2022.8 Fever

A #glosa, as prompted by the “official” #NaPoWriMo site last week. And I think it’s fair to say that #OurFlagMeansDeath has infected my brain more than somewhat…

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.
            – Sea-Fever, by John Masefield

I don’t know where the dreams come from - the tumult rattling loud;
the walls and floors are shaking and I’m thronged by such a crowd.
One man claps my shoulder hard, his grin is fond and sly,
and then he makes his way aloft but I can’t ask him why.
The answer’s locked up tight, I think, or smothered in a shroud…
He’s told me, silently and strong, how much I make him proud.
I’ve always lived such a quiet life; so dutiful and dry;
I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky.

Perhaps the answer bellows in the wind and in the roar
of breakers as they herald what the gulls are calling for;
I think it’s much too soon to hope the storm will pass us by.
I struggle to remember how in daytime I’m called shy.
At night my blade is confident with tallies by the score,
my skin’s alive with scrimshaw now and still I’m craving more.
Without the sun I spread my arms so wide that I could fly,
and all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by.

He points out constellations that I never saw before,
and the deck’s drum is our hearts’ beat as we skirt this shore.
The crew’s a distant chorus as we point up higher, making
new tales of the sky’s sails in the breaths we’re taking.
We kneel before the altar of this swiftly changing lore,
and we clasp hands as the mast swings, and I swear I’m sure:
It’s the way he shows me happiness is all mine for the taking,
and the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking.

The stars pale, but I cling hard, and ignore the clouds,
for I know now where my strength lies, and I won’t be cowed:
It’s the nighttime that’s the right time, and the day that’s faking,
but he tells me I must live well, though his voice is shaking.
But my grip’s true, and I tell him: I’ll return – we’re vowed,
so, love, tell me one more story of the seas you’ve ploughed;
I will fade soon, with a slow sigh, to the curse of waking,
and a grey mist on the sea’s face, and a grey dawn breaking.

Picture via Google Images.
None of the links I followed bothered to credit the artist, so I can’t either, sadly.

Sea-Fever is one of my most favourite poems EVER, so when the glosa form asked for a quatrain of someone else’s, I leapt to it (without realising what a tricksy rhythm and rhyme pattern I’d bound myself to)! Before you ask: I’ve no real idea where the core narrative of the above piece of mine came from, or if it entirely works, but that’s at least half the point of NaPo, no? Although I could do with fewer complex notions and strict, long forms as I try to catch up!

(And yes, the form is now available on the Repeating and Concrete Forms spreadsheet.)