[Michael Cantor]

Sea Fever
by John Masefield

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.


From Salt-Water Ballads (London: G. Richards, 1902).


Comments:

Even though this poem describes a life to which I don’t aspire—the “vagrant” life of a sailor—I am completely taken by both the music of the poem and its expression of an unabashed addiction to the sea. A long walk on the beach is more my speed, but I do feel the visceral pull of the ocean expressed so well in this easily appreciated poem.

Several specific word choices make a huge impact here. The word “must,” in the first line of each stanza, is essential; the urge is more than a mere “want.” The alliterative, onomatopoetic w’s of line three are full of motion. Later w’s echo that effect, with “wild,” “windy,” and “white” in the second stanza, and the alliterative second line of the third stanza, where the wind’s “song” has become a “whetted knife.” (The speaker makes it clear that his attachment to the sea does not shrink before the harsher winds, or the “grey” face of the sea.) And the last line offers an ordinary but inviting perspective on death—“quiet sleep and a sweet dream”—with the final phrase both philosophical and lighthearted: “when the last trick’s over.”

The regular, rollicking rhythm begs to be read aloud, and feminine rhymes in the second half of each stanza further the energetic momentum. The repetition of “And all I ask”—another “refrain” element that makes the poem irresistible for reading aloud—also reinforces the strength of the addiction, while making it human-sized rather than profound, even in the face of the infinite sea. (Can’t I be granted just this one request, just this one treat?)

Not surprisingly, the poem has been set to music more than once. A musical setting doesn’t necessarily do a poem any favors, but Amy Beach’s moving version, for male chorus and piano, actually does this one justice, underscoring much of what I enjoy in the poem.

[Michael Cantor]

Comments by Distinguished Guest Amit Majmudar:

John Masefield is an example of a poet becoming immortal by writing one or two poems that are unforgettably perfect. Strange that that is all it takes--just nail one, you'll live forever--and yet we produce relentlessly, relentlessly, and most of us never do it.

And even if we do--is the poem that represents a given poet to posterity always representative of his or her oeuvre? Sometimes it's an anomalous poem that breaks through, like Dylan Thomas's villanelle--it's clear, direct, without show-offy chockablock verbiage. In other words, unlike a lot of his other verse. One of the most anthologized poems of Whitman's is the rhymed one about Lincoln, "O Captain, my Captain!" And it's quite horrible. Though Whitman has enough others that have lasted for the future to know what he "really" wrote like. Frost's permanent poems, on the other hand, are all very Frostian. Perhaps because he was so completely himself; I sense little centrifugal force at his core, which is stable. Compare Robert Lowell.

Is there any better poet of the sea in English than Masefield?

[Roger Slater]

I'm afraid this doesn't really do very much for me. Yes, it has a pleasant enough sound and rhythm, but it offers me very little in terms of imagery that coheres in some way, suggests an explanation or sensation that I needed the poet to help me imagine, or justifies the apparent metaphorical reading claimed by the poem's final line. And phrases like "that may not be denied" seem empty and rhyme-driven. And a wish for the wind to be like a knife? Really? In my opinion, the poem contains one truly admirable line. Line 2.

Certainly if Whitman's "Oh Captain!" is to be called "horrible," this poem by Masefield (written years later) deserves the same honorific. Though I happen to think "Oh Captain!" is hugely better, however uncharacteristic of Whitman's superior work.

What other "poems of the sea" are there? Surely there are many, though I'm not a student of them. "Ancient Mariner," of course, which is obviously better than this. And I would toss this little Kipling into the mix:

Seal Lullaby

Oh! Hush thee, my baby, the night is behind us,
... And black are the waters that sparkled so green.
The moon, o’er the combers, looks downward to find us,
... At rest in the hollows that rustle between.

Where billow meets billow, then soft be thy pillow,
... Oh weary wee flipperling, curl at thy ease!
The storm shall not wake thee, nor shark overtake thee,
... Asleep in the arms of the slow swinging seas!

[John Beaton]

I've always liked this poem and find it a stand-out as far as memorability is concerned. I read some poems and forget them quickly. This isn't one of them.

It's interesting to consider what makes poems memorable. I like the commentary in this regard, and note particularly that "it begs to be read aloud" and "has been set to music more than once".

I think it sticks in my mind mainly because of its musicality: the repetition, alliteration, and, most of all, the meter. It interweaves the ballad form beautifully with lines containing three pyrrhic/spondees and a trochee. I note that that 7-foot line-form is an extension of the 4/3 ballad foot structure, a structure that is foundational for song.

John

PS I cross-posted with Roger and agree with him as to content. But sometimes form is at least as important. As to other poems about the sea, here is another of my favorites, again because of the musicality of its form more than its content.

[Roger Slater]

Joyce Kilmer's "Trees" is also memorable. Being memorable is a good thing, but it's not enough. There are many bad things I'd like to forget.

[Lance Levens]

What appeals to me in this piece is the long seven beat line--not used for humor, but for an unrolling of a deep feeling. In this the lines' length imitates the coming and and ebbing out of the tide. It is sad today that few poets have this seven beat line as a a resource. Some of you may know of an instance, but off hand, I can't think of one.

[Orwn Acra]

It wasn't until rather recently that I realized John Masefield died in the 60s. I had thought he was from the 19th century or possibly earlier. "Sea Fever" could have been written two centuries ago, but it doesn't feel old-fashioned.

I like "Cargoes" much more, and think that that poem is more interesting in sound and imagery; "Sea Fever" doesn't do anything that I normally like poems to do, yet I still like it, and that's the mark of a good poem.

Am I the only one who thinks "The Lake Isle of Innisfree"?

[Tim Murphy]

I wonder if Masefield came to hate Sea Fever as much as Yeats is reputed to have come to despise Lake Isle of Innisfree. I'm afraid this is one of those poems wrecked for me by too much familiarity in childhood, and I have been a serious sailor.

[R. Nemo Hill]

I'm prejudiced here, as this was my father's favorite poem.
He used it to teach me about life.

Nemo

[Janice D. Soderling]

Like Nemo, I have a sentimental attachment to this poem. I knew it by heart when I was a child because I had read and re-read it so many times.

It's a big country, this po-world, and now halfway through and wanting it never to end, I am impressed by the eclectic tastes presented.