Poems about the sea

[Heather]

There doesn't seem to be many poems about the beach or sea by bush poets. Can anyone think of any?

Heather

[Stephen Whiteside]

Check out E. J. Brady, Heather.

There is an E. J. Brady short story competition held in Mallacoota.

Brady took Henry Lawson to Mallacoota to dry out for a while around 1910. Lawson had a romance there for a while with the daughter of the Green Cape lighthouse keeper (or something like that).

You can find Lawson's "The Mallacoota Bar" here:
http://www.ironbarkresources.com/henryl ... taBar.html

[Stephen Whiteside]

I'll throw in my own two bobs' worth here, too.


Clancy Of The Undertow
(with apologies to A. B. Paterson)

I had given him a tingle and, still thinking he was single,
I had rung him where I’d known him, at the Surf Life Saving Club.
I had not seen him for ages, not since all the sporting pages
Had hailed him as the “Iron Man”, as “Clanc - The Human Sub”.

And an answer faintly crackled as the public phone I tackled
(And I cursed the local vandals for the static and the fizz).
‘Twas his surfing mate who took it (though I may have quite mistook it)
He said, “Clancy’s met this sheila, and we don’t know where he is.”

In my wild aquatic fancy, visions come to me of Clancy
In the sunshine with his sheila as they stretch out on the beach,
And they view each foaming roller sipping rum and Coca Cola,
With coconuts and pineapples and grapes within their reach.

And their coastal friends all meet them, and daily they all greet them,
And they pour each other cocktails and they oil each other’s thighs,
And at night, for something new, they hold a beach-front barbecue,
And they dance around stark naked ‘neath the starry summer skies.

I am sitting in my boiling little office, slowly toiling
Through the “In” tray’s pile of paperwork, that now stands two feet tall,
While engine fumes infernal from combustion that’s internal
Come careering from exhaust pipes, spreading foulness over all.

And in place of roaring ocean, I can hear the damned commotion
Of the cars and trams and buses as they hurry down the street,
And the language uninviting of the angry drivers fighting
Comes wafting through my window, and I curse the city heat.

And the office people daunt me, and their dull expressions haunt me,
For their movements seem so futile, and their lives seem such a waste.
For they all seem so pathetic, so depressed and apathetic,
And their faces seem immobile, just as if in clay encased.

And I somehow rather fancy that I’d like to change with Clancy,
Like to take a turn at surfing, while he played the city fool,
And I’d drink and dance and sing, but I tell you, here’s the sting.
He’s moving up to town to find the kids a decent school!

© Stephen Whiteside April 1986


Second Prize, Poets by the Sea - Harrington, NSW, Written Poetry Competition (Section 1 - Humourous) 2010

Highly Commended in “Bronze Swagman” Bush Verse Competition, 1986; published in “Bronze Swagman” anthology in same year.

Also on audio-cassette “Rocky Marshall presents STORIES OF AUSTRALIA”, recorded at ABC Studios Adelaide by David Mulhallen.

Also on LP album ‘”Jim Smith - YOU DON’T SAY!”, published by Sidetrack, 1987.

Also in “The Paterson Parodies”, published by Stephen Whiteside, 2009.

[Heather]

Thanks Stephen, will do.

[Stephen Whiteside]

As a general rule, Australian poets have turned their back on the coast and looked inland. The Canadians do a much better job.

Take this poem by Robert Service:
http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/174348

In more recent times, the songwriter Stan Rogers has picked up the mantle. His lyrics read like bush poetry. I don't think you will ever find a better poem about the sea than the lyrics of "The Mary Ellen Carter".

You can find them here:
http://www.lyricsmania.com/the_mary_ell ... eeger.html

"Barrett's Privateers" is almost as good:
http://artists.letssingit.com/stan-roge ... rs-rx8tzpw

Sadly, Stan Rogers died in a plane fire in 1983. He was a good friend of Eric Bogle. His brother, Garnet, still sings some of his stuff. Last year my son, Thomas, met Stan's son at the National Folk Festival. He was playing in a band, and was pretty low key about his old man.

I wrote a poem about Stan Rogers once. At the time, I had the idea of inventing a new genre: "Australian maritime poetry". It didn't happen. I still have the poem, though. Here it is.


I Wish I Could Write Like Stan Rogers

© Stephen Whiteside 12.10.90

I wish I could write like Stan Rogers,
Making the past come alive;
On sea and on land,
A vision so grand.
I wish I could write like Stan Rogers.

I’d write of the Port Fairy whalers,
Those wild-eyed and desperate men,
Skilled as both killers and sailors,
Cheating death, every morning, again.

But the city’s my life,
And I don’t wear a knife…
I wish I could write like Stan Rogers.

And I’d write of the old Glen Wills mining;
Shafts that sunk deep underground.
Down where the sun wasn’t shining,
Men hoping gold would be found.

But I’m fortnightly paid
And I don’t need a spade.
The city’s my life,
And I don’t wear a knife…
I wish I could write like Stan Rogers.

And I’d write of Port Albert’s proud history;
Victoria’s gate from the sea.
Though, in truth, it is all still a mystery.
So little is known yet to me.

For I drive a car,
And I don’t sail by star.
I’m fortnightly paid,
And I don’t need a spade.
The city’s my life,
And I don’t wear a knife…
I wish I could write like Stan Rogers.

But still, I am young, and I’m keen.
I can travel, ask questions, read books.
Info I’m sure I can glean
If I search enough crannies and nooks.

Though I drive in a car,
And I don’t sail by star;
Though I’m fortnightly paid,
And I don’t need a spade;
Though the city’s my life,
And I don’t wear a knife,
Maybe I’ll write like Stan Rogers.

Yes, I’m sure I can write like Stan Rogers,
Making the past come alive;
On sea and on land,
A vision so grand,
I just KNOW I can write like Stan Rogers!

[Heather]

It does seem that there is very little written about the beach the coast and the sea considering how much of a part the coast plays in the Australian lifestyle. I'll bet there aren't too many people who haven't had a holiday by the sea at some point in their lives.

Heather

[Neville Briggs]

Excellent point Heather.
Most of the Australian population lives near the sea and Australia's national song talks about being "girt by sea " as the characteristic of our landmass, yet poetry about the sea is so scant. It seems that even though Australia was founded by sailors and we build houses by the sea, go on holidays to the seaside, advertise Australia as a tourist destination for beaches and surf, yet we look to the " bush " for our national character. very strange. very strange indeed.

Are we trying to convince ourselves that we are rugged hard working pioneers, ready to challenge the vast harshness of the hard land, trying not to notice that we are in fact hedonistic ocean resort devotees ?

[David Campbell]

Yep, we do tend to look inland. Maybe it would help if we changed our name to the Australian Bush and Coastal Poets Association?

David

[Stephen Whiteside]

Good idea, David, but I'd suggest it be expanded to be "Australian Bush, Coast, Town, Regional Centre and City Association".

Here is a poem I wrote a long time ago - early 70s, perhaps. It has never been published before, and that is probably no bad thing. It's sort of TMFSR meets the world of centre-board dinghy sailing...


The “Fur and Feather Sailing Club”

© Stephen Whiteside

A splendid sight the club-house was, adorned with flapping flags,
Along the beach, the band in tartan trews;
The car park overflowing with Mercedes Benz and Jags.
Inside the briefing room, the anxious crews.

The myriad spectators sniffed the breeze and sipped champagne,
While their darling little children swallowed Coke,
And no-one seemed to notice, down a long-forgotten lane,
A dusty, dirty, battered Mini-Moke.

For the “Fur and Feather Sailing Club” could boast the boldest members,
Who strode as if “The One Above” had blessed ‘em;
Who bore the club’s tradition in the fiercely glowing embers
Of their hearts. Today was just the day to test ‘em.

The Commodore, in blazer bold, briefed each and every sailor;
His burnished pocket bore a famous label,
For ev’ry crew was sponsored by a well respected tailor,
And the Commodore had lined his vest with sable.

(And his boat, just by the by, possessed a lovely stream-lined keel,
And he must have valued comfort on the tiller,
For the former had been lined from fore to aft in Arctic seal,
And the latter had been covered with chinchilla.)

And a glance around the room revealed a cap and pair of socks
Made of lapin, sewn with sturdy seamen’s yarn,
And a dashing musket jacket, and a pretty stole of fox,
And a weathered, salty wrap of astrakhan.

And over by the window stood the Jacksons, most intrepid.
As champions for years they had been crowned.
Both looked quite imposing in their body suits of leopard,
And their kamikazi style was world renowned.

But over in the corner stood a dark and swarthy fellow,
With bristly chin, and facial features keen,
And there stood no fancy label on the wrinkled sleeve so yellow
Of his slicker, made of sheets of Terylene.

For he’d learnt the art of sailing on Tasmania’s western coast,
Exacting teachers, surf and jagged rocks;
No languid, rolling motion, sipping marmalade on toast,
But violent surges, dives, and jarring shocks.

No distant destination on a glist’ning, flat expanse
To steer for in one’s suit of shocking pink;
The Tassie boats must battle in a drunk, erratic dance,
And the winner is the vessel last to sink.

And his dinghy was a sturdy craft. No flimsy frame of ply,
No sea-swept gaudy bath-tub made of plastic,
But a sturdy timber clinker that would keep its skipper dry,
Whom seldom needed turn to skills gymnastic.

And fancy gadgets held no place within his cockpit plain;
In ratchets, cleats and vangs, he held no worth.
Besides, sophistication ran against his very grain,
For a simple man was he, and down to earth.

Yes, a rough and ready fellow was our visitor from Tassie.
He smiled inside to see the vicious gale,
For he planned a demonstration to those folk so slick and jazzy
Of how all honest mariners should sail.

And in the crowded briefing room stood many frightened members,
As louder shook each window in its frame;
And the club’s tradition faltered in the slowly dying embers
Of their hearts, and petered out without a flame,

Till the Commodore with trembling hand, and body wracked with fear,
His steady voice and smile a thin disguise,
Announced the precious sentence that each sailor longed to hear.
“I think a race postponement would be wise.”

But from a distant corner came a low and nasty snigger,
And ev’ry member turned a trifle paler.
“From where I hail, the waves are twice as high as this. I figger
That the man who quits today is not a sailor.”

The race commenced at two o’clock, with custom’ry commotion,
As gunwhales crashed, and skippers swore and cursed.
The crossed the starting-line like corks upon the seething ocean,
With twenty yards ’tween second-last and first,

But the sailor from Tasmania hung a further fifty back
And let them sail their awkward starboard beat.
He quickly went about and settled on the other tack,
For he had no wish to mix it with the fleet.

He sailed with such authority, so faithful to his creed,
And pointed high with main and jib half-furled.
He made up in stability for what he lacked in speed,
And thus he could have sailed around the world.

But after half an hour or so, the windward leg completed,
He gazed around, the field to reassess,
And saw that one had bottled (for he’d left the mainsail cleated)
And likewise sev’ral more were in a mess.

One had been dismasted and another quite misguided
(For he’d hugged the coast and promptly run aground).
Another’d split his rudder case, a further two’d collided,
And one poor chap had fallen in and drowned.

But the Jacksons (now, he saw, his only rivals) raced at speed,
For ev’ry foaming roller they were ridin’.
His spirits sank. He saw they held a devastating lead,
And as he watched, the distance seemed to widen.

But he pulled himself together and unerringly proceeded,
His fortitude and spirits scarce diminished,
And although it seemed for him to win a miracle was needed,
He told himself the race was far from finished.

And thus the dinghies hurtled while the gale fairly blew,
Both within a whisker of disaster.
Alone amidst a world of spray the dinghies fairly flew.
But of the two, the Jacksons travelled faster.

The Jacksons reached the leeward mark, and now it seemed all hinged
On whether they could gybe their bucking kite.
The move commenced. The dinghy tipped to port. The Jacksons cringed.
What followed then was not a pretty sight.

For behind the tiny boat a monst’rous ocean wall had loomed,
Which then came crashing through the starboard quarter.
In vain they tried to save it, but they knew the boat was doomed.
They bottled, and the kite ballooned with water.

The sailor from Tasmania (far behind now) saw them skittled.
He sighed, relieved, resumed a safer pace.
He passed them by, ignored their glare (they’d never been belittled),
And leisurely pressed on and won the race.

So to the chore of “packing up” alone he then attended,
For some had gone on rescue operations,
And of the men who’d stayed on shore were none that he’d befriended,
And none who wished to send congratulations.

Resentment face him ev’rywhere, the lone Tasmanian sailor.
He packed away his gear while no-one spoke.
Surrounded by a hostile sullen few he hitched the trailer,
Then drove off in his dusty Mini-Moke.

And now when gales blow the members gather, snug and warm,
Within four walls, to foster their pretensions,
And the sailor from Tasmania, and the day he faced the storm
Is a topic none forget, but no-one mentions.

[Maureen K Clifford]

I've done a few about whales and dolphins this is one that did quite well but it doesn't rhyme

SEA SONG


Its sound reverberates through the waters – moody blues. Could it be mermaids singing
or is it the songs of the humpbacks cruising off the coast on their yearly migration north?
It spans a moment in time, where all past injustices fade away
transcended by the beauty of fourteen minutes of natures harmonies.

Beds of Sea Grass sway to and fro as if dancing in a syncopated rhythm
to the songs of the deep. What wind sends their tresses swirling?
Here in the deep blue depths of the ocean there is only the current,
that false wind, and the autumn leaves are only coral and shells.

One could wish to catch a falling star, a love child from a union now ended,
something to hold, something to treasure, something tangible;
but you have been offered the gift so precious that few every encounter it
and it will stay in your heart and soul forever – and you will be deeply moved.

Could it be mermaids singing or is it the song of the humpbacks?

Maureen Clifford © 05/11