Twila Sharpe: “Escarpments”

Please see Notes below. Thanks Twila!

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Escarpments

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Escarpments rise windblown, the Spanish say,

Adorning all archaic seas.

The sands, asleep, were born from mortal clay.

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The furnace air, one hundred-twelve degrees…

This land, I should trespass once, beyond books.

I yearn for Western skies, the turquoise hills,

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A place not peopled; far from dabbling crooks.

A desert, fortress wall that posts no bills.

My world of fleets gone South, and Eastward store,

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Is woeful: curry-ridden, plague and fraud.

Deceit an asset, the time-sheet of war,

Exports of evil wear the face of God.

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By father’s desk I toil with ink and pen

Empire of mine, I dream, and wonder when.

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A young man pondering what his father deemed

“the really unimportant things.”

Twila, c. 2005.

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“Escarpments” (With Notes)

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Escarpments rise windblown, the Spanish say,

Adorning all archaic seas.

An escarpment is the eroded and upthrust section of land that resulted from mountain-building, or such an occurrence along a fault-line.

Escarpments are found world-wide but the “young man” would have perhaps heard of the Niagara Escarpment of Ontario, Canada, in addition to reading about them from the Spanish ledgers he may have seen or attained on a voyage abroad. Galen Metairie, from his cattle drives, would know of the Balcones Escarpment in Texas, which stretches from the southwest, through the Hill Country, and north through the Panhandle.

The “archaic seas” refer to ancient oceans that once rose to the tops of these structures. Think of the Grand Canyon and layers of sediment deposited by the Colorado River.

The sands, asleep, were born from mortal clay.

Simply, the skeletal remains of ancient marine life, and even ancient man, which makes up, in this case, the desert floor spread out before the escarpment.

The furnace air, one hundred-twelve degrees…

The temperature compared to a hellish furnace blast. He, who has only known the cold, before the trip to Martinique, is amazed.

This land, I should trespass once, beyond books.

He wishes for escape from the tedium of his existence. He is, basically, an apprentice, or a clerk, in his father’s 18th Century American shipyard.

I yearn for Western skies, the turquoise hills,

He wishes to see what the Spanish conquistadores have seen. His environment is cold and rainy.

A place not peopled; far from dabbling crooks.

“Dabbling crooks” is a play on “babbling brooks”. You can imagine the young man’s father being on guard against swindlers and other nefarious souls.

A desert, fortress wall that posts no bills.

He romanticizes the face of the escarpment, seeing it as a Moorish fortress rising from the Saharan desert. It is unlike the walls of the public buildings surrounding the wharves where he works.

My world of fleets gone South, and Eastward store,

The Caribbean and Asian trade: the human cargo, back-breaking, slave labor, and cheap goods.

Is woeful: curry-ridden, plague and fraud.

A dangerous trade, fraught with worry, ship-board shortages (think of rotten meat disguised with curry), disease, and ill-gotten gains.

Deceit an asset, the time-sheet of war,

A run-in with the Barbary Pirates off of the coast of Libya, having to “pay ransoms” that will eventually lead to our first Marine encounter as a nation.

Exports of evil wear the face of God.

The smuggling of weapons, tea, liquor, or, even human cargo, and all other manifestations of the Atlantic trade. When I say “smuggling”, as a young sea-faring nation, we often had to go around the British, French, Dutch, and Spanish, in order to avoid paying high tariffs on goods. Oftentimes, our ships, and even our men were seized, and “pressed” into service by none other than the British Navy. This led to the War of 1812.

In my poem, the young man is as a visionary: he is seeing these occurrences well in advance of the deeds because he is familiar with the cause and effect of such a maritime system.

By father’s desk I toil with ink and pen

Empire of mine, I dream, and wonder when.

The “father” was a gruff, no-nonsense businessman. He didn’t suffer “dreamers”, and tried to discourage such notions in his son, who would inherit everything he strived to create. Unfortunately, the shipyard owner had no plans to relinquish any of his control; not while he was above ground. The “empire of mine” is not, as you can surmise, the “empire” of the father. It is the empire of the “dreamer” — everything a young man might wish for, and everything that his current life is devoid of. He wishes for a better world, the world promised by adventurers, scientific reasoning, and the best of the Enlightenment.

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A young man pondering what his father deemed “the really unimportant things.”

Twila, c. 2005.

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