Skip to main contentResource added !["Partial fair copy of poem begun 19 Jan. 79, av. Du Maine, Paris, 20.1.79, 10:50 a.m.—11:37; 11:45—12:00; 3:22—4:24 (with changes) THE BOAT BASIN, YEARS LATER A January moon, almost, and flat-blue sky from the Obelisk down to the Louvre beckoned me up thin, white steps and past a rigid dog sniffing an icy footprint melting in the sand, past woodcutters bent over in a truck, unmoving, as if to hide behind their planted cross: it said historic trees were cut to guard the public’s ... the missing word had smashed the corner of the sign. It was in front of me somewhere, the Boat Basin, floating up-- no, I was stepping downward-- [those] more disappearing footprints fitting mine, loosening beneath the sun, stopping. Looking up, I saw them scattered around me, people sitting bent and curved like deep-freeze packages slow thawing in [a] some drafty door propped open, their scarves poked out for breathing, their bones all angles, gloved and padded, positioned as if for a vigil. Partly guided by their gaze, I kept [the] a chosen path until the Boat Basin widened in my eyes, ten years of sudden changer [dropping] beaming like icicles dropping silently around the border of the pool, breaking fitful gleams across my sinking memory of sailboats out of hand, their gleeful little captains by turns awestruck and then distressed to see their bobbling colors drawn away, drifting to the center of the sea-- and if brought back by stratagems [somewhere buried] of strangers in the crowd, they anchored changed, less ownable for having sailed away alone. The dead of [winter this [undecipherable] time] winter tightened by brow its changing spirit [undecipherable] warmest at the center of the pool [*put on line alone*] in the bending statue there pouring Sea God potions into the Boat Basin, keeping its heart alive, companionable, [but] while its slowly pulsing ripples, circling outward, stopped suddenly on ice, [recoiling from the frozen scene] recoiling from the frozen scene I inward saw, and outward woke to like a little dream: "](https://cuny.manifoldapp.org/system/resource/3/0/1/30192152-3879-4021-bd65-b74d649fbe02/attachment/dc398c5506f71026b9b19e5b53455d44.jpg)
!["Partial fair copy of poem begun 19 Jan. 79, av. Du Maine, Paris, 20.1.79, 10:50 a.m.—11:37; 11:45—12:00; 3:22—4:24 (with changes) THE BOAT BASIN, YEARS LATER A January moon, almost, and flat-blue sky from the Obelisk down to the Louvre beckoned me up thin, white steps and past a rigid dog sniffing an icy footprint melting in the sand, past woodcutters bent over in a truck, unmoving, as if to hide behind their planted cross: it said historic trees were cut to guard the public’s ... the missing word had smashed the corner of the sign. It was in front of me somewhere, the Boat Basin, floating up-- no, I was stepping downward-- [those] more disappearing footprints fitting mine, loosening beneath the sun, stopping. Looking up, I saw them scattered around me, people sitting bent and curved like deep-freeze packages slow thawing in [a] some drafty door propped open, their scarves poked out for breathing, their bones all angles, gloved and padded, positioned as if for a vigil. Partly guided by their gaze, I kept [the] a chosen path until the Boat Basin widened in my eyes, ten years of sudden changer [dropping] beaming like icicles dropping silently around the border of the pool, breaking fitful gleams across my sinking memory of sailboats out of hand, their gleeful little captains by turns awestruck and then distressed to see their bobbling colors drawn away, drifting to the center of the sea-- and if brought back by stratagems [somewhere buried] of strangers in the crowd, they anchored changed, less ownable for having sailed away alone. The dead of [winter this [undecipherable] time] winter tightened by brow its changing spirit [undecipherable] warmest at the center of the pool [*put on line alone*] in the bending statue there pouring Sea God potions into the Boat Basin, keeping its heart alive, companionable, [but] while its slowly pulsing ripples, circling outward, stopped suddenly on ice, [recoiling from the frozen scene] recoiling from the frozen scene I inward saw, and outward woke to like a little dream: "](https://cuny.manifoldapp.org/system/resource/3/0/1/30192152-3879-4021-bd65-b74d649fbe02/attachment/medium-59a7b1c142fc53f7f9a4fa7ed296319a.jpg)
Draft, THE BOAT BASIN, YEARS LATER 1
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Draft Poem written by Emanuel in 1979, describing his return to a boat basin and its transformation. (Page 1)
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- typeImage
- created on
- file formatjpg
- file size189 kB
- container titleJames A. Emanuel Papers
- creatorJames A. Emanuel
- issueBOX 4 FOLDER 22, Chisel in the Dark, draft, n.d.
- rightsJames A. Emanuel Estate
- rights holderJames A. Emanuel Estate
- version1979