Unpublished Poetry by William Barber Bancroft - Slow In a Pink-a Boat

I awakened this morning in the depths of a dream. The dream was about sharing some of Barber's poetry to the world. I've got limited resources to do that so the thought occurred to me to include some of his poetry in my blog. 

In this blog post I am choosing one poem written by Dr. William Barber Bancroft. Barber obtained his Masters of English from Auburn University and his doctorate in Critical Theory and Modern Literature from the University of California, Irvine. His untimely death in November 2004 left family and friends bereft and the world never received the full measure of his literary gifts.

I first met Barber when we were teenagers. He eagerly shared his poems with many of us during those years and the poem selected here was written before he turned twenty years old.  

Slow in a pink-a boat

Slow through the mist

Slow down the river’s throat

By creeping vermin kissed

And the creepers hung down

With a susurrate sound

Upon the muggy ripples

Of the river that led us through

The heaving jungle the leaping jungle

To lead us where we had to be

To do what we had to do.

The monkeys hung like ivy from the trees

And the symphony was strengthened

By the humming of the bees.

Then like some death-blight sent

By soundless signal the jungle went

( In all its leaping screaming sound

With all its sighs and mutters round )

Still , dead, low… silent…

An oarsman broke the spell of the silence with a shout,

“Look back at the river ! Look back at our route !”

And we saw in the river as we looked back

The jungle consuming the river’s track.

But before we despaired and before we could doubt

Again his terrified voice screamed out ,

“Its comin’ on the water ! See it there !”

( The oarsman sweated as the jungle grew hotter.)

No tribe of huntsmen --- no vicious beast

Threatening to make our flesh its feast ----

But a beautiful woman came across the water.

She was so pale and not aborigine

And moved to our boat silently.

She held flowers in her hand and in flowers she was dressed

And the jungle kept time to the heaving of her breasts.

And I wondered at her beauty

And her small white hands

And her long dark hair with its flower-laced strands.

And the jungle grew louder with each new breath

And the sounds returned --- the life, the death.

The animals frenzied, mated and fed

And the noise was demonic

Like the breathing of the dead

When the passions wrestle and the blood is seething.

And the noise grew louder.

I fell into the water.

Down I sank in helpless confusion

Entranced by the vision but convulsed awake

By my burning lungs that shattered the illusion

As I struggled to the surface of that strange lake.

But there was no one to be seen

And nothing to be heard

But the bees loudly humming

And the jungle … breathing.

So I read strange tales in forbidden pages

For I find that a passion within me rages.

To find my friends. To see her face.

I live in the jungle and sleep under stars

And write this story by fireflies in jars

And even now as I write these lines

And hope for clues and pray for signs

I see the panther like the mythical fates

Has made his lair outside my gates

And he sleeps

And he smiles

And he waits.