
Lusting and hungry approaching the feast.
For no hell bent flake had yet soiled the sheet.
This great film a virgin, the deflowering sweet.

David Wilkins 2-2003

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Poem of the Weeek

Without intending to un-joint summerlovers, we observed to passing of the summer solstice yesterday and the longest day of the year. It can only mean that now the days are getting shorter. In spite of all the fun to come these warm days, you ARE on an iceboating site so please forgive our excitement over the turning of the solar page and the countdown to ice.

With that in mind, here’s another gem from Larry Hardman:

Maineboys

This chill December day
The Maine Boys
Come out to play.
Stalk onto the ice with toys
Of their own making,
Bone shaking.
Needled coffins
Steel bladed,
R-rated
For risky.

The wind and the boys are
frisky, speed their whisky.

The blow
Chill factors at fifty below.
Fire on the skin.

Ice

Makes cellophane sounds
As they make the rounds.

Nice.

Thunder
Out from under
Racing blades
Echos off my hill
And fades,
And their metallic roars still
The breathy voices of the
trees,

On the inky gloss below,
glowing fins
Graze the orange pins,
Circle lazily between,
Cluster, sit and preen,
Climb and fall again for the
win.

But, down there, I know,
Witnin steel reverberations
wrenching
Taught wood, wire,sinews
stretching,
Nothing seems slow.

Adreneline and wine, the
surface streaking past,
Giant howl of air,
Grind-rattle of runner glide,
Perilous bend of mast,
Plank jump,
Finish line slide
as rooster tails grow.

Tucked in their needles thin,
Maine boys grin
Their delight,
Living best in flight
Horizontal.

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Poem for the Week

Crocuses

The Crocuses have croaked the season,
Brashly up through frosty dew,
Mushed the ice for no good reason,
Turned it into sloppy goo.
Soon will come the tulips too.
But I haven’t had enough, have you?

Why sleep late, take comfy pleasures
Read Sunday paper in puffy chair,
Instead of more heroic measures?
Why did I sometimes doubt the air?
Why the devil wasn’t I there?

Ice racer now to leaney shed,
To musty basement, or stuffy nook.
Now, to dreaming far, instead,
Beyond the bubbling, sunny brook,
Beyond the green, garden bed,
Far, far, far ahead.

Dream honkers cruising in raucous V’s,
Chill rain bruising the sodden ground,
Red leaves falling from the trees,
Cold embracing my whole world round,

Dream when liquid pools will freeze,
And I can fly when I please!

L. Hardman

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Video Pick of the Week, maybe of the year…

We’ll pick up with the poetry next week, but this is iceboat camp at the most sublime. Be sure the volume is on:

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Poem of the Week

Boston Boys at Circus Time

It’s the Boston Boys at circus time
On the ices of New England:
Leo and Hal, and Stu and Sid,
Boys full grown,
Big Bill Converse and Henry Stone;
metal tailors,
Mean sailors,
Bred racers to the bone.

When it’s circus time
In the icy clime
And hard waters of New England,
Comes the fleet!
Circus trailers,
Icy grailers
The brothers of neat,
Sleek worshippers of speed,
And, in the cold, pure heat of intention
Runners resound and scrape
Like sharp blades across a pan.

Dazzle sails!

Air invention will do
When chimney smokes pillar starignt up.

Then Burly Herb Dreyer makes the Brass
Monkey dance,
And Henry sets out, newly strung, Don Fellow’s
steed to prance
And Leo, of the aviator goggles,
(Much class)
And snowy knickers
Dickers
With King Cold’s wintry tongue,
While Arlyan Farm, orange dart
Leaves no part
Of ice ungraced
As slick-smooth-black-hard in cut and laced
In triple art.

Sing ice!
When the Boston Boys
Fly
At circus time

L. Hardman

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Poem of the Week

Here’s another from Larry Hardman, but for some visual poetry check out this video sent by T at the NEIYA. It’s hands down the best iceboat racing video ever. Part of the magic is that it celebrates the travelling to interesting places, but the sailing footage is awesome. There’s great scene where three boats tack, one of whom is Ron Sherry. The two other boats pull out of the tack fast and leave Ron behind. But a moment later here comes Ron and smokes the others. Pure poetry.

 

BIGAMIST

My wife away from home has many names.
Mistress Cold, I call her,
Paramour Heroic,
Ms. Epic,
Though her name is IDNIYRA.

She sends me home well spent.

For I am a voluptuary, I admit,
Shameless, too,
Lusting for the sing of her in my blood,
The way she take my thoughts,
Incites when she most satisfies,
Cold eyed temptress!

And my other wife, you ask?
I would not this philandering
Were she resentful.
Jealousy is for those of her own kind.
There, I trespass not,
Nor do I care to.

You see, a stoic sensualist am I,
An icy epicure,
Debaucher, carouser, rascal, rake,
Lusting after
Speed!
Acceleration!
Alacrity!

Blessed be the fanatics.
Tired world without them.

Grateful am I
To find my own:
Two brides,
one at home, one away,
And so in my heart greater love for all.

L. Hardman

Posted in 2014 Season

Poem Of The Week

Dave Fortier has mined all the old CIBC newsletters for the poems of Dave Wilkins and the late Larry Harman. We will be adding them to the ice poetry department, see above, but meanwhile we will all have the pleasure of a poem a week for while. ODE TO DN 670 Let us recite the ode of Donald Fellows, Who boats each day in the winters. “Hard water sailors have more fun” says he, “If they don’t turn their boats into splinters!” Let us sing the song of Donald Fellows, Ice boatings great Kahuna, And be of good cheer when it turns cold each year, ‘Cause he’ll the good ice sonar. Let us raise our voices for Donald Fellows, Who knows all the lakes out yonder And tells the fleet where they might meet To race, or cruise or wander. And let our praises ring until the spring For this marvelous Donald Fellow Who says, “ice is nice, and will suffice, “Even if it’s as weak as jello!” L. Hardman

Posted in 2014 Season