The Ismuth Of Pamela
© Allan Markin

After dark, in my cabin
I sail away, feverishly singing
mapmaker, mapmaker make me a map
sextant in hand and desire my compass
I leave safe harbour
set out to explore
the Isthmus of Pamela

I am Columbus bound for a new world
that lies before me
exotic, mysterious, treacherous
wild, unexplored, unexploited
seductive, promising sacred delights

I wash up against the desert
of Pamela’s sand dunes
that stretch beyond the distant horizon
I rise in fearful anticipation
go where no humans have gone before
leave my defiling steps, my history
on her smooth eternal sands
swept by winds that wipe out memory.

The sand stings my face
I gasp for air, search for an oasis
a place to satisfy my urgings
quench my parched throat
I am driven by spirits I cannot explain
forces that make my sextant
useless in my shaking hand
I drop it into the sand
resistance is futile
I swirl in a vortex of emotions
dark places of psychic overload
mapmaker, mapmaker I cry
Mercator does not answer
I cannot control the savage instincts
driving me down into oblivion

Then I hear voices on the wind
siren sounds, accusatory sounds
female voices moaning, chanting
they are singing to me
sweet cursing voices
luring me deeper, deeper
deep into the wilds of Pamela

I see an oasis
just beyond my reach
it is fertile, perfumed, sensual
hiding the treasure I dreamed of
when I set out to explore
the Isthmus of Pamela

Suddenly I am caught in a whirlwind
spun dizzily into profound confusion
and dropped on Pamela’s shore
I brush the gritty tears from my eyes
see her reclining on the sand
like a continent waiting to be explored
but I am exhausted, worn, spent
I set my battered sails for home
where sleep will soothe me
knowing that the way will be uncertain
the treasure chest empty
this time

Allan Markin March 15, 2022