Bazza - I hate to tell you this, but I actually live on your ideal beach! And it's even more ideal than your ideal because it's on a desert island! See my avatar? That's only a few feet from my bed. That's why I love these lines - "bleached hues colonise the light / that licks the surface of the sea". Your platonic bay is my every day! It is wonderful to read this poem.

Hi, all--

I have a passel of beach poems myself, but am amazed by the diversity of approaches here. That's the beach, though--it "contains multitudes"!

LOVE Roger's "Day at the Beach"--my feelings exactly!

--Jean

I thought I had posted my Gaugin/Margaret Mead (lots of direct quoting of the latter) Samoa Beach, but I don't think I have after all. I confess I wrote this some time ago and changed it just enough to get into the 24 line limit.

On The Beach

Let us go to far Samoa where a tropic moon
Lights the soft, brown roofs round a blue lagoon
And the palms are dark against a gleaming sea.
As the dawn begins to fall, how the birds begin to call,
How the scarlet parrots call to you and me, you and me,
How the yellow parrots call to you and me.

And lovers in the shadows of the beached canoes,
In the grumous purple shadows of the beached canoes,
They are lying thigh to thigh, as the moon rides high,
And the slender palms stand out against the sea:
Young lovers in their blisses trading lingering last kisses,
Slipping home before the light can find them gone,
Where the palms grow slim and tall as the dawn begins to fall
Slipping home before their families find them gone.

Should we go to far Samoa where the scarlet parrots call,
Oh how happy we would be, you and me, you and me,
For we know that in Samoa it’s a paradise for all;
By those shadowy canoes what can anybody lose,
Where the palms stand out against a gleaming sea?

There’s a whole lotta lovin’ going on, going on.
There’s a whole lotta lovin’ going on.

Beach Jokes

Ocean, with her wavy hair,
Had come to Shore with some jokes to share.
The first had a whale of a final phrase;
It made Shore laugh for days and days:
“Why did the orca cross the sea?
To get to the other tide.” Hee-hee!

The next one had such an awesome punch,
It made Shore drop his coelenterate lunch.
This one really put him in stitches:
“Witches on beaches are called sand-witches.”
The third one, though, made Shore quite mad,
Because the joke was thoroughly bad:

Say, what do sharks like to eat for dinner?
Fish and ships. (No trophy winner!)
Now Shore thought Sea was starting to grate,
So Sea receded at breakneck rate,
And didn’t come back till the tide came in,
Then started her jokes all over again.

She tickled Shore’s every shell and pebble,
Till he yelled, “No more!” in a piercing treble
So loud, the pendulum-tide stood still
And the moon flew away and the Earth grew chill,
Till the spell was broken suddenly
When an orca once more crossed the sea ...

The Writing on the Sand

When springtime comes to Aussieland
And you’ve the urge to walk the strand
With rascally Fido or frisky Rover,
Try not to stress the Hooded Plover,
Sandy-brown and black and white
And sporting a bill that’s ruby-bright.
You might detect a tubby pair
Plucking fleas from the beach’s hair
Or darting on pink-as-coral legs,
Or come across a couple of eggs
Atop a dune or above high-tide.
But if your eyes are occupied
By cumuli, or you’re in a rush,
Tough paws or sandaled feet could crush
Those grey-brown-speckled entities.
Why don’t these birds make nests in trees
Like rational birds? Are they deranged
For laying on a coast that’s changed?
Their eggs are camouflaged; a fox
Might well pass by them on his walks.
Yet, lately, there’s a bigger worry
Than prowling beasts with fangs and furry.
Let’s pray the writing on the sand
Is not too bleak in Aussieland.

John, I really like your Samoa poem. Its kind of Impressionistic and some of the lines have a flavor of Edward Lear to my ear.

The Song of the Plain White Shell

You could have felt the sea run high,
the tradewinds in your sail,
heard the stormy petrel’s cry,
the love song of the whale.

You could have drunk Jamaican rum,
swapped tales with old Jack Tars,
danced all night to native drums
beneath the southern stars.

You could have heard the harbor bells,
seen dolphins spin and twirl;
you chose the pretty painted shell
and left behind the pearl.

Thank you, Martin. Edward Lear is not a bad chap to be like.

Poem on a Scrimshaw

I've seen the stars shine faithfully
upon the icy northern sea;
I've seen them light the southern skies
but none were brighter than your eyes.

At Kill Devil Hills

December 17th, 1903:
On the wind-strewn sand dunes of the Outer Banks
(Softer than swan-down), in the history
Of humankind’s achievements, that day ranks

As one that caused perhaps the most elation.
The viewers could be counted on one hand.
The news soon faded. But not aviation!
The sea birds must have understood that manned

Air travel wasn’t a thing which to ignore.
They surely thought it odd for men to glide
Ten feet above a beach. Across the shore,
The wind was cold and tempest-fierce. The tide

At Kill Devil Hills had turned. And higher, higher
Than all those vultures, herons, hawks, and geese
Who watched that first low effort of the Flyer —
We climb; and it will likely never cease

As long as there are shores from which to fling
Our starships. Now I walk that very beach,
Observe the pelicans, hear seagulls sing,
And know there’s nothing, nothing we can’t reach.


(3 Dec. 2010)