My Boat Song

Once was a boat that was called after me,

named as the Mary Rose,

tiny but strong to fish in the sea.

How the wind blows, who knows?

Once I was small, lived on an isle;

Dad called me Mary Rose –

his special name, making me smile.

Who knows what stays, what goes?

When I grew up, then I could see

feet made of clay, not gold.

Gone was my god, gone from that day –
old stories long grown cold.

Jack was my new step-father who

never usurped that name,

yet built a boat, showing me true

new ways that love became.

Once was a boat that was called after me,

named as the Mary Rose,
tiny but strong to fish in the sea.

How the wind blows, who knows?


And no, you are NOT allowed to call me Mary Rose! Seriously. The only other person who did was my favourite uncle, Tommy, who died in his nineties a few years back and who doesn't belong in this poem. It's a special name, not for general use, not even by best friends, lovers or husbands.

(I don't have a photo of the Mary Rose but she was something like this, with a pointier bow. This is from the Antique Boat Centre. As the image is marked as available to be saved, I am assuming Public Domain.)

At 'imaginary garden with real toads' Kim's weekend mini challenge is Boats, and she quotes many people's favourite boat song – certainly mine – The Skye Boat Song. Check out the link to find more boat poems.

I grew up on an island, often 'messing about in boats', and was later married for 27 years to a professional fisherman, so had many possibilities to write about ... but perhaps we all have one boat that is more special than others.

Traveller

My stepfather showed me oceans.

Now these midnight moments
call and flesh the ketch
from childhood,
dusted by moonlight,
perfectly still
at the end of the pier.

That New Year’s Eve we danced
in circles on the sand.
Sand and sea joined flat.
We might have walked straight out
with no dividing breath.

‘St. Elmo‘s Fire,’ he said
pointing, as flame without wind
blew in the bare poles
leaving them clean.
The moon’s long wake
pierced the horizon.

My stepfather gave me boats.
Tonight he’s dying,
I’m far from home.

Twin masts faintly gilded
rise perfectly still
through all my seas, all ships
poised ever since,
a track of light
widening across the water.

Gone by morning.


First published in Universe Cat (Melbourne, Pariah Press, 1985)
Also in Secret Leopard (Paris, Alyscamps Press, 2005)

Poets United asks us for a Father's Day poem for this week's Poetry Pantry. I had two dear fathers. As Father's Day in Australia is not until September, I'll save until then a poem about my birth Dad, but here is one for my beloved stepfather. It was written in January 1981, when he was indeed dying, and the final version was completed in September 1984.


This poem was also featured by Sherry at Poets United in Poem of the Week on June 24, 2013