Sailing poems

[LittleSister]

Well, we're rufty tufty sailors and we're very, very nice
We're suntanned and we're swarthy, and we smell of rum and spice
We like to have adventures all along the deep blue sea
But we always like to make sure that we're home in time for tea!

 

[John_Silver]

The first verse of Van Morrison's Into the Mystic always does it for me:

We were born before the wind
Also younger than the sun
Ere the bonnie boat was won as we sailed into the mystic
Hark, now hear the sailors cry
Smell the sea and feel the sky
Let your soul and spirit fly into the mystic

 

[Ianqv]

There was an old lady from Ealing
Who had a peculiar feeling.....

Ah sorry... wrong forum!!!

 

[Seajet]

One more to add to the other offering,this one is mine


Clinker built or carvel, in wood or GRP
Varnished, painted, pampered, this other kind of 'she'
Dressed overall a picture, below and up above
Demanding and receiving an undivided love

A classic name adorns her,those curves delight the eye
The love affair between us will last eternally
I believe I am her master-she pretends to acquiesce
So is probably a balance 50/50 more or less

I'll spend a lifetime in defending all her virtues,vices too
Downplaying all the latter as all most lovers do
I enjoy the hours spent with her, our travels on the sea
With those sunrises and sunsets- all absolutely free

Fast lady though I claim she is, and she is in spurts
It takes a good force 4-5 when she really lifts her skirts
If wind permits, her spinnaker adds colours to her dress
Full bodied and curvaceous she speeds like an express.

During visits to the Boat Show if I cast a wayward eye
Upon another painted' lady' as I'm passing by....
Its not that I'm unfaithful, just keeping well in touch
I wouldn't dare to change my 'girl' for even twice as much

We'll both grow old together,taking problems in our stride
For rich, more likely, poorer, but with unbounded pride.

ianat182

Ianat182,

quite brilliant; sums it all up for me too...

 

[SAWDOC]

Mine is from Tennyson's "Ulysses", suitable for someone like me, getting on in life and forseeing the end of their blue-water cruising but wanting to go one more time ...

The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
’Tis not to late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.

It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Tho’ much is taken, much abides; and tho’
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

No 6 above - my favourite so far.

 

[ianat182]

Thank you for your kind comments SJ and Phillm.

ianat182

 

[ianat182]

Here's another that I wrote some 20 years ago for our Club newsletter then.

Preparing for the Season

Smart of paint, a vision, this dream of blue and white
You'll recognise my boat of course,there, over on the right
Below all bright and Bristol fashion, and on deck as well
She rides proudly at her mooring lifting gently to a swell
We've scrubbed her teak, no varnish, but we oiled it with love
Checked her mast and rigging and the spreaders up above
Inspected headsails, mainsails and spinnaker, all sound,
Lifelines and their fittings, again no faults are found
Down below the all important loo for seals, and pumping ease
Checked the bilges, glands and filled the stern tube gear with grease
We've double checked the flares on board their dates in case we founder
Then checked aerials, connections on the VHF and sounder.

You now sit in the cockpit, 'THE MASTER' it feels good
But this lady has the last word as they always do,and would!

From where you sit and watch your neighbours plying to and fro
Furling sails, unstowing fenders, some boats fast, some slow
Skippers planning their manoeuvres shouting to their crew
You'll watch and listen, smile a bit, - until they're closer to
Then more attentive you become as closer still they drift
Don't the idiots see what's happening ?(idiots get short shrift!)
When they're secure you breathe again, but keep a weather eye
For 'weekend sailors' (motor boats!) are bound to rush close by.

Then mentally you are planning some exotic foreign cruise,
Bermuda or Tahiti which one will I choose
The odds are that the final choice will be a close run thing
Probably to Yarmouth - or somewhere in between!

ianat182

 

[DJE]

The boy stood on the burning deck
Whence all but he had fled -
Twit!

- Spike Milligan.

 

[Fourbees]

The boy stood on the burning deck
Astride the red-hot rowlocks,
A flame went up his trouser leg
And vaporised his... underwear.

Anon

 

[webcraft]

.
Sea Poetry


- W

 

[jimi]

I wish I had a little boat
upon the sea to float
like a little graceful swan
but my money has all gone
on beer and curried goat....

 

[LadyInBed]

The boy stood on the burning deck...............I'll get my coat

Twas on the good ship Venus,
By God you should have seen us,
. . . . . . . I'll see you outside

 

[Rum_Pirate]

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea's face, and a grey dawn breaking.

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull's way and the whale's way, where the wind's like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.

By John Masefield

 

[snowleopard]

Oh! The Crinan Canal for me,
I don't like the wild raging sea,
It would be too terrific to cross the Pacific,
Or sail to Japan or Fiji.
A life on the Spanish Main,
I think it would drive me insane,
The big foaming breakers would give me the shakers,
The Crinan Canal for me.

Chorus:
Oh! The Crinan Canal for me,
I don't like the wild raging sea,
The big foaming breakers would give me the shakers,
The Crinan Canal for me.

It's the Crinan Canal for me,
From sea terrors there you are free,
There's no shark or whale that would make you turn pale,
Or shiver or shake at the knee.
I would nae like leavin' ma bones,
In a locker beside Davy Jones,
From Ardrishaig to Crinan's the best trip A'hve bin in,
The Crinan Canal for me.

Chorus

Aye the Crinan Canal for me,
It's neither too big nor too wee,
Oh! It's lovely and calm when you're frying your ham,
Or makin' a nice cup of tea.
You can go for a stroll on its banks,
To loosen your muscle bound shanks,
You can darn your socks while you're still in its locks,
The Crinan Canal for me.

Chorus

 

[jimi]

In Basingstoke East of Krakatoa,
lies a ship, a lonely ship,
sails in shreds
and thwarts askew
why its there ... I wish I knew

 

[Beadle]

Our brows are bound with spindrift and the weed is on our knees;
Our loins are battered 'neath us by the swinging, smoking seas.
From reef and rock and skerry -- over headland, ness, and voe --
The Coastwise Lights of England watch the ships of England go!

Through the endless summer evenings, on the lineless, level floors;
Through the yelling Channel tempest when the siren hoots and roars --
By day the dipping house-flag and by night the rocket's trail --
As the sheep that graze behind us so we know them where they hail.

We bridge across the dark and bid the helmsman have a care,
The flash that wheeling inland wakes his sleeping wife to prayer;
From our vexed eyries, head to gale, we bind in burning chains
The lover from the sea-rim drawn -- his love in English lanes.

We greet the clippers wing-and-wing that race the Southern wool;
We warn the crawling cargo-tanks of Bremen, Leith, and Hull;
To each and all our equal lamp at peril of the sea --
The white wall-sided war-ships or the whalers of Dundee!

Come up, come in from Eastward, from the guardports of the Morn!
Beat up, beat in from Southerly, O gipsies of the Horn!
Swift shuttles of an Empire's loom that weave us, main to main,
The Coastwise Lights of England give you welcome back again!

Go, get you gone up-Channel with the sea-crust on your plates;
Go, get you into London with the burden of your freights!
Haste, for they talk of Empire there, and say, if any seek,
The Lights of England sent you and by silence shall ye speak!

 

[Bajansailor]

An excellent thread!
I also started a similar thread a few years back - here is a link.
http://www.ybw.com/forums/showthread.php?t=118461
Very evocative stuff in both, and on Webcraft's Blue Moment page too.

 

[jimiboy]

Here is something for the lighthearted among us...

POOR TRACE
by
Jon Crowley (abridged)

Never would Tracy have sailed round the world,
In the ord’nary course of events.
She’d never done anything like it before –
The excitement she felt was immense.

For one day she read of the “Marie Celeste”,
And a woman was wanted as crew.
And without really thinking of what it entailed
She decided that’s what she would do.

So she bought a cagoule and a stout pair of shoes
And a bag for her ham-and-egg sandwiches,
And a book, which enabled our heroine to say
“I’m lost!” in a number of languages.

She set off for Plymouth, to meet with the crew
Who were waiting for Trace’s arrival.
But I’m sorry to say that they laughed when they saw
The equipment she’d brought for survival.

They sat and they chatted, and very soon found
That she knew not a thing about yachts,
Nor of charts, nor of flags, nor echo-location,
Nor night-navigation, nor knots.

So they looked at each other, her shipmates-to-be,
And they reached an unspoken decision.
And later that night in the “Admiral’s Arms”
As she gazed at the Sky television,

They bought her a supper – prawn cocktail it was,
Then a steak, and a lovely Peach Melba;
And they plied her with drinks of the powerful kind
Till she knew not Madras from the Elbe.

Then off they all scarpered, jumped into the boat,
Cast off, and set course for the Med.
And when the next morning Trace opened her eyes
With a thumping great pain in her head,

She was lost and deserted, the crew were all gone –
Not one could she find in the place.
And hence, in the papers, the headlines next day:
“Crew Disappears Without Trace”.

 

[MASH]

On a slight drift, but still sea-related (ish);

The common Cormorant or Shag
Lays eggs inside a paper bag.
The reason, you will see, no doubt
Is to keep the lightning out.
But what these unobservant birds
Have never noticed is that herds
Of wandering bears may come with buns
And steal the bags to keep the crumbs.

 

[MASH]

And in contrition for posting the above two of the finest poems ever written which, both of which fortunately happen to be about ships (admittedly mobos) and seafaring men. See if you can read either of these without raising a tear or ten.

Kipling, of course.


The "Mary Gloster"


I've paid for your sickest fancies; I've humoured your crackedest whim -
Dick, it's your daddy, dying; you've got to listen to him!
Good for a fortnight, am I? The doctor told you? He lied.
I shall go under by morning, and - Put that nurse outside.
'Never seen death yet, Dickie? Well, now is your time to learn,
And you'll wish you held my record before it comes to your turn.
Not counting the Line and the Foundry, the yards and the village, too,
I've made myself and a million; but I'm damned if I made you.
Master at two-and-twenty, and married at twenty-three -
Ten thousand men on the pay-roll, and forty freighters at sea !
Fifty years between' em, and every year of it fight,
And now I'm Sir Anthony Gloster, dying, a baronite:
For I lunched with his Royal 'Ighness - what was it the papers had ?
"Not the least of our merchant-princes." Dickie, that's me, your dad!
I didn't begin with askings. I took my job and I stuck;
I took the chances they wouldn't, an' now they're calling it luck.
Lord, what boats I've handled - rotten and leaky and old -
Ran 'em, or - opened the bilge-cock, precisely as I was told.
Grub that 'ud bind you crazy, and crews that 'ud turn you grey,
And a big fat lump of insurance to cover the risk on the way.
The others they dursn't do it; they said they valued their life
(They've served me since as skippers). I went, and I took my wife.
Over the world I drove 'em, married at twenty-three,
And your mother saving the money and making a man of me.
I was content to be master, but she said there was better behind;
She took the chances I wouldn't, and I followed your mother blind.
She egged me to borrow the money, an' she helped me to clear the loan,
When we bougnt half-shares in a cheap 'un and hoisted a flag of our own.
Patching and coaling on credit, and living the Lord knew how,
We started the Red Ox freighters - we've eight-and-thirty now.
And those were the days of clippers, and the freights were clipper-freights,
And we knew we were making our fortune, but she died in Macassar Straits -
By the Little Patemosters, as you come to the Union Bank -
And we dropped her in fourteen fathom: I pricked it off where she sank.
Owners we were, full owners, and the boat was christened for her,
And she died in the Mary Gloster. My heart; how young we were!
So I went on a spree round Java and well-nigh ran her ashore,
But your mother came and warned me and I would't liquor no more:
Strict I stuck to my business, afraid to stop or I'd think,
Saving the money (she warned me), and letting the other men drink.
And I met M'Cullough in London (I'd saved five 'undred then),
And 'tween us we started the Foundry - three forges and twenty men.
Cheap repairs for the cheap 'uns. It paid, and the business grew;
For I bought me a steam-lathe patent, and that was a gold mine too.
"Cheaper to build 'em than buy 'em;" I said, but M'Cullough he shied,
And we wasted a year in talking before we moved to the Clyde.
And the Lines were all beginning, and we all of us started fair,
Building our engines like houses and staying the boilers square.
But M'Cullough 'e wanted cabins with marble and maple and all,
And Brussels an' Utrecht velvet, and baths and a Social Hall,
And pipes for closets all over, and cutting the frames too light,
But M'Cullough he died in the Sixties, and - Well, I'm dying to-night...
I knew - I knew what was coming, when we bid on the Byfleet's keel -
They piddled and piffled with iron, I'd given my orders for steel!
Steel and the first expansions. It paid, I tell you, it paid,
When we came with our nine-knot freighters and collared the long-run trade!
And they asked me how I did it; and I gave 'em the Scripture text,
"You keep your light so shining a little in front o' the next!"
They copied all they could follow, but they couldn't copy my mind,
And I left 'em sweating and stealing a year and a half behind.
Then came the armour-contracts, but that was M'Cullough's side;
He was always best in the Foundry, but better, perhaps, he died.
I went through his private papers; the notes was plainer than print;
And I'm no fool to finish if a man'll give me a hint.
(I remember his widow was angry.) So I saw what his drawings meant;
And I started the six-inch rollers, and it paid me sixty per cent.
Sixty per cent with failures, and more than twice we could do,
And a quarter-million to credit, and I saved it all for you!
I thought - it doesn't matter - you seemed to favour your ma,
But you're nearer forty than thirty, and I know the kind you are.
Harrer an' Trinity College! I ought to ha' sent you to sea -
But I stood you an education, an' what have you done for me?
The things I knew was proper you wouldn't thank me to give,
And the things I knew was rotten you said was the way to live.
For you muddled with books and pictures, an' china an' etchin's an' fans.
And your rooms at college was beastly - more like a whore's than a man's;
Till you married that thin-flanked woman, as white and as stale as a bone,
An' she gave you your social nonsense; but where's that kid o' your own?
I've seen your carriages blocking the half o' the Cromwell Road,
But never the doctor's brougham to help the missus unload.
(So there isn't even a grandchild, an' the Gloster family's done.)
Not like your mother, she isn't. She carried her freight each run.
But they died, the pore little beggars! At sea she had 'em - they died.
Only you, an' you stood it. You haven't stood much beside.
Weak, a liar, and idle, and mean as a collier's whelp
Nosing for scraps in the galley. No help - my son was no help!
So he gets three 'undred thousand, in trust and the interest paid.
I wouldn't give it you, Dickie - you see, I made it in trade.
You're saved from soiling your fingers, and if you have no child,
It all comes back to the business. 'Gad, won't your wife be wild!
'Calls and calls in her carriage, her 'andkerchief up to 'er eye:
"Daddy! dear daddy's dyin'!" and doing her best to cry.
Grateful? Oh, yes, I'm grateful, but keep her away from here.
Your mother 'ud never ha' stood 'er, and, anyhow, women are queer.
There's women will say I've married a second time. Not quite!
But give pore Aggie a hundred, and tell her your lawyers'll fight.
She was the best o' the boiling - you'll meet her before it ends.
I'm in for a row with the mother - I'll leave you settle my friends.
For a man he must go with a woman, which women don't understand -
Or the sort that say they can see it they aren't the marrying brand.
But I wanted to speak o' your mother that's Lady Gloster still;
I'm going to up and see her, without its hurting the will.
Here! Take your hand off the bell-pull. Five thousand's waiting for you,
If you'll only listen a minute, and do as I bid you do.
They'll try to prove me crazy, and, if you bungle, they can;
And I've only you to trust to! (O God, why ain't it a man?)
There's some waste money on marbles, the same as M'Cullough tried -
Marbles and mausoleums - but I call that sinful pride.
There's some ship bodies for burial - we've carried 'em, soldered and packed,
Down in their wills they wrote it, and nobody called them cracked.
But me - I've too much money, and people might . . . All my fault:
It come o' hoping for grandsons and buying that Wokin' vault...
I'm sick o' the 'ole dam' business. I'm going back where I came.
Dick, you're the son o' my body, and you'll take charge o' the same!
I want to lie by your mother, ten thousand mile away,
And they'll want to send me to Woking; and that's where you'll earn your pay.
I've thought it out on the quiet, the same as it ought to be done -
Quiet, and decent, and proper - an' here's your orders, my son.
You know the Line? You don't, though. You write to the Board, and tell
Your father's death has upset you an' you're going to cruise for a spell,
An' you'd like the Mary Gloster - I've held her ready for this -
They'll put her in working order and you'll take her out as she is.
Yes, it was money idle when I patched her and laid her aside
(Thank God, I can pay for my fancies!) - the boat where your mother died,
By the Little Paternosters, as you come to the Union Bank,
We dropped her - I think I told you - and I pricked it off where she sank.
['Tiny she looked on the grating - that oily, treacly sea -]
'Hundred and Eighteen East, remember, and South just Three.
Easy bearings to carry - Three South-Three to the dot;
But I gave McAndrew a copy in case of dying - or not.
And so you'll write to McAndrew, he's Chief of the Maori Line
They'Il give him leave, if you ask 'em and say it's business o' mine.
I built three boats for the Maoris, an' very well pleased they were,
An I've known Mac since the Fifties, and Mac knew me - and her.
After the first stroke warned me I sent him the money to keep
Against the time you'd claim it, committin' your dad to the deep;
For you are the son o' my body, and Mac was my oldest friend,
I've never asked 'im to dinner, but he'll see it out to the end.
Stiff-necked Glasgow beggar! I've heard he's prayed for my soul,
But he couldn't lie if you paid him, and he'd starve before he stole.
He'll take the Mary in ballast - you'll find her a lively ship;
And you'll take Sir Anthony Gloster, that goes on 'is wedding-trip,
Lashed in our old deck-cabin with all three port-holes wide,
The kick o' the screw beneath him and the round blue seas outside!
Sir Anthony Gloster's carriage - our 'ouse-flag flyin' free -
Ten thousand men on the pay-roll and forty freighters at sea!
He made himself and a million, but this world is a fleetin' show,
And he'll go to the wife of 'is bosom the same as he ought to go -
By the heel of the Paternosters - there isn't a chance to mistake -
And Mac'll pay you the money as soon as the bubbles break!
Five thousand for six weeks' cruising, the staunchest freighter afloat,
And Mac he'll give you your bonus the minute I'm out o' the boat!
He'll take you round to Macassar, and you'll come back alone;
He knows what I want o' the Mary . . . . I'll do what I please with my own.
Your mother 'ud call it wasteful, but I've seven-and-thirty more;
I'll come in my private carriage and bid it wait at the door...
For my son 'e was never a credit: 'e muddled with books and art,
And e' lived on Sir Anthony's money and 'e broke Sir Anthony's heart.
There isn't even a grandchild, and the Gloster family's done -
The only one you left me - O mother, the only one!
Harrer and Trinity College - me slavin' early an' late -
An' he thinks I'm dying crazy, and you're in Macassar Strait!
Flesh o' my flesh, my dearie, for ever an' ever amen,
That first stroke come for a warning. I ought to ha' gone to you then.
But - cheap repairs for a cheap 'un - the doctor said I'd do.
Mary, why didn't you warn me? I've allus heeded to you,
Excep' - I know - about women; but you are a spirit now;
An', wife, they was only women, and I was a man. That's how.
An' a man 'e must go with a woman, as you could not understand;
But I never talked 'em secrets. I paid 'em out o' hand.
Thank Gawd, I can pay for my fancies! Now what's five thousand to me,
For a berth off the Paternosters in the haven where I would be?
I believe in the Resurrection, if I read my Bible plain,
But I wouldn't trust 'em at Wokin'; we're safer at sea again.
For the heart it shall go with the treasure - go down to the sea in ships.
I'm sick of the hired women. I'll kiss my girl on her lips!
I'll be content with my fountain. I'll drink from my own well,
And the wife of my youth shall charm me - an' the rest can go to Hell!
(Dickie, he will, that's certain.) I'll lie in our standin'-bed,
An' Mac'll take her in ballast - an' she trims best by the head...
Down by the head an' sinkin', her fires are drawn and cold,
And the water's splashin' hollow on the skin of the empty hold -
Churning an' choking and chuckling, quiet and scummy and dark -
Full to her lower hatches and risin' steady. Hark!
That was the after-bulkhead. . . . She's flooded from stem to stern...
'Never seen death yet, Dickie? . . . Well, now is your time to learn!