By Pantygynt
This book is a collection of poems about those places in our world where the land meets the sea, the beaches, the coastline or, to employ a less common word that covers them all, the littoral. The poems are concerned in many cases with the continuous war, waged between sea and land, in which first one and then the other claims victory as the tide ebbs and flows, for the most part twice a day or thereabouts.
This ongoing warfare between our two main protagonists, effectively runs the lives of the countless sea creatures and wildfowl that flock to the coast, so some of the poems are about them too. Then there is mankind to be considered. For thousands of years men have won their living from the sea, but we are not concerned here with deep water sailors and fishermen, so much as those who work the dangerous coastal waters, where rocks and sandbanks lie in wait for the unwary. We shall also be investigating the lifeboatmen who have to rescue those who get into difficulties around our coasts. Weaker than Water retells one of Selkie legends, part of our rich, coastal folklore.
More recent has been the discovery of the pleasures of sea bathing, so there is a poem describing a bank holiday beach scene. By way of contrast there is a song lyric that I originally wrote in the mid nineteen sixties describing a seaside resort in the depths of winter. As well as those who are only down for the day, there are many artists and craftspeople that live out their lives by the seashore, recording its moods in their pictures and sculpture; they also have their moment under the spotlight here. There will inevitably be some aspects of the littoral that I have missed; if you can think of any then please, let me know and I may be able to include them in a later edition.
Since history has often been about the invasion of one country by another, I decided to include one poem that deals with the largest seaborne invasion of them all, which took place on the Normandy beaches in 1944.
The poems here are varied in style. A Shakespearean style sonnet and blank verse poetry rub shoulders with other formal styles such as, roundel, triolet and terza rima. There is an example of alliterative verse in the style of the Anglo-Saxon sagas (that's for the Selkie story), which is the oldest form of written poetry in the English language. It's right there with examples of free verse, sestina and villanelle. Perhaps the most ambitious piece is a crown of heroic sonnets, covering the life of the most decorated lifeboatman of all time, Henry Blogg, coxswain for thirty-eight years of the lifeboat, based at Cromer, on the Norfolk coast of England.
I have put this collection together because I enjoy the challenge of getting to grips with a wide variety of styles and matching them, appropriately I hope, to their content. It is my earnest hope that you will enjoy reading them as much as I have enjoyed my part in their creation
| Author Notes |
CONTENTS
1. Sonnet - Low Water Springs 2. Blank Verse - Broken Breaker 3. Roundel - Pebble on the Strand 4. Terza Rima - Nocturne 5. Triolet - Tiny King Crab 6. Free Verse - Venetian Blind 7. Free Verse - Eccles-by-the-Sea 8. Free Verse - Salt Marsh 9. Minimalistic rhyme - playground of the Gull 10. Something Fishy - Four Poems for Kids: i. Sideways Glance ii. Flatfish iii. Lucky Herring iv. Larry the Lobster 11. Alliterative Verse - Weaker than Water 12. Free Verse - Matter for Concern 13. abcba Rhyme - Polhena Beach, Sri Lanka 0600 14. Sestina - Driftwood Sculptress 15. Pantoum - On a Bank Holiday Beach 16. Senryu Suite - British Summer Time 17. Pastiche [well almost] - Tusker Rock 18. Song Lyric - Close Season 19. Villanelle - Gale Warning 20. Original Form - Epitaph for the Future 11/03/2011 21. Prose Poem - Bloody Omaha 22. Crown of Heroic Sonnets - Henry Blogg of Cromer 23. Sonnet - Home is the Sailor |
By Pantygynt
Today the sea's at peace but not flat calm;
Six inches high, no more, the ripples glide
Across the furrowed beaches, cause no harm
But, moonbeam driven, fall back on the tide;
They do not break with foaming, fractured crash;
Collapsing froth meanders over sand,
Their undulations dying with each plash,
As each impinges less upon the land.
But their retreat from high tide's jetsam dark,
Delineated limit of their climb,
Declares defeat as, from the high tide mark,
Each vanquished wave breaks further out each time.
Smooth sand exposed; wild life to rock pool clings;
Its flood mere memory, low water springs.
| Author Notes |
Springs used here as a noun meaning spring tides. On admiralty charts the depths of water shown in fathoms is that found at the lowest point of the tide. This is the low spring tide occurring just after the new moon and known to navigators as "Low water springs".
Although my last collection, Charon Memoirs of a Ferryman was entirely made up of sonnets, under normal circumstances I tend to consider the sonnet as a gentle form of poetry. Content here involves the sea in one of its gentler moods, so I felt that the sonnet form was the one to go for. The artwork here has been admired, so many thanks to garygb for that one. |
By Pantygynt
Against the granite of our harbour wall,
to smash destructively its surging strength,
it's headed here! See, out there, rolling in,
that seventh wave, the highest, sweeping down.
Wherever was that foaming monster born,
that's curved its way across Atlantic depths?
Perhaps engendered way out there at sea,
beneath some deep depression's cyclone curled,
by Newfoundland's far, fog-filled fishing banks.
The power in that roller's pictured plain
as, rushing on, its crest, high-soaring, cracks;
such weight of wave, invincible and yet
the breaker broke; our harbour wall unharmed,
protecting well those craft lain in its lee;
To windward, shattered metamorphosis,
from solid green to dazzling white explodes,
providing fodder for photographers.
Forever captured in a shutter's click,
yet vanished, sucked back by the undertow
that hollows out a space for subsequence;
Full many, in this equinoctial gale
spectacular, yet none in majesty
exceeded that one wave, whipped up by wind,
into a maritime escarpment, sped
by ocean currents, till the spring tide's flood
secured its hold, then, powered by the moon,
It smashed inconsequentially its surge
Against the granite of our harbour wall.
| Author Notes |
From the calm of the ebbing tide, described in the previous chapter, we move on here to the ravages of an equinoctial gale, with wind over a flooding tide making conditions extremely hazardous. This too is a spring tide, when the new moon ensures the greatest variation between high and low tides.
This time, I have chosen blank verse as the form. No rhyme just the steady beat of the iambic pentameter's waves, pounding against the page's breakwater. I felt that the verse style used by Shakespeare throughout most of his dramatic texts (he occasionally let some of his less exalted characters, like Macbeth's porter, lapse into prose) was a good style to use when the sea, as described here, is at its most dramatic. |
By Pantygynt
Pebble on the strand, none like you, looked at whole;
Though there are many similar in shape, both small and grand,
Tincture, texture, each unique, yet none of you the sole
Pebble on the strand.
Some other pebbles too have fine design while others bland,
All over grey, but all make up the beach and have a role,
Within the stippled picture of impressionistic brand;
But those multi-coloured whorls etched in your sea-shone surface stole
My heart so then, to feel your silken smoothness, I held you in my hand
And for one moment wondered: "Should you perhaps have been the sole
Pebble on the strand?"
| Author Notes |
This poem is a Roundel, an eleven line French form. The line length and scansion are indeterminate. It is the rhyme scheme and the repetions of the lines and part lines that make up the form.
The first half of the first line (the last word of which forms the a of the scheme) is repeated at the end of the first and third stanzas. The first three lines of the first and last stanzas rhyme bab while the central tercet rhymes aba. My initial reaction on first coming upon the form was to reject it as "form for form's sake" but, given the theme I had decided on here, I felt that the form reflected the content of a pebble beach, that looks at first sight so uninviting with all those similar stones repeating, until you realise that there are almost as many individual differences as there are pebbles or as there are rhyming words, even when limited to only two rhymes throughout. The impressionist painters often used the stipple effect to create their impressions. Stand back from the picture and you see the whole thing; peer at it closely and you lose the gestalt, but see the detail of the amazing shapes and colours of the individual stiples. I wanted to write "...the only pebble on the beach" to be in line with the well-known expression but 'only' played hell with scansion and I just could not find enough appropriate rhymes for 'beach'; hence I had to settle for ... sole pebble on the strand. So the beach here is a metaphor for the whole of humanity and each pebble is an individual. |
By Pantygynt
Swim the sea at night around Grenada;
to view the phosphorescence crystal bright,
dazzling your eyes through limpid water;
If you could swim off Grand Anse Beach tonight
you could gaze upwards at the starlit sky
through sparkling sea then, turning from that sight
And weaving, diving, twisting, questing, try
to keep company with a shimmering shoal
where breaking, phosphorescent surf runs high.
Lit by its luminescence, you patrol
in hunger without wonder through the dark,
fixated, sated appetite your goal;
You have no choice, must kill to survive, sleepless shark.
| Author Notes |
This is an example of the Terza Rima, a form that originated in Italy. It consists of an indeterminate number of tercets, rhyming aba, where the b line of any verse sets the rhyme for the first and last lines of the next tercet. The form may end with a couplet or, more usually as here, with a single line. This line or couplet must rhyme with the preceeding tercet's second line.
The poem takes an idyllic scene and turns it into a horror story in the final line. Back in 1960 when I visited Grenada, courtesy of the Royal Navy Grand Anse Beach consisted of a mile of silver sand that swept round a bay in a gentle curve, bordered on one side by the clearest sea you ever saw and shoreside, by a dense growth of coconut palms. There was a rickety, wooden pier at the end of which perched a corrugated-iron-roofed shack that served as the only bar on the beach. I don't want to go back. I want to remember it as it was before it became lined, wall to wall, with four and five star hotels! |
By Pantygynt
You are, though tiny, king crustacean
In this lonely, calm rock pool.
Trapped in solitary isolation,
You are though, tiny king crustacean,
Monarch unopposed of this creation.
Enjoy, for till the flood tide terminates your rule,
You are, though tiny king, crustacean
In this lonely, calm rock pool.
| Author Notes | The crab in this poem is referred to as being tiny, so I thought a short form of poetry would be the most effective. This is a triolet, a French form originally, so it would originally have been pronounced tree-oh-lay, but anglicised versions are acceptable these days so you can say tree-oh-let and get away with it. The form restrcts the rhyming to just two in the same way as the lonely rock pool restricts, at least for the time being, the crab's outlook. Although lines are repeated, emphasizing the importance of the crab, punctuation is important here, as differently placed commas in the repeated lines, subtly alter the sense slightly. |
By Pantygynt
Venice.
Land and sea merged in uneasy coexistence.
Great architecture floats on water
where The Built Environment is liquid lacking in liquidity.
Birmingham
has more kilometres of canals
And will likely still be Birmingham
when Venice
has sunk beneath the waves.
For the sea is seeking Adriatic recompense
for medieval centuries
of domination by the city state,
rebelling only now
against the erstwhile power
and corruption of the long gone
dog days of the Doges,
and the place is sinking,
and it will cost a waving arm
and kicking leg
to keep its drowning head
above the water.
On any coast but this,
at the almost tideless dead end
of an aquatic cul-de-sac,
Venice would have vanished long ago,
inundated,
eroded into oblivion,
but here, with its liquidity in doubt,
it will most likely, simply be priced out
of all existence,
gone,
like most of its gondolas,
for a song sung to a small guitar.
| Author Notes |
I remember seeing a television documentary about Venice and its threatened inundation. Apparently the cost of saving the place will be astronomical, but I'm sure that the money will be found, for Venice is unique and truly, Birmingham presents no challenge as far as architectural beauty is concerned, even if it has a greater canal mileage.
This is the first of two very different free style poems on the subject of inundation and unusually for me I have chosen a photograph to illustrate the piece. The reflection seemed so apt, as if the buildings really were beneath the water. |
By Pantygynt
Please read the notes first.
Deep down beneath the surface of the cold North Sea
lies vanished Eccles, inundated, weed encrusted,
where fish swim in through unglazed windows, out through unbarred doors
across the silted squares, where once its busy markets bustled
and where traders, from their stalls, cried out their wares
to customers come thronging through the narrow streets.
But all that busy bustle was long decades gone ago;
today it is a silent settlement of sea creatures
that had no hand in its development,
nor played they any part in the drama of its dereliction,
but there they dwell these days, a conger in a cottage long deceased,
while shoals of mackerel now haunt high hallways in the manor house.
A lobster preaches from the pulpit to lost soles prostrate in the sandy aisles,
while hake and herring hang around the public houses,
shoaling, where there once went strolling, through now silent streets,
fisher-folk by gardens green, where grew red roses and high hollyhocks,
now sown with kelp and dabberlocks, while bladder wrack
proliferates in what was once prize-winning onion patch.
Here is a sea-change Shakespeare never dramatized,
for in his day this Norfolk town stood high and dry,
where now the cliff-tops crumble, their bases breaker-buffeted,
as the North Sea wreaks its vengeance, undeserved,
upon the guiltless land that, with the help of man more culpable,
reclaimed its kingdom briefly, three centuries no more,
when driven ditch, dug deep, and dyke dammed high
The Wash, that brackish marshland, drained down, dry.
| Author Notes |
Eccles is one of several communities along the Norfolk coast that either are no more, being completely drowned, or are in the process of going that way. Legends quickly grow up around these inundated places. Almost universal is the one that goes: "... and the seas are rough they say you can still hear the church bells ringing!" And then there was the fisherman whose oar struck the church tower at low tide. The truth is probably less romantic as these places quickly silt up once the sea has reclaimed them.
In the first line of the third stanza is a play on words and not intended to be souls. The sole is a flat fish that likes to lie on the sea bed. Kelp, dabberlocks and bladder wrack are all varieties of seaweed. The phrase sea-change has been imported into everyday speech to imply a great change in whatever is under discussion. It was coined by William Shakespeare in his play The Tempest, in Ariel's Song. From the 17th Century attempts have been made to drain the large shallow inlet dividing Norfolk from Lincolnshire, known as The Wash and much of what is now cultivated land was in medieval times under water at least at high tide. King John is said to have lost the crown jewels there while attempting a crossing. These days, thinking on sea defences has changed and many previously reclaimed areas of the Norfolk coastline are being handed back to the sea as salt marsh to create a buffer zone between the sea and the agricultural land rather than building huge concrete defenses. This practise will also create an excellent habitat for wildfowl as we shall see in the next chapter. |
By Pantygynt
Mile upon square mile of salt marshland,
spread low on the horizon of a huge East Anglian sky
that whiles away the winter's afternoon,
until the wildfowl, all as one, take wing.
To brackish creeks they're flown, gone home to roost,
their foraging completed on the greasy, grey mud flats,
interlaced with winding ditches deep and dark,
where last of tidal water ebbs to sea.
Crepuscular, beneath the risen moon, the tide returns,
and salt sea water rises, rippleless
straightening ditches, scoured by earlier ebb,
drowning deep the gleaming grey in glassy black.
Sliding sinuously, this silent, swelling serpent,
saturates the maze of salt marsh creeks
almost to the brim, by risen reed beds
where roosting wildfowl float in fitful sleep.
Later, in the west, the moon sets low,
sucked, from her hide and seek amongst the clouds,
down to the glutinous oblivion of the marsh.
The darkest hour is come, before the winter sun
spreads silver on the eastern sky,
awakening the wildfowl flocks to greet the dawn
with raucous, squawked cacophony,
before their beating wings bear them aloft,
a dwindling skein that wheels
above black water, once more on the ebb.
Both birds and water bound for mud flat feeding ground
now lain again exposed, abandoned by the tide.
| Author Notes |
East Anglia is not the only place in the UK where salt marshland can be found, but it is probably the most extensive. From the northern banks of the Thames Estuary along the eastern coasts of Essex, Suffolk and the greater part of Norfolk, with a few breaks of higher ground, these low lying, virtually at sea level, tracts of marsh extend sometimes several miles inland. Then again in the fen country around The Wash there is more of the same. The area has attracted artists since landscape painting came into vogue, but in the main it is not the land but the skies that they come to paint.
This marshland is lonely country, mainly the province of wildfowl. There are few trees; the vegetation consisting mainly of reeds and grasses with an edible marginal, samphire, growing closer to the sea. The poem is free form relying for its poesy on anything and everything except for tail end rhyme. This confusion of devices reflects the confusion of the tidal creeks that insinuate themselves around the marshlands. |
By Pantygynt
Although dry land is done where grass stops short,
there is no meeting with the sea at all;
one pace ahead of me is nothingness,
beside this windswept playground of the gull.
No blurring of the littoral up here,
no traitorous masons' tongues interred at all,
no tidal disputes between land and sea,
not by this windswept playground of the gull.
The sky is both above me and beneath;
I cannot walk out there nor swim at all;
no salt spray's sting, no saturated skin,
not by this windswept playground of the gull.
Although below the breakers bash the rocks,
they never will this high perch reach at all,
nor ever will those rocks below be dry,
as by this windswept playground of the gull
that sends an invitation few accept,
to take a forward pace and end it all.
There are some, sadly, who that pace have stepped
to gain the windswept playground of the gull.
| Author Notes |
Dealing, as it does, with the awful business of suicide, I did not want a cosy rhyme scheme for this poem; neither did I want the liberation of free verse, because the suicide is not a liberated person but one held prisoner by personal horrors. This minimalistic approach to rhyme therefore, is a form of my own devising. There are only two repeated words that could be said to rhyme (all/gull) and both are approximations.
Not being a mason I cannot be sure but I understand that on joining they take an oath that should they divulge the secrets of the brotherhood their tongues should be torn out by the roots and buried in the no man's land between high and low water marks, impossible of course on a cliff top! About as different a coast from the marshlands as you can get are the rugged cliffs that tower straight up out of the sea. There are a few cliffs in Norfolk but they are nothing compared with those on the north coast of the Lleyn peninsular in North Wales. The most impressive cliffs for me are the very high, vertical ones where there is no beach, no landing place at the base and where the sea pounds against an impenetrable wall of rock. It is at the top of one of those that I am standing, as near the edge as I dare, fighting off the vertigo that threatens to overwhelm me. |
By Pantygynt
I. Sideways Glance
Why do folk say that crabs travel sideways? You don't have to look in the direction of your travel. There is always another way of looking at things.
It is said of crabs that when they scuttle
They shuffle sideways in a sidestep dance.
They don't.
They shuttle back and forth as every creature shuttles;
They do.
Don't look at me askance,
For when the shuffling crabs go scuttling
In cowardly retreat or bold advance,
They will, while in the scuffling act of scuttling,
Be giving you a searching, sideways glance.
II. Flatfish
These guys don't look where they're going either.
The flatfish lies on the flat sea bed
With both of his eyes same side of his head.
He can't roll over and go to sleep,
For sand in his eyes would make him weep
And if fishes wept we'd drown in their tears
As the sea rose up and covered our ears,
Our eyes, our noses, mouths as well
Before dragging us down where the flatfish dwell.
But the flatfish lies, not the least upset,
So he won't roll over -- and we won't get wet.
III. Lucky Herring
Most people know that a kipper is a smoked herring. Fewer perhaps realize that a bloater is a herring, cured in salt then lightly smoked, probably because they are seldom seen apart from in fishmongers around Yarmouth, on the Norfolk coast. The assorted delicacies listed in the penultimate line are all ways in which the herring, once plentiful, now an endangered species, can be prepared for the table. British and European fishermen are restricted as to the weight of herring they are permitted to catch. This is known as the quota and is supposed to preserve fish stocks, but since most of the fish that are thrown back are in fact already dead, it doesn't really work very well!
A herring once, when just a nipper
Had nightmares he would be a kipper.
An aunt was caught and yes, they smoked her,
But differently into a bloater.
Our hero though made his escape
But then got netted off North Cape.
Kipper? Rollmop? Roe or bloater?
"Nah, chuck it back, we're over quota!"
IV. Larry the Lobster
All sorts of things can end up in a lobster pot, including immature lobsters not large enough to be sold. The pot is like a big basket with a tapering tunnel for an entrance, baited with delicacies beloved by lobsters the crustaceans have no trouble getting in but seem to lack the intelligence to find a way out again.
Larry the lobster bewails his lot,
Caught again in a lobster pot.
He's been caught in a lobster pot before
But they chucked him back; he was immature.
This time though it's almost certain
Larry will face the final curtain
Unless, with one of his massive pincers,
He can lay bare one of the fisherman's fingers.
A jerked reaction might let him go
If Larry's nip makes the red blood flow.
Well, what do you think? How does it all end?
I'll leave you to decide on that, my friend...
Please read the author's notes if you wish to have a go at writing a more conclusive ending to Larry the Lobster.
| Author Notes |
I felt we needed something a bit lighter at this point after the harrowing episode hinting at suicide from the clifftop.
In the final poem of this suite children (of all ages) are invited to complete the poem. Should any of you reviewing this piece wish to add your bit here's how you do it. At the end of your review write two lines only that you think should replace the final two lines of "Larry the Lobster". Once the certificates have expired I will add a selection of those received to the post and repromote it. Your FS username will appear with your contribution. Just a bit of fun really. |
By Pantygynt
Please read the author's notes first.
WEAKER THAN WATER
"What's weaker than water?" When we in the mead hall
Heard our king's question quite quickly we thought.
Spoke up a stranger then, sat at the sideboards,
Not a near neighbour, nobody we knew,
"What's weaker than water? Well I will answer.
The tale is a traveller's tall tale I tell.
Water seems weaker than what you are drinking;
So seems the tide-stream when seen on the ebb;
Coastline consider, because the tide's flowing,
Till tide-turn tomorrow, strength takes to the flood;
Softly but steadily, slack water tightening,
Running up river in runnels by reeds.
"Swum in on spring tide, lands selkie by reed-bed,
Lost to the lapping waves, looking for love;
Sheds her soft selkie skin, man's desire seeking;
Dances till daybreak on dunes bonnie lass.
Girl o' the Gods, Aegir was her father,
Rarely restrained from a romp in the sea,
Lover though, searches the length o' the littoral,
Holding her hide hid, binds her to dry land.
"Living on lover's land, lovelorn for ocean's
Mysterious motion that makes the main rock,
Hears the wind hollering, howling in sympathy,
Begs her beloved to bring her hide back.
Loath to let love's light forever be lost because
She'd gang to sea awa' could she but swim,
Needs now her nearness to nurture their family,
Ranting, refused he her raw skin's return.
"Seeing her sad, their son seizes the selkie skin,
Folded by fireside he'd found in a nook;
Lately he'd looked on her lover admiring it;
Duty divides him now doubly distraught.
Filial faithfulness, first off, his duty there
Favours his father, he folds back the skin.
Mother's mad mis'ry might move his compassion,
Touched by tears, torn in two, takes her hide back.
Wrathful, hands wringing there, rages his father,
Losing the love of his life by distraint,
Gratitude graciously gifted by mother
Since in her selkieskin clad she can swim.
"Casting off clothing, unclad for her freedom,
She slips on her selkieskin: 'Swim, selkie, swim.'
Turning, wi' tide's ebb she takes off to liberty,
Summoned through surf by the sound o' the sea.
Leaving her lost love forlorn, on land keening,
Waves her farewell on wild water awa'.
You, king, are you yelping yet yesterday's question:
'What's weaker than water?' Muckle mair than you wit! "
| Author Notes |
The selkie myths (selkie being Scots dialect for seal), are well known in many North European folk cultures under various names. This makes the alliterative verse form of the Anglo Saxons (the oldest written poetic form in the English language) appropriate to their retelling here. The medieval device of linking verses with a single word, phrase or even syllable hook that similarly links final and opening lines, is also employed here to give circularity to the whole piece. The central feature of most of these myths is that, having taken human form, selkie cannot return to the sea until they have put their selkie skins back on.
Aegir is the Norse sea god and I use his name under poetic license here as there is no record that I can find of his fathering any selkie, but given the proclivities of these deities, I wouldn't place it beyond the bounds of possibility. The lover's need for the human selkie to nurture their family may smack of male chauvinism to the modern ear, but this is a tale of antiquity, where gender-orientated roles were more clearly defined than is the case today. Probably the saddest feature of this story is that, despite being held by the fisherman against her will the union with the selkie is actually a happy one; in one version she bears him seven sons! The final sentence of the poem is written in the full Scots dialect that I have used sparingly, in the interests of accessiblity - have you ever tried to read Robert Burns? But this is the punch line, so I felt it needed some authenticity. It translates as Much more than you know! A modern Scot would probably say ken rather than wit but then he doesn't have to alliterate! |
By Pantygynt
It was of no concern to me
When you sang your song out in the ocean;
I heard it not; I never even saw you blow;
Safe in my cottage, my cocoon,
It was of no concern to me.
It should have been of no concern to you
When, in the summertime, I trespassed on the brink
Of your world.
My paddling feet and splashing hands,
A few yards from the shore, were never any threat to you,
A creature of the ocean deep.
My summer swimming should have been
Of no concern to you.
But now, what is of some concern to me
Is, that you and your companions
Should throw yourselves away upon this beach.
This is no graveyard where, by tradition,
Whales would come to die.
For what purpose was this suicide?
What did it prove?
And why here should it ever be
Of any more concern to me?
Back then this was of much concern to most of us
And we tried hard to launch you back to sea
At high tide, to refloat you,
To save you from yourselves
But, in the main we failed,
For to the main you would not be returned
And so we had to watch you slowly die;
That was of increased concern to me
It is now of more concern to me
That you, intelligent sea mammals,
Should exchange the freedom of the ocean
For this straightjacket of a beach.
Has my world unawares created new conditions
In yours that you could no more tolerate
So, when our raucous noise was aired beneath the sea,
It drove you mad so that you sought the silence of the sands
Where, high and dry, the sound no longer blasted on your senses?
If so, that must have been of great concern to you.
I know now that I do not know the answer,
But I know that I cannot any longer say:
Of your song, no longer heard out in the ocean,
Of your blown spouting, that I shall never, ever see,
Of all those stranded whales, that are lying on our beaches;
That none of this is of concern to me.
| Author Notes |
The earliest poems in this collection involved only the sea and the land and the continual dispute between the two. Gradually, like God moving on the face of the waters, animal life appeared in the poems and eventually mankind became involved as well. Immediately the animals felt his incursion on the scene as recounted in the legend of the selkie. Here however, matters are getting serious. This is no longer the realm of myth and legend. This is the real and sometimes brutal truth.
It seems that stranded whales are becoming more commonplace on our beaches and no one seems to know the reason why. Not only is the occasional mammal found in this distressing condition, but whole pods appear to be committing mass suicide. One theory is that the whales' extremely sensitive 'hearing' is being overloaded with the sounds of humankind to the extent that the animals become totally confused and bewildered. The poem is in free verse; I couldn't have these remarkable creatures imprisoned in a form of poetry devised by mankind. The artwork is entitled "Whale Song" - appropriate I thought. |
By Pantygynt
When I awoke and heard the swishing surf at dawn
Around the rocks beyond Polhena Beach,
I wondered what had wakened me
Until that eerie and ear-splitting screech
Came, herald to the jungle-chorused early morn.
So, up and dressed to bathe, I wandered where the tide
Had through the night receded, leaving bare
Five hundred perches worth of sand,
Beyond the guest-houses and palm trees there,
Thrust outwards, forcing backwards all the ocean wide.
Now, wading out, waist deep, into a sea that looks
So calm here, shoreside of the ragged reef
That guards the stilts, where fishermen
Are wont to perch and cast lines in belief
A hefty catch awaits their outflung, baited hooks.
Then, letting limpid waters cover me with blue
Sea's iridescence in that early light,
My troubled cares float clear away,
Along with all the ghastly mares of night
And, swimming there, believe that wishes can come true.
| Author Notes |
The form of this poem I believe to be of my own devising. I call it a Symmetrina because it presents a symmetrical shape and rhyme scheme over each stanza: The rhyme scheme is abcba and the rhythm is iambic throughout; the first and fifth lines are Alexandrines (12 syllables), the second and fourth pentameters (10 syllables) and the third is a tetrameter (8 syllables). It is my hope that this rhythm will mimic the gentle rise and fall of the waves.
I am an early riser and greatly enjoyed my morning swims when I stayed for 10 days in this southern part of the island in 2009. A perch here is a measurement of area commonly used in Sri Lanka to measure plots of building land. The stilt fishermen are iconic of the island. These poles with small footrests are stuck into the sea bed all round the year but are only used by the fishermen in May when the monsoon keeps the boats in harbour. Since I was there in November and December, I was never able to witness this fishing method first hand. |
By Pantygynt
To better understand this poem please read the author's notes first.
She walks alone along the winter beach;
she's waited for that walk until half tide
to reap artistic harvest from the sea,
and she will find it on those stones; somewhere
along the high tide line that special something lies,
the texture, shape and colour that she seeks.
Her gaze sweeps over jetsam as she seeks.
She knows that what she needs, will on that beach
be recognized when seen, although it lies
amongst the drab detritus of high tide;
she knows the media for her craft are there somewhere,
washed up upon the shoreline from the sea.
Aground, inshore, forgotten by the sea,
the flotsam and the jetsam where she seeks
that rope, shell, glass or driftwood, hid somewhere.
She'll get her inspiration from that beach.
It's her eureka thing, abandoned by the tide,
inspired discovery waits where it lies.
She spots it. With the sense that never lies;
excitement surges through her like the sea
that washed this objet trouve on the tide;
not only will it do; it's what she seeks
that lies down there, beneath her feet, upon the beach.
Her craft will find for it a place somewhere.
Artistic truth looms in her mind somewhere.
These littered things, realities, are lies,
but, placed with other combings from the beach,
and in her hands, those gleanings from the sea
will form the objet d'art she knows her public seeks,
So it will find a market, Christmastide.
There is, in this affair of art, a tide
which, taken at the flood, leads on somewhere.
Since now discovered all the parts she seeks,
the whole, within her mind, before her lies;
skill-crafted art, from the conjunction land with sea,
engendered in the litter of the beach.
This sea-borne rubbish, washed up by the tide,
Far from that beach, she sorts on her work-bench somewhere,
Then, from those lies, she crafts the truth she seeks.
| Author Notes |
The sestina is probably the most difficult of the French forms. There are six stanzas of six-lines and a three-line envoi, literally 'send off'. The iambic pentameter is normally used in English, and I have used this throughout except for the fifth line in each stanza and the second line in the envoi where I have inserted the twelve line Alexandine to difference the rhythm slightly since there is nothing absolutely regular about driftwood.
In the third line of the fourth stanza the French word trouve should be pronounced 'trouvay' as it should have an acute accent over the 'e' but I cannot get this programme to let me do that. If anyone knows the HTML for 'e acute' please let me know and i will editi this accordingly. The last word in each of the lines in the first stanza doesn't rhyme with another as such, but is used in the other stanzas in a specified order. This order is normally abcdef faebdc cfdabe ecbfad deacfb bdfeca. The envoi then uses all six of these last words, three of them as line endings. My daughter, Anna, an ex teacher, now works as a driftwood sculptress, artist and jewellery maker and this sestina was originally written for her. |
By Pantygynt
Golden sands by human kind touched rainbow-flecked;
as blue-green sea foams white while grasping for the shore;
children squeal with joy at play, swim-wear bedecked
while Grandads, trousers rolled, in deck chairs quietly snore.
As blue-green sea foams white while grasping for the shore,
groups of teenagers compete at volleyball.
While grandads, trousers rolled, in deck chairs quietly snore,
gulls in search of food swoop down with strident call.
Groups of teenagers compete at volleyball,
and sandwiches unwrapped while drinks are shared around.
Gulls in search of food swoop down with strident call;
brass band plays on the promenade, a merry sound,
and sandwiches unwrapped while drinks are shared around.
Girls in damp bikinis struggle with their towels;
brass band plays on the promenade, a merry sound.
toddler, ice cream dropped, sounds off with mournful howls.
Girls in damp bikinis struggle with their towels;
flowing tide invests sand castle's battlement.
Toddler, ice cream dropped, sounds off with mournful howls;
young lovers arm in arm, intent on pleasure bent.
Flowing tide invests sand castle's battlement.
children squeal with joy at play swim-wear bedecked;
young lovers arm in arm, intent on pleasure bent;
golden sands by human kind touched rainbow-flecked;
| Author Notes |
The pantoum form originated in Malaya. In English writing the iambic pentameter is frequently used but no set rythm is laid down. Alternate rhyme is used throughout, but the second line of any verse becomes the first line of the next, while its rhyming line, the fourth, becomes the third next time. In each new verse, two new rhyming lines are introduced as the second and fourth lines, except for the last verse which harks back to the third line of the first verse for its second line and the first line of the whole poem is repeated as the last line, giving circularity to the whole thing. There is no set number of verses.
I first came across the form describing the bustle of a medieval village fair and thought then how appropriate the form was for describing crowd scenes as the eye, while scanning the scene keeps being drawn back to something interesting it has seen already. It appears that some people are confused by the term "Bank Holiday". This is the term, used throughout the UK, for what the rest of the world refers to as a "public holiday". |
By Pantygynt
1.
British Summer Time
inundates damp sand castles
empty donkeys wait
2.
rain from slate-grey skies
soaks stacked and soggy deck chairs
white horses at sea
3.
Punch and Judy man
performs within concealment
summer's drama beached
4.
beside the sea-side
Thomas the Tank Engine heads
an idle road train
| Author Notes |
"British Summer Time" or BST is when we British advance our timepieces by one hour. I believe that everyone else in the English speaking world refers to this practice as "Daylight Saving Time".
Of course, without the capital letters the expression refers to that cold, grey and often wet period between May and September. These little pieces look at the opposite side of the coin from that described in the previous chapter. When inclement weather keeps holidaymakers off the beaches and those who would make their money from tourism wait and wait for the sun to return. Which it frequently does in October when everyone has gone back to work. It is putting up with conditions like this that has made us the great nation that we are simply because, if we can survive the British summer we can survive any other disaster the world or its populace throws at us. One of the traditional children's entertainments on our beaches is donkey rides and another is the glove puppet show "Punch and Judy" |
By Pantygynt
There's a grey mist on the sea's face;
A grey autumn dawn is breaking;
There's a wild call out of Porthcawl
Sets flared white trousers shaking.
Pounding on Rest Bay and headland,
Rock and Rolling from every shop,
The beat, born deep south in Graceland,
Thunders on Tusker Rock.
Flung spray forget; blown spume ignore
When the look-alikes' cavorting
Drives gulls away and whales away,
Sets Tusker's surf to rocking;
All shook up, most over sixty,
Hi Tide, now or never; on stage
They'll make like their long gone rock star,
King of his long gone age.
Break, waves of Atlantic Ocean,
On bare Tusker Rock by Porthcawl;
Smother that Presley impression;
Shatter that Heartbreak Hotel,
For all I ask is a sweet dream
Wherever, forever I lie,
While the surf sings to the wind's tune,
Rocking and rolling by.
| Author Notes |
This is not a parody of Sea Fever by John Masefield but borrows freely from several of its motifs.
Every September the South Welsh resort of Porthcawl hosts an international Elvis Festival. This is patronized by Elvis fans from all round the world. The Title is an intentional double entendre. Sounding as it does like the title of a rock song, it is in fact a large, low rock, off the coast, by Porthcawl, submerged at high tide. Hi Tide (sic) is the name of one of the Porthcawl Public houses that hosts some of the concerts held over the festival weekend. |
By Pantygynt
The sky is grey, and dirty are the puddles 'neath my feet;
The pavement wet, and muddy is the gutter of the street;
The morning chill is dismal and the wind howls mournfully,
And out beyond the breakwater, the crashing of the sea.
The Ferris wheel stands idle, for the year has now outgrown
The fairground's lusty pleasure for a grey world all its own.
The seaside town lies sleeping in a restless, troubled sleep,
Clutching at its covers, as the skies above it weep.
The faces of the people they seem empty, lifeless, grey;
Bending to the weather, each makes his private way,
Twelve months aged in six months living; they spend half the year alone;
They must pass the winter waiting in a grey world all their own.
They are children in the summer, in the winter months, old age;
They must earn their yearly living with but a six months' wage.
The winter is the backstage in the theatre of their lives,
The pasteboard and the greasepaint, where the showman's spirit thrives.
As the bright lights of the foyer need the stage door's duller tone,
So behind each summer's glory lies a grey world all their own.
| Author Notes |
This is the oldest piece in this collection, having been written in 1967. It is also noteworthy as being the first lyric that I ever wrote for which I also composed the tune. After airings in several folk clubs, it was recorded on my CD "Tomorrow Never Comes" in 2005.
I have often thought of seaside resorts on a wet winter's day as being about as sad as it gets and the first two verses of the song reflect this mood. Optimism breaks through in the final verse with a sense of preparation for the summer that is just around the corner. Check this out on Chirbit |
By Pantygynt
On board those fishing boats inside the basin
The fishermen await the rising tide,
With all secured by skipper, crew and boatswain;
So bright their brass you could well see your face in,
For in his work each boatswain takes great pride,
On board those fishing boats inside the basin.
Gale warnings! Tuned in to the weather station,
They check to see their moorings safely tied.
With all secured by skipper, crew and boatswain
It's high time that they should securely fasten
And batten any hatch still open wide,
On board those fishing boats inside the basin.
All those still out at sea should surely hasten
To set their course for harbour, their rough ride,
With all secured by skipper, crew and boatswain;
When winds blow hard and risen to storm force ten,
High tide's the time to be tied safe inside,
On board those fishing boats inside the basin,
With all secured by skipper, crew and boatswain;
| Author Notes |
The villanelle is French form dating from the 15th or 16th centuries. The form�¢??s pattern is: five three-line (tercet) stanzas rhyming A1-b-A2, a-b-A1, a-b-A2, a-b-A1, a-b-A2, and a final quatrain rhyming a-b-A1-A2. The first and third lines in the first stanza (shown as A1 & A2 respectively) alternately form the final line of stanzas two to five and reappear as a couplet in the last'. No set length of line is given though 7 to 11 syllables were common in the original French. Iambic pentameters are often used in English versions as here, although I have stretched the point in the A and a lines with feminine rhyme over eleven syllables, while retaining the strong beat on the tenth syllable. Purists might wish for full rhyme and masculine endings I believe that the air of urgent confusion obtained by the approximate feminine endings is appropriate to the urgent work necessitated by the approaching storm. Anyway a French form of 7 or 11 syllables, adapted to an English form of ten could surely use a little �¢??Franglais�¢?? to marry the two up!
For those unversed in nautical matters, the title 'boatswain' is pronounced 'bosun'. This officer is responsible for the general maintainance of the vessel apart from the engines and electronic gear. Probable the most famous villanelle in 20th century English poetry is Dylan Thomas's "Do not go easy into that good night" |
By Pantygynt
Quake under ocean
Tsunami
Tears for love now lost.
Knew I you, girl,
Japanese girl,
By great distance though divided
Could have loved, cannot requite it,
So my heart grieves
Like your land grieves
For your loss, love's beauty vanished;
Love unstarted, love unfinished.
What could have been
Cannot have been;
You died, drowned upon your shore-side
While I live on your world's far side.
Blossoms bloom now,
Yours and mine now;
Petals' life abbreviated,
Never to be consummated.
Once they could have,
Now cannot have.
Love's potential, Reaper-stifled;
Future, like love's larder, rifled.
Tears for future lost
Tsunami
Quake under ocean.
| Author Notes |
This was inspired by a news picture of a bedraggled, injured but really rather beautiful Japanese girl stood amidst the wreckage of her Fukushima home in the immediate aftermath of the tsunami of 11th March 2011. In fact I believe she survived I hope she did. There were many like her however that did not. Any death of a young person must by definition have an impact on the futures of all those who might have come into contact with them had they not died. In the case of a disaster like that in Fukushima that impact is increased on a massive scale. The poem looks at what was possible even though it was improbable prior to the disaster and what is completely impossible now.
The form of the poem is an original design involving the amalgamation of Japanese and English Language styles that reflect its content. The first and last verses are like an inverted Haiku, not 3-5-3 but 5-3-5 reflecting the chaos. I hope its multi-national feel is apparent to the reader. |
By Pantygynt
Born, Omaha, June six, nineteen twenty-five, to parents of German origin,
immigrants in nineteen twenty-one, from Essen in the valley of the Ruhr.
On arrival passed the Ellis Island inquisition and forged a new identity in Omaha.
Drafted to the infantry in nineteen forty-three, just eighteen years of age,
their son retraced his parents' footsteps, most of them at least --
all of those across America -- by Greyhound bus and train then army truck,
back to New York; marched aboard a troopship; joined a convoy there.
Survived the U-boats and Atlantic gales; shuttled all round Britain for a twelvemonth by army truck and train to train upon the beaches, in the woodlands and the open fields until, someplace off the south coast, near the Isle of Wight, in landing craft,
sailed round and round for too long, two long, stormy days, sick as a dog.
Cold, and wet, bored stiff and bewildered, uncertain even where he was until
dawn broke on June six when, above the thunder of artillery,
"Stand by to beach," their helmsman clearly called.
Crowded under cover of the pitching ramp, soaked by spray and crammed all in together,
his buddy's pack, reeking of vomit, pressed close against his face,
bile rising in his throat, he heard the rasping rattle of the Spandau.
Then came the graunch of grounding hull on gravel and the helmsman's urgent cry:
"Down ramps! Out troops!" So, opened up to let them out, it let the spiteful Spandau in.
Jumped clear, he glimpsed the French beach through the battle smoke at last,
for all of ten short seconds, stumbling through surf, his unfired rifle held firm in both hands
Until, a yard short of the water's edge, where the spittle of the Spandau sought him out.
Killed in action, Omaha Beach, nineteen forty-four, by bullets of German origin,
Manufactured, nineteen forty-two by Krupps of Essen in the valley of the Ruhr.
June six, his birthday for Chrissake! Thanks, Omaha, thanks a lot!
| Author Notes |
No collection of writing on the subject of beaches would be complete without at least a passing mention of the part they have played in time of war. Conquering commanders have often had a few well chosen words to say as they step proudly ashore, usually sometime after the beachhead has been secured by the mass of ordinary soldiers who have borne the brunt of the fighting. The largest seaborne invasion in history took place on the Normandy beaches on 6th June 1944 and the bloodiest and most closely fought battle on that day was fought on the beach codenamed Omaha. This is a fictional, poetic snapshot of the events that led up to the last minutes of a US infantryman's brief life on that beach.
Ellis Island: Prospective immigrants to the USA had to pass through a filter here where their suitability as future US citizens was assessed. Those who failed to make the grade were deported without further ado. Helmsman: skipper of a small landing craft usually holding the non-commissioned rank of corporal or sergeant. Spandau: German light machine gun. The final line of the work is part of a line adapted from the Roger Miller song King of Kansas City, the original reads ...no thanks, Omaha, thanks a lot. Despite being completely out of context, the fragment quoted here would not let go of my brain and I determined to use its sarcastic bitterness in conclusion. |
By Pantygynt
Henry Blogg of Cromer - a Crown of Heroic Sonnets. Technical terms are explained in the Author's Notes as well as some notes on this form of poetry. You may find it it helpful to read these first.
I. The Man
"The bravest man that ever put to sea."
And set against his name, all these awards:
George Cross, the B.E.M., gold medals three,
As well as silver medals, four assured.
Young Henry Blogg, at eighteen years of age,
A lifeboat man became. First fifteen years
With fifteen others rowed, not for a wage
For lifeboat crews were all then volunteers.
Whenever sounds the crack of the maroon,
The men all dash away to man their boat
Along the Cromer streets, come night or noon,
To launch for service down the Devil's Throat -
That stretch of water flowing twixt the shore
And shoaling shallows of dread Haisbro Sand -
Young Blogg so well his calling learnt, therefore
Elected coxswain, leader of the band.
His rescues, many more than just these few,
The thirty-eight long years he led this crew.
II. Historical Setting
The thirty-eight long years he led this crew;
Saw many changes on the lifeboat scene;
The rowed boats, after nineteen twenty-two,
Replaced by powered Watson class had been,
And Blogg, superlative at sea in both,
Gave service through two long world wars to those
In peril on the sea, forever loath
To cry: "Enough, too rough, too much to lose."
Throughout those wars his crews were older men;
The younger ones all gone away to fight;
Aged fifty plus on av'rage way back then,
Although aged so, prepared to row all night
To save the lives of sailors hard to reach
From the Farebo, victim of a mine;
She broke in two not so far from the beach,
But past the surf and range of rocket line.
Back then, transfer from launching cart to wave,
Was fraught with danger for those men so brave.
III. The Alf
Was fraught with danger for those men so brave
Most every service that they undertook.
The Alf abandoned, two men left to save,
Required ev'ry trick writ in the book.
Though hooked by grapnel to the grounded wreck,
Lifeboat Louisa Heartwell swung away
Two men, the shrouds let go to cross the deck,
Were dragged aboard the lifeboat, saved that day.
Six oars were smashed; they vigorously bailed;
No hope of reaching Cromer 'gainst the wind;
Their lugsail hoisted, into Yarmouth sailed
And left the dying Alf broke up behind.
Full fifteen hours they'd been at sea in all,
Had strained at oars and sheets, were all but done.
For Henry Blogg as coxswain, his first call,
First rescue over and first battle won.
Their praise was loudly sung to great acclaim
Though Blogg sought neither glory there nor fame.
IV. The Sepoy
Though Blogg sought neither glory there nor fame,
When it sought him, repudiated praise,
Met triumph and disaster just the same,
But passed on to his crew the accolades.
His seamanship was what made him stand out
Above the level found amongst his peers,
As service to the Sepoy left no doubt.
When crowds, who watched from cliff tops, raised loud cheers.
This barge had anchored to ride out the blast,
But dragged her anchors on to that lee shore,
Then after many baulked attempts, at last,
On high wave's crest Blogg's H. F. Bailey bore
Them down across the Sepoy's listing hull;
Hooked on to main mast rigging, they'd a chance,
Exhausted sailors from her shrouds to pull.
Once washed away, they twice performed that dance.
Here, one more rescue made, one more success,
Great seamanship without foolhardiness.
V. The Mount Ida
Great seamanship without foolhardiness
Was Blogg's unspoken motto all his days;
Admiring it in others, you can guess
His practice of it always would amaze.
Six years gone by, and war declared again;
With aircraft brought down in the sea this time;
Man's inhumanity to man insane;
He must have thought another war a crime.
A man, who sailed through cold October's mist,
To rescue Ida's crew from Ower Bank,
Would wish that men from warfare might desist,
On homicide would hold opinions frank.
Mount Ida was no casualty of war;
She was another victim of the shoals;
They struggled there for many hours before
He brought to shore her twenty-nine saved souls.
All this occurred as World War Two began,
A long six years before again bells rang.
VI. WWII
A long six years before again bells rang,
All tolled when men from battle had retired;
They brought the streets alive with joy and sang,
And banned maroons could once again be fired.
The biggest task that Cromer ever faced
Was Convoy Five-Five-Nine; six ships aground
On Haisb'ro Sand, stuck fast, by tide outpaced;
The lifeboat's crew prepared without a sound.
Though many lives were lost; far more were saved
By Blogg's consummate seamanship that trip.
He sailed out over broken hulls, and braved
Fair chance of damage from a shattered ship;
He wedged his bow in where a hull was cracked
And bade some half-drowned sailors hop aboard.
He did this many times before he backed
Away, while those he'd saved praised loud the Lord.
Kind providence that day was on their side,
Though Blogg could feel the turning of his tide
VII. Valedictory
Though Blogg could feel the turning of his tide.
Encouraged well beyond retirement date,
To hang on through the war, enjoyed the ride
Till, sev'nty-one in nineteen forty-eight,
For one last launch he donned his old Mae West;
His life his work, his work the life he'd led;
He would, with six more years of life, be blessed,
Till forced, by shingles and his heart, to bed.
Now, with that life's long voyage near complete,
Night watches dark, through foulest storms, all stood,
With great respect folk did this sailor treat,
This coxswain fine, a great man and a good.
In nineteen fifty-four, sixteenth of June
He was borne up by those he'd borne for years,
Saluted by reports from of six maroons,
Was laid to rest while Cromer shed its tears.
He was the bravest lifeboat man; for me,
The bravest man that ever put to sea.
| Author Notes |
Notes on Content
I. Gold, silver and bronze medals are bravery medals, awarded to lifeboat men by the R.N.L.I.. The George Cross is the supreme national award for bravery outside a war zone or by any civilian and the B.E.M., British Empire Medal is a national award for meritorious service, not necessarily connected with bravery. Blogg remains the most decorated lifeboat man to this day. The rowing/sailing lifeboats were crewed by 17 men, a coxswain, and 16 oarsmen, 2 men each on eight oars. One of the oarsmen would act as bowman when that duty was required. A rocket or maroon is fired to summon the crew of a lifeboat to duty. The order to do so is given by the Hon. Sec. Of the station after consultation with the coxswain. These days electronic pagers are used but he maroon is still fired. The practice was discontinued during WWII. The coxswain, pronounced cox'n, is the skipper of the lifeboat and along with the mechanic cum radio operator is the only full time member of the crew. II. In the early days the Cromer lifeboat was launched from a cart manhandled across the beach into the surf by a team of launchers. III. The shrouds are that part of the standing rigging of a sailing ship that support the masts against lateral pressure. Easily recognisable by their linking horizontal ratlines used like a ladder by sailors ascending. Wrecked crewmen would tie themselves to this rigging to avoid being washed away. IV. This practice of driving the lifeboat actually onto the swamped deck of the stricken craft was one of Blogg's trademarks. It was something never done until the arrival of powered lifeboats. The artwork at the top of this page from Google Images shows this in incident taking place. Cromer's church tower is visible in the background VI Church bellringing was banned during WWII except in the event of an invasion. VII. 60 was the normal retiring age. Mae West was the nickname given to the inflatable lifejackets that replace the old cork ones. Named after the busty film star. Notes on Form The form used here is known as a Crown of Heroic Sonnets. A Crown consists of 7 pieces and a Heroic Sonnet is made up of 18 rather than 14 lines. The whole piece is delivered in iambic pentameter. The last line of any sonnet in th Crown is repeated as the first line of the subsequent sonnet. Apart from these repeated lines no rhyme may be used more than once throughout the entire Crown. I had not long been a member of FanStory when I came up against this form for the first time, written by Treischel to whom I am most grateful for advice on the rules of this form. |
By Pantygynt
I saw you as a lighthouse to my life
when first, from far away, I watched your loom
sweep all the sky clear, free from darkling strife
and promise brighter future coming soon.
So, sailing on till there leapt from the wave,
above the dark horizon into sky,
Your light's bright filament, it made me brave
again, your flashing welcome so close by.
But warning also of the shoaling parts
that reach out and would have me hard aground,
were you not marked so clearly on my charts,
had you not led me safely up your sound.
My voyage done, you bring me to my berth
Embrace my mooring, lay me by your hearth.
| Author Notes |
I wanted to include a lighthouse poem in the collection. I had two such poems available, one was a very factual description of the Dondra Light in Sri Lanka and this that was originally written as a romantic sonnet. In the end I chose this; romance has been largely missing from the collection, with the exception of the selkie legend Weaker than Water, and since I opened with a sonnet that was all sea and no sailor I thought to restore the balance with one that was all sailor and no sea, or very little sea.
The lighthouse here is a metaphor for the love of the returning sailor's life. The nautical and romantic imagery becomes quite confused by the time we reach the closing couplet. The title is taken from this epitaph that Robert Louis Stevenson (1850-1894) wrote for himself. It is carved on his gravestone at Vailima in Samoa. Under the wide and starry sky Dig the grave and let me lie. Glad did I live and gladly die, And I laid me down with a will. This be the verse you grave for me; "Here he lies where he longed to be, Home is the sailor, home from sea, And the hunter home from the hill." To those of you on FanStory who have followed the postings in this collection and helped with great reviews and advice I would like to extend my heartfelt thanks. |
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