Global humans, Is warming to blame?

my favorite poem:
Full fathom five my father lies
And of his bones are coral made.
Those are pearls, that were his eyes.
And of him, nothing doth fade
But suffers a sea change;
* (lower voice to bass profundo for final line)
Into something RICH, and STRANGE!

 

That's cool!

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Full_Fathom_Five

Full fathom five[1] thy father lies;
Of his bones are coral made;
Those are pearls that were his eyes;
Nothing of him that doth fade,
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange.
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell:
Ding-dong.
Hark! now I hear them — Ding-dong, bell.

 

yeah. Gives me chills. Ain't admitting to nothin cause our family tradition might not be legal, but Gulf of Mexico? Sears Soup.

 

Last I heard, even the Marine Corps still issued pencils with erasers.

However: to err is human... but it takes a computer to really screw things up.

 

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

 

Requiem

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 long'd to be;
Home is the sailor, home from the sea,
And the hunter home from the hill.
--Robert Louis Stevenson

 

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

Long time since I have seen that poem... I wonder how many can sail a tall ship (square rigger?), steer her by the stars (knowing which way they are heading?) and have felt a wheel's kick (as most are slickly controlled by hydraulics?)... Times have changed...

 

Semper Fie

 

The eraser is only there for show, like the white gloves or cap device, meant to be kept pristine.

 

Sea Sickness

I must go down to the seas again, where the billows romp and reel,
So all I ask is a large ship that rides on an even keel,
And a mild breeze and a broad deck with a slight list to leeward,
And a clean chair in a snug nook and a nice, kind steward.

I must go down to the seas again, the sport of wind and tide,
As the grey wave and the green wave play leapfrog over the side.
And all I ask is a glassy calm with a bone-dry scupper,
A good book and a warm rug and a light, plain supper.

I must go down to the seas again, though there I’m a total loss,
And can’t say which is worst: the pitch, the plunge, the roll, the toss.
But all I ask is a safe retreat in a bar well tended,
And a soft berth and a smooth course till the long trip’s ended.

Arthur_Guiterman (1871-1943)

 

Thanks for the memories Hoyte!

- reminded me of my first - and last - ocean voyage, across the Atlantic emigrating to Canada. I missed the departure, big liners are quiet and I had expected to hear engine noises. We had a smooth trip for a day or two then hit a full Atlantic gale for the rest of the passage. Broken furniture and casts on broken limbs as far as the eye could see when we docked. The lines about the bar and steward - ah, the memories! Our mess steward was a character, one day when I was one of only two people to show for breakfast he asked me if I would like kippers. It was an obvious dare so naturally I said yes, and they were delicious; however the other person had disappeared by the time I finished, leaving an untouched plate. I often wonder about that . . .

That trip taught me why the word Sea is capitalized so often in literature.

 

Kippers? Sounds like another red herring.

 

You and me, Hoyt.
After a lifetime at sea, I prefer snug harbor. Our little motorsailer is being re-designed re-built for short easy sails in protected waters, and comfort with economy aboard, anchored or docked every night..

 

Poems are stupid, I had to learn some at school, sometimes the words dont fit in.

Bloody daft if you ask me.

 

I found poetry an asset in courting women. Probably the most effective poem I know for seducing the fairer sex is "Roses are red, violets are blue. I love you so much I could crap" Like you said, sometimes they don't quite rhyme. But it's the sentiment that gets em.