"Whoever reads the account of the cries that came to us afloat on the sea from those sinking in the ice-cold water must remember that they were addressed to him just as much as to those who heard them."
-Lawrence Beesley, survivor

Today, and technically yesterday because she hit the iceberg during the eleven o'clock hour on April 14th, marks the 97th anniversary of the sinking of the Titanic. Now, most who have been reading this journal for any period of time already know, I have a strange connection to the event--and wreck--that was not chosen nor particularly, during the worst of it, wanted. During a period of about eleven or twelve years, I filled three journals, front to back, with poetry; some of it good, some of it decidedly not, all of it completely heartfelt. I did not rewrite these or tamper with them after the fact in any way; the way they came from me was pure, and in a way,I like to think of them as her voice speaking through me.

The Art of Breathing

I had to learn to breathe-
two and a half miles down-
where my body meets the sea.

Belonging neither to this world or the next-
one mile below the surface-
one mile above the wreck.

Memories keep me anchored here-
in this space of uncertainty-
moving in slow motion like the black-green water.

Halfway was always the way-
neither moving the remembrance-
nor returning to it.

Day is for the surface of the living-
night is for the death-
existing in the inbetween.

If ever a prayer were needed-
save it for the ones who lived.

8/5/92

Peace, Ghani