[Michael Cantor]

The Old Ships
by James Elroy Flecker.

I have seen old ships sail like swans asleep
Beyond the village which men still call Tyre,
With leaden age o'ercargoed, dipping deep
for Famagusta and the hidden sun
That rings black Cyprus with a lake of fire;
And all those ships were certainly so old,
who knows how oft with squat and noisy gun,
Questing brown slaves or Syrian oranges,
the pirate Genoese
hell raked them till they rolled
Blood, water, fruit and corpses up the hold.

But now through friendly seas they softly run,
Painted the mid-sea blue or the shore sea green,
Still patterned with the vines and grapes in gold.
But I have seen,
Pointing her shapely shadows from the dawn,
An image tumbled on a rose swept bay;
A drowsy ship of some yet older day,
And wonders' breath in drawn,
thought I- who knows, who knows, but in that same
(fished up beyond Aeaea- patched up new-
stern painted brighter blue)
That talkative bald headed seamen came
(twelve patient comrades sweating at the oar)
From Troy's doom crimson shore,
And with great lies about his wooden horse,
Set the crew laughing, and forgot his course.

It was so old a ship- who knows, who knows?
- And yet so beautiful, I watched in vain
To see the mast burst open with a rose
And the whole deck put on its leaves again.


Comments:

I chose this poem not only because i can hear my fathers voice reading it,
but because for me it represents the best things about imagination. It has a
strange colourful momentum, and a childish lilt that i never get bored of.
It's languid, loopy alliteration is.. lovely imo.and I don't know, but i've always
assumed Eliot was a Flecker fan, as I also hear him in this poem.

It's quirky certainly. It's metrical, but irregular, and has several supernatural images
that give it the feel of a cartoon, or a dream. It has a weird soporific quality, the reason
probably why i was read it as a child. I've no idea if it was written as a child's poem,
but the images are an echo of boys stories before, and after, the first world war,
of adventure and classic myth. There is maybe a debate to be had as to
how such imaginings shape a thirst for adventure (and death maybe..) but as
a piece of poetic theatre I admire it very much.

Flecker was exempted from the bloodbath of WW1 but died of TB in 1915,
aged 30.

Submitted by Dave Condell (Conny)