Fleet Visit
(W.
H. Auden 1907 - 1973)
The
sailors come ashore
Out
of their hollow ships,
Mild-looking
middle-class boys
Who
read the comic strips;
One
baseball game is more
To
them than fifty Troys.
They
look a bit lost, set down
In
this un-American place
Where
natives pass with laws
And
futures of their own;
They
are not here because
But
only just-in-case.
The
whore and ne’er-do-well
Who
pester them with junk
In
their grubby ways at least
Are
serving the Social Beast;
They
neither make nor sell –
No
wonder they get drunk.
But
the ships on the dazzling blue
Of
the harbor actually gain
From
having nothing to do;
Without
a human will
To
tell them whom to kill
Their
structures are humane.
And,
far from looking lost,
Look
as if they were meant
To
be pure abstract design
By
some master of pattern and line,
Certainly
worth every cent
Of
the millions they must have cost.
Auden wrote Fleet Visit in 1951. The sailors are American and I would say the
port visit is around Turkey
or Greece
(‘…fifty Troys’). If you can get past
the somewhat Navy/military bashing mood of the poem, then there’s a discovery
that the structure is quite good (very good, for me). Two things I look for in a poem – ‘content’
and ‘construction’. I forgive Auden the
content because he didn’t have a clue, never been there. But for the structure, I admire the neat rhyme
pattern and meter.
Discovering Auden’s, Fleet Visit got me
digging back through drafts of a poem I once wrote about sailors and
ships. I called it, The Ship’s Plans,
and I think it makes a fitting link to Fleet Visit. When I dusted The Ship’s Plans off, I
was surprised to find that I’d actually written the original draft in a three
feet meter (trochaic trimeter), same as Auden, and I wrote it with five verses
– same as Auden. That’s where similarity
finishes. My poem is a fitting counter
to the suggestion from Auden’s Fleet Visit that the whole business of
warships and sailors is not an ennobling profession. I disagree with that suggestion and it’s what
I try to convey. One thing I do agree on
is that a ship is but a cold, inanimate object without her crew. It may be ‘pattern and line’, ‘abstract
design’, but it’s those ‘middle-class boys’ through their daily human
interaction that breathe into a ship all the emotions of success, laughter,
struggle, disappointment, joy, friendship, failure, perseverance ……. they give
her a heart. And far from being an inhumane
heart, one that simply and indiscriminately, ‘tell(s) them whom to kill’,
heart comes from a brave, free world with all the organization, skill,
knowledge and know-how to take a ship to sea
1999. I was browsing through a second hand book
shop in Sydney . In the military section I noticed an old man,
bent over, intent on looking at fold out drawings in a book. I moved closer to see what the book was. It was a historical, technical publication on
a type of WWII destroyer or corvette – maybe the Tribal class or even the
Daring. I felt he was not going to buy
the book. His interest was in re-living
memories.
The Ship’s Plans
Old man,
Looking at the ship’s plans,
Boy, but does it feel good,
Would you like to be there,
Living where you once stood,
Spray salt wind in dark hair,
Sun upon your back tanned.
Old man,
Were you once the third hand,
Standing on the deck plates,
In the after fire room,
Did you make it first mate,
Maybe in the wardroom,
Braided gold on cap band.
Old man,
Remember while you still can,
All the lines and detail,
Just the way you left her,
Sweeping bow to fan-tail,
The swell of ocean summer,
Ship’s side smartly manned.
Old man,
Together at Tapaktuan,
Sailed into the Black Sea ,
Joined her in Southhampton,
With lads ashore in Sydney ,
Shipmates and companions,
Skipping down the gangplank.
Old man,
The catapult and capstan,
Maintop, bridge and wheelhouse,
Before the bosun’s store,
Magazines and gun mounts,
Just as you had left her,
There on the old ship’s plan.
J. O. White
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