Early in Moby Dick,
Melville, glorifying Nantucket,
loved that faraway island,
attempted to find the opposite,
the nadir to this crown of New England,
where ships launched for whales,
where quaint sea shacks leaned,
the dark blue of the North Atlantic,
boats like shining diamonds in the sun,
wild, rugged green grass,
necklaces of fishing nets,
shores planted with lighthouses.
Melville chose to pick on Illinois.
What did Illinois do wrong?
Was it a cosmic offense
sent the glaciers,
slowly scraping
across its beauty?
Where are the seas, the mountains,
any elevation at all?
Just fields, fields, fields.
Are long, deep furrows,
corn and soybeans pretty?
Yes, beautiful sunsets,
but everywhere has sunsets.
Does it matter that nothing
blocks your eyes when you see
the blazing colors of the only
work of art in the Sucker state?
Melville scanned his world-wide mind,
harpooned Illinois
as if it were a leviathan
never to escape
his words.
Originally published in Ariel Chart