An Inconsequential Man - Jan 30 2026

 

An Inconsequential Man

Jan 30 2026

If not the end of days

then peace in our time.

If not catastrophe,

the the hinge 

on which history swings.

When has the world not been convulsed

the moment fraught

the choice consequential?

Have I lost perspective?

Did I forget

how dire things were  … whenever?

But this time it’s different

  … or so I’ve said

time after time through the years.

One day, we will look back

and things really will have changed;

most likely for the worst

I’m afraid.

That we’ve escaped every time

from the bottlenecks and crises

that have afflicted mankind

 — once, to a critical rump

of nomadic survivors —

is no assurance 

we will do so again.

So which is it this time,

the end of days

or a fresh start?

If only I had the wherewithal

to make change

or at least be heard. 

If only I were the captain

of the majestic Titanic

throwing the ship into full reverse,

massive screws

churning the water to froth

and pistons hammering their heads;

the din of steel-on-steel,

so that sweaty soot-stained men

yelling with all their strength 

can’t even hear themselves. 

Or cutting the wheel

as far as it gets

against her deadweight drift,

hull groaning 

and heeling hard over

so I’d have to lash myself to the deck. 

But I’m an inconsequential man,

can only stand

and look on;

carried along

in the swell of history,

flailing for the surface

and gasping for breath.

A lowly labourer

on the lowest deck

slipping quietly under,

swallowed up

in the dark of night

by a cold north sea.

I was tempted to go with Ship of State as the title, feeling that by foreshadowing the central metaphor it would help cinch the poem tight. But decided it was too bland for the essential purpose of a title, which is to entice the reader to actually read on. And also decided that title I did choose best represents the theme at the heart of the poem: my feeling of utter helplessness (and hopelessness!) as I passively watch the world burn (or, in this case, drown). 

For real — or so it truly seems — this time. Especially with the execrable Donald Trump manning the helm! (Not such a bad title for a poem: The Execrable Donald Trump!)

Or am I just an inveterate pessimist, Cassandra, catastrophist?  Am I guilty of losing the calm perspective on history I refer to in the poem?