Sea Fever

They that go down to the sea in ships, that do business in great waters (Psalm 107)

I'm probably talking to a very small demographic here[1], but the quotation above always used to make me giggle. First, because of the idea of going down to the sea in a ship (as opposed to on a bus, or on foot); second, because "doing business" was the euphemism our family used for animals shitting e.g. "Urgh, a dog's done its business all over the path!". Heh.

For older Anglophone readers, "going down to the sea" will also almost certainly recall the poem "Sea Fever", which was once part of the general culture, but probably no longer is. Even if you'd never actually read the poem, its first line would somehow have insinuated itself into your consciousness, in the same way as "Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears", or, "To be, or not to be, that is the question". So much so, it could reliably be invoked as a scaffolding for parodic purposes. Spike Milligan of the Goon Show, for example:

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
I left my shoes and socks there; I wonder if they're dry?

Thank you, Spike. Here's the real thing:

Sea Fever
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.

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull’s way and the whale’s way where the wind’s like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.
John Masefield, 1902

It's very much what most people expect (or wish) a poem to be. You know: rhymed, metrical, memorable, musical, evocative, and not too elliptical, allusive or even particularly profound. However, John Masefield, I think it's safe to say, has never figured in any English Literature curriculum ever, anywhere. This, despite being very popular and well-regarded in his time, and having occupied the post of Poet Laureate from 1930 until – incredibly – 1967.

There's a whole generation of these popular, accessible, but minor poets who have been written out of the story of Eng Lit – often referred to as the "Georgian" poets – writers such as Masefield, Robert Bridges, Robert Graves, and Walter de la Mare, who are often now better known for their novels, children's books, and short stories. Their poetic efforts were blown away by the huffing and puffing of Modernism, and have never come back into critical fashion, with the exception of Edward Thomas, and those who distinguished themselves as war poets, such as Siegfried Sassoon and Wilfred Owen. Their angry-but-gentlemanly, elegiac ironies somehow seemed a perfect match for the senseless industrial slaughter of WW1. However, as well as a general "Goodbye To All That" (the title of Robert Graves' war memoir), 1914-18 seemed to leave lyrical poetry missing, presumed dead, in No Man's Land, too.

As it happens, Masefield is currently getting a fresh blast of publicity, as his (apparently) popular children's book The Box of Delights has been adapted for the stage by Piers Torday at Wilton's Music Hall over Christmas. Who knows, maybe those accessible Georgians are about to make a comeback? Hmm, rhyming metrical poems, though? Nah, it'll never happen...

[1] Tentatively, people brought up in a Bible-rich environment, with contrarian tendencies and a sense of humour that embraces the absurd and the scatalogical.