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 grey mist on the sea’s face
and a grey dawn breaking.

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

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

John Masefield

Interesting thing, memory. I was thinking back to the time when I was clothed for the better part of the day in light blue terry shirt and navy blue cotton shorts, with white socks and polished black leather shoes. Usually when my brain throws up dirt from that long ago, it is unpleasant stuff – like memories of being caned for arriving a few minutes late for the first class of the day. Or for forgetting to do homework. Not this time! My mind’s eye pictured a slim volume with a bright green cover, which was the recommended text to learn English poetry from. Notice that we had to learn things, not enjoy them. I never did pay much attention to what I had to learn, though. Poetry least of all. Funny thing then, that I should remember Sea Fever, and that it had been written by a Poet Laureate. Now when I look at it, the poem appeals to me, immensely.

I also remember that I once scored full marks on a mathematics test, being the only kid in class to write the square root of two as an example for an irrational number. Never mind that I did not know what the heck an irrational number was. I was learning; I still am.

Basho

Though thin and weak
The chrysanthemum
Inevitably will bud-

Matsuo Basho

To spout more Basho -

(To write a poem, one must) Go to the pine if you want to learn about the pine, or to the bamboo if you want to learn about the bamboo. And in doing so, you must leave your subjective preoccupation with yourself. Otherwise you impose yourself on the object and do not learn. Your poetry issues of its own accord when you and the object have become one – when you have plunged deep enough into the object to see something like a hidden glimmering there. However well-phrased your poetry may be, if your feeling is not natural – if the object and yourself are separate – then your poetry is not true poetry but merely your subjective counterfeit. Submerge yourself into the object until its intrinsic nature becomes apparent, stimulating poetic impulse.”

I wonder, is this not true of any human endeavour?