Post a Poem

[Warren Milberg]

Sort of a companion piece to the "Post a Picture" thread. Herewith my entry:"Do they ask me what pleasure I find on the sea? Why, absence from land is a pleasure to me:A hamper of porter, and plenty of grog,A friend, when too sleepy, to give me a jog,A coop that will always some poultry afford,Some bottles of gin, and no parson on board,A crew that is brisk when it happens to blow, One compass on deck and another below,A girl, with more sense than the girl at the head,To read me a novel, or make up me bed –The man that has these, has a treasure in store That millions possess not who live upon shore."-- Ralph Waldo Emerson

 

[Ross]

I had a bit of trouble choosing but this will

do for a start. The Yarn of the 'Nancy Bell'A Bab Ballad'TWAS on the shores that round our coast From Deal to Ramsgate span, That I found alone on a piece of stone An elderly naval man. His hair was weedy, his beard was long, And weedy and long was he, And I heard this wight on the shore recite, In a singular minor key: "Oh, I am a cook and a captain bold, And the mate of the Nancy brig, And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite, And the crew of the captain's gig." And he shook his fists and he tore his hair, Till I really felt afraid, For I couldn't help thinking the man had been drinking, And so I simply said: "O, elderly man, it's little I know Of the duties of men of the sea, But I'll eat my hand if I understand How you can possibly be "At once a cook, and a captain bold, And the mate of the Nancy brig, And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite, And the crew of the captain's gig." Then he gave a hitch to his trousers, which Is a trick all seamen larn, And having got rid of a thumping quid, He spun this painful yarn: "'Twas in the good ship Nancy Bell That we sailed to the Indian sea, And there on a reef we come to grief, Which has often occurred to me. "And pretty nigh all o' the crew was drowned (There was seventy-seven o' soul), And only ten of the Nancy's men Said 'Here!' to the muster-roll. "There was me and the cook and the captain bold, And the mate of the Nancy brig And the bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite, And the crew of the captain's gig. "For a month we'd neither wittles nor drink, Till a-hungry we did feel, So we drawed a lot, and accordin' shot The captain for our meal. "The next lot fell to the Nancy's mate, And a delicate dish he made; Then our appetite with the midshipmite We seven survivors stayed. "And then we murdered the bo'sun tight, And he much resembled pig, Then we wittled free, did the cook and me, On the crew of the captain's gig. "Then only the cook and me was left, And the delicate question, 'Which Of us two goes to the kettle?' arose And we argued it out as sich. "For I Ioved that cook as a brother, I did, And the cook he worshipped me; But we'd both be blowed if we'd either be stowed In the other chap's hold, you see. "'I'll be eat if you dines off me,' says Tom, 'Yes, that,' says I, 'you'll be,' -- 'I'm boiled if I die, my friend,' quoth I, And 'Exactly so,' quoth he. "Says he, 'Dear James, to murder me Were a foolish thing to do, For don't you see that you can't cook me, While I can -- and will -- cook you!' "So he boils the water, and takes the salt And the pepper in portions true (Which he never forgot) and some chopped shalot, And some sage and parsley too. "'Come here,' says he, with a proper pride, Which his smiling features tell, ' 'Twill soothing be if I let you see, How extremely nice you'll smell.' "And he stirred it round and round and round, And he sniffed at the foaming froth; When I ups with his heels, and smothers his squeals In the scum of the boiling broth. "And I eat that cook in a week or less, And -- as I eating be The last of his chops, why, I almost drops, For a wessel in sight I see! "And I never grin, and I never smile, And I never larf nor play, But I sit and croak, and a single joke I have -- which is to say: "Oh, I am a cook and a captain bold, And the mate of the Nancy brig, And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite, And the crew of the captain's gig!" W.S. Gilbert

 

[Stu Jackson]

One of the finest things that Latitude 38

does is to editorially eliminate poems. Heck, folks writing, including mine, leaves a lot to be desired.I posted my boat's picture in Warren's last idea, but then realized that not only did it take up and away from other posts, but there already is a place for "cutesy" boat flix elsewhere on this 'site.OK, fire away!Stu *grrPS while we're at it, anyone find out the reason that d.e.s.c.r.i.p.t.i.o.n keeps coming out deion?

 

[Peggie Hall HeadMistress]

Christmas at Sea

Christmas At SeaRobert Louis StevensonThe sheets were frozen hard, and they cut the naked hand;The decks were like a slide, where a seaman scarce could stand,The wind was a nor'-wester, blowing squally off the sea;And cliffs and spouting breakers were the only things a-lee.They heard the surf a-roaring before the break of day;But 'twas only with the peep of light we saw how ill we lay.We tumbled every hand on deck instanter, with a shout,And we gave her the maintops'l, and stood by to go about.All day we tack'd and tack'd between the South Head and the North;All day we haul'd the frozen sheets, and got no further forth;All day as cold as charity, in bitter pain and dread,For very life and nature we tack'd from head to head.We gave the South a wider berth, for there the tide-race roar'd;But every tack we made we brought the North Head close aboard;So's we saw the cliffs and houses, and the breakers running high,And the coastguard in his garden with his glass against his eye.The frost was on the village roofs as white as ocean foam;The good red fires were burning bright in every 'longshore home;The windows sparkled clear, and the chimneys volley'd out;And I vow we sniff'd the victuals as the vessel went about.The bells upon the church were rung with a mighty jovial cheer;For it's just that I should tell you how (of all days of the year)This day of our adversity was blessed Christmas morn,And the house above the coastguard's was the house where I was born.O well I saw the pleasant room, the pleasant faces there,My mother's silver spectacles, my father's silver hair;And well I saw the firelight, like a flight of homely elvesGo dancing round the china-plates that stand upon the shelves!An well I knew the talk they had, the talk that was of me,Of the shadow on the household and the son that went to sea;An O the wicked fool I seem'd, in every kind of way,To be here and hauling frozen ropes on blessed Christmas Day.They lit the high sea-light, and the dark began to fall.'All hands to loose topgallant sails!' I heard the captain call.'By the Lord, she'll never stand it,' our first mate Jackson cried.. . . 'It's the one way or the other, Mr. Jackson,' he replied.She stagger'd to her bearings, but the sails were new and good,And the ship smelt up to windward just as though she understood.As the winter's day was ending, in the entry of the night,We clear'd the weary headland, and pass'd below the light.And they heaved a mighty breath, every soul on board but me,As they saw her nose again pointing handsome out to sea;But all that I could think of, in the darkness and the cold,Was just that I was leaving home and my folks were growing old.

 

[Big Joe]

A poem??

"There once was a girl from Nantucket ... " ah, ... oh, never mind.Regards,Big Joe

 

[Ross]

In an effort to keep the thread alive

I offer this:--------------------------------------------------------------------------------The Cremation of Sam McgeeThere are strange things done in the midnight sun By the men who moil for gold; The Arctic trails have their secret tales That would make your blood run cold; The Northern Lights have seen queer sights, But the queerest they ever did see Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge I cremated Sam McGee. Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows. Why he left his home in the South to roam 'round the Pole, God only knows. He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell; Though he'd often say in his homely way that he'd "sooner live in hell". On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail. Talk of your cold! through the parka's fold it stabbed like a driven nail. If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn't see; It wasn't much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee. And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow, And the dogs were fed, and the stars o'erhead were dancing heel and toe, He turned to me, and "Cap," says he, "I'll cash in this trip, I guess; And if I do, I'm asking that you won't refuse my last request." Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't say no; then he says with a sort of moan: "It's the cursed cold, and it's got right hold till I'm chilled clean through to the bone. Yet 'tain't being dead -- it's my awful dread of the icy grave that pains; So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you'll cremate my last remains." A pal's last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail; And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale. He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee; And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee. There wasn't a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven, With a corpse half hid that I couldn't get rid, because of a promise given; It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say: "You may tax your brawn and brains, But you promised true, and it's up to you to cremate those last remains." Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code. In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load. In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring, Howled out their woes to the homeless snows -- O God! how I loathed the thing. And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow; And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low; The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in; And I'd often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin. Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay; It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the "Alice May". And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum; Then "Here", said I, with a sudden cry, "is my cre-ma-tor-eum." Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire; Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher; The flames just soared, and the furnace roared -- such a blaze you seldom see; And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee. Then I made a hike, for I didn't like to hear him sizzle so; And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow. It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don't know why; And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky. I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear; But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near; I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: "I'll just take a peep inside. I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked";. . . then the door I opened wide. And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar; And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: "Please close that door. It's fine in here, but I greatly fear you'll let in the cold and storm -- Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it's the first time I've been warm." There are strange things done in the midnight sun By the men who moil for gold; The Arctic trails have their secret tales That would make your blood run cold; The Northern Lights have seen queer sights, But the queerest they ever did see Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge I cremated Sam McGee.

 

[CalebD]

Edward Lear

The Owl and the Pussycat went to sea,In a beautiful pea green boat...In these days of websites, portals, and etailers I resist putting the rest of the poem here as it is on a website already. Here is the link:http://www.nonsenselit.org/Lear/ns/pussy.htmlBe sure to check out the unfinished sequel which is also on the site.

 

[Ferg]

Superior Racing (by me)

I should mention Gitchigoomy is the Ojibwa name for Lake Superior. I should also mention booze was heavily involved the writing of this poem.~The weather blows a dark and gloomy on the northern shores of Gitchigoomy. The women are hard and the men are mean, the most horrible place you’ve ever been.These rolling hills of water can’t be every sailor’s dream, and some say a race rigged sloop is but a suicide machine. But reef your main, hoist number two and jockey for the line, we’re goin’ racing anyway, it’s time to show some spine! For we’ll not sit at the dock and wait and hold our breath. We’ll lift our drinks like the pirates did, “to a sudden, soggy death!”Ferg (May 2005)

 

[Benny]

Winter, Winter, Winter

Why complain when its your choosingto shovel snow and yearn for Mayit's five oclock and warm somewheredon't ground your dream and sail away.

 

[Rick Ellis]

sea poem

Awatchin how the sea behaves for hours and hours I sitI know the sea is full of waves I’ve often noticed itAnd then I think a cove like me aint got no right to roamFor I am homesick when I put to sea and seasick when I’m home