lying at anchor in the
a mackerel sky of keening gulls
lift and lilt o’ broad upland downs
bustards hover o’er Brighthelmstone
tarry breeks, me, a Hampshire hog
tucked hard by Bucklers Hard, the slips
wrights rivet deals in shape o’ ships
beyond the hamlet, tide-ways o’ Beaulieu
all sails set, the heave o’ the sea
i ached to sling my hammock
ride hard a gale might break thy gall
stiff and stark upon the yards
dark, whirling clouds whip water-spouts
foremast-men quake up i’ the shrouds
e’en a buck o’ the first haul
swaying up the topgallant mast
a skylark amid the shrouds
i clung to cordage fast
sea running steeples high, drops steep in sudden rills
our barque would like as ship whole seas
white about the gills
‘tis a rejoicing day to cross the line, crossing the Equator
green hands must pay bottle and pound
to mix a punch o’ spirits and sugar
half-seas o’er, all merry and malty
lubbers squirting quids o’ baccy
greenhorns ‘scape ducking and hoisting thrice after
impressed at sea to serve the Crown
boarded in a jiff
bearded the frog’s frigates, that seven year tiff
a mere Wappineer tar, a merchant salt
homeward-bound
jugged more ‘n a month alas ere master-knob struck bilboes
us jacks harried and chased, exchanged broadsides
blockades, enemy tubs capsized
a dozen sail o’ prizes
topman running the Barbadoes
aloft i’ the Caribee
a dram o’ bumbo, a cheery Sol
call o’ the bellied sail
a turtled, turquoise sea
salt beef five year i’ the keg
fresh green tortoise delicious peck
tortlers o’erturn the shell, disjoint it
scrape, scoop and jerk the meat
wizened noll shedding tears
nodding at blade’s edge
as gangsman, pressed at shore
round about the custom house and naval stores
cast salt on the tail o’ many a tar
womenfolk and childer slung stones, oaths, battledores
to shun the press, roadblocks, lobsters alert
wear landsman’s clothes, ne’er weeds o’ the slop shop
doff thy sea-habit: short jacket, trowsers, check shirt
avert thy face that’s weather-beat, the otter’s rolling gait
box the compass off the hooks
steer small, creep in at the hawse-holes
smell the weather, the tang o’ salt whetting thy chops
be up to the ropes
sail the same boat by the book
and sweep high altitudes like Captain Cook
broke for sleeping on dog-watch
the devil to pay and no pitch hot
belaying-pin soup, served out by the officers hard
salt-eel for supper - twelve lashes at gangway for laggards
thou rivest thine own chains i’ the main
preferment scotch’d
a peg whizzed away by a nine-pound rake
fiz by grains o’ battle-powder
bowsprit by a caulk of arrack –
or p’raps a blow with French faggot-stick
beating round Cape Despair
wrecks warped up i’ the sand
albatross i’ the air
hauled up, boated
the devil may dance in my pocket
no smart-money, no Greenwich
ship blown up at Point Nonplus
buckle-hammed
stump-legged
ropey-fammed
stump-legged
ropey-fammed
Michael Small
November 22 – December 28, 2007
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