“There is nothing like lying flat on your back on the deck, alone except for the helmsman aft at the wheel, silence except for the lapping of the sea against the side of the ship. At that time you can be equal to Ulysses and brother to him.”
— Errol Flynn
Looking for a song to help you lose sight of the shore? This month’s playlist features the latest from Florence + the Machine, Leon Bridges, and Chris Janson. It includes a few throwback classics from Styx and Lyle Lovett, plus dozens of other songs from many genres. If you can’t cast off in a boat at the moment, we’re here to help you feel the sea breeze in your hair wherever you are. Just click ‘play.’
In the well-known poem Sea Fever, John Masefield writes of his longing and wanderlust to return to life at sea. His use of assonance and alliteration creates echo and repetition, all of which begs to be memorized and recited aloud. If you also happen to be standing at the helm of a sailboat while reading it, even better.
Sea Fever
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 gray mist on the sea’s face, and a gray dawn breaking.
I must down go 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.
Try it
Think about a time when you were on a ship, sailboat, or boat. Write a poem about the experience. What souvenirs did your senses collect and place in memory? Was it warm or cold? Were the winds strong or fair? Think of all you saw and heard; what you smelled, tasted, and felt. Consider using assonance and alliteration to create rhythm and help guide your reader’s attention. If you’ve never been on the water, borrow a scene from a poem, book, or movie. You can live the life of a sailor vicariously!
Featured Poem
Thanks to all who participated in last week’s poetry prompt. Here’s a poem from Rick we enjoyed:
Poor Atlas
The world is slipping on his sweaty back,
so much dust all these years, and meteors,
the vibration from the cities and scores
of rockets blasting off. Of course, the lack
those objectivists have for help, who frack
away for every drop of oil, what’s more,
the continents keep shifting and the core
lets plates collide and makes the mountains quake.
There was a time he held up all the spheres,
the whole of heaven held without a strain,
when people walked, except for charioteers,
the tap of feet and horses caused no pain.
The most of what we do is wipe his tears
and take some weight off when we take a plane.
Photo by Sharada Prasad CS, Creative Commons, via Flickr.
Browse more Sea Poems
Browse more writing prompts
Browse poetry teaching resources
- Poetry Prompt: Misunderstood Lion - March 19, 2018
- Animate: Lions & Lambs Poetry Prompt - March 12, 2018
- Poetry Prompt: Behind the Velvet Rope - February 26, 2018
L. L. Barkat says
I want to lay in that blue boat,
on the blue water that laps
at the feet of the blue, blue
mountain.
(really. I would love to be inside that picture! 🙂 )
Heather Eure says
Gorgeous imagery accompanies a gorgeous image.
I’d like to be adventuring in that picture, too!
L. L. Barkat says
Well, now, then. Let’s have The Boat Song of Heather 🙂
Rick Maxson says
The sky is a sponge
and the mountains
both cistern and wellspring—
on the lake, the blues
are only colors.
Heather Eure says
Oh, lovely. It makes me think of the sponges I use with watercolors. Soaked and stained with the sky.
Such a serene poem. *sigh* 🙂
Rick Maxson says
Thanks for posting my poem, Poor Atlas. Gorgeous photo to start off the month’s theme.
Robbie Pruitt says
Current
The current carries the little kayak
Through rifts of mountain stream,
Through drifts and daydreams,
While birds sing from the shoreline.
Gentle waves lapping along the flow,
Whispering all there is to know,
Through time, a settled pace,
As miles drift in river’s race.
This current is a sacred place.
© July 7, 2015, Robbie Pruitt
Heather Eure says
Drift is a good description. The poem takes a relaxing journey. Thanks, Robbie.
I need a kayak. 🙂
Rick Maxson says
“sacred place” indeed! I enjoyed reading this, Robbie.
Robbie Pruitt says
Thank you Rick! I always enjoy your poetic sophistication.
Robbie Pruitt says
Nestled Mountain Lake
Cradled in the puddle of lake
The canoe rises, falls and drifts
As the wind cascades down
The circle of mountains.
© July 7, 2015, Robbie Pruitt
Heather Eure says
From the mountains perspective, the lake is a tiny, unassuming puddle. And there we are in it– even tinier and unassuming-ier.
I like that, Robbie!
Robbie Pruitt says
Thank you for seeing all of that and for reading, Heather! We are all “small”, indeed…
Rick Maxson says
It is good to feel our smallness, to merely be a part of greatness,
Sumyanna says
Nice imagery!
Robbie Pruitt says
Thank you!
Rick Maxson says
Impromptu
All around the lake, bound
with a sheer cliff,
the water licks the cliff stone
and lifts into the air,
a sound of lips kissing.
The walls ascend, like a barge bow
in the breathing of a deep sea,
or a rough cup steeping morning tea.
There is here a shifting
of the mind’s tide,
from the push and tow
that forms the chiseled world,
to the waves of light in the rounded sky.
The day floats like a seed blown in the wind.
The sun choreographs its lambent dancers,
to the sound of seeking tree to tree.
I am like a leaf fallen from aspen,
held in the arms of this palpable day.
You may not notice me out on the water,
vanishing into my own perceptions,
you on the edge, feet dangling into space,
the light between us busy forming Summer.
Heather Eure says
Rick, this is great. The rhythm of sounds and words carries me along with well-timed mental images. If I had to pick a favorite part it would be: “you on the edge, feet dangling into space./the light between us busy forming Summer.”
Ahhhh, captivating. (if that’s not too overused. ha!)
Sandra Heska King says
Gone Fishing
My dad’s telling the story for the gazillionth time.
How I went out too early and too young
because I heard him say he’d like
fried fish and potatoes for breakfast.
How I snuck out with and pushed out
into the gray water of Horseshoe Lake
and clambered into the wooden rowboat
before my toes could sink in muck.
How I fished a wiggly worm out of
black dirt in a tin can, threaded it on a hook,
dropped the line, and hugged the handle between my heels
while I rowed around the lake, oars creaking and creating little eddies.
How I descaled and gutted the bass
on the kitchen table, peeled and sliced potatoes
and fried away while he and mom slept on.
And I toasted an entire loaf of bread.
He claims I was only five, but surely I was older.
Then he tells the story about the pepper
and the “pan-a-cakes”
again.
Rick Maxson says
Sandra,
Pan-a-cakes and pepper—yep, you were five. This is such a sweet poem. I like the way you write it, so methodical, letting us into the thought process of a child as they execute their big plan. Thanks for sharing.
Sandra Heska King says
Thanks so much, Rick. I see a typo… oops. The pan-a-cake episode was before I turned 5. I know that. But I must have been older when I went fishing. Surely. But maybe not… I took that boat out a lot alone…
Sumyanna says
It was a tale of long ago
when love was strong and meant to last
a woman stood – yet brave and strong
her pulse had quickened – beating fast.
Honor etched upon her face
and quickness still found in her feet
she hid her fears and left her longing
she knew that death she could not cheat.
Long ago, heart wrapped in his
and vows – together – they did make
she promised she would follow him
even when life he did forsake.
On pyre his body, gently raised
his once strong form now void of life
more humble after years of glory
she felt honored to be his wife.
She found that life was one short journey
but one she felt she traveled well
with her husband, she felt alive
in Paradise, she hoped they’d dwell.
She climbed the pyre with hesitation
and looked in the distance – out to sea
where boats she saw in the hundreds
“My dear, they’ve come to honor thee.”
As water lapped upon the shore
the pyre gently pushed out to sea
lanterns lit on boats to guide them
and all observed their pageantry.
His name – someday – none shall remember
but all will know her love was true
solidly she stood to face tomorrow
as flames of fire toward her flew.
(C) Sumyanna (S. J.) 2015