Stephen Whiteside's Famous Poetry Blog

Abby’s Safe And Sound

Saturday, June 12th, 2010

Abby’s Safe And Sound

So Abby’s safe and sound once more, upon a fishing boat.
Alas, her dream to sail the world no longer is afloat.
She says she’ll try another time. I think I hope she does.
Meanwhile, all across the world, the news lines are a-buzz!

I have to say, I find it quite a struggle to keep up.
The seas are always being crossed by some fresh, bouncy pup.
Jessica has just come home, and Jesse’s still quite young.
It seems the next cab leaves the rank before the last is sung!

It really quite amazes me. I’m fifty four years old.
I know I’m not especially tough, or bright, or strong, or bold,
And yet I’m far from feeble, and I really have to say,
I find it quite enough each week to sail Port Philip Bay!

“Where will it end?” I ask myself. “First babe in Outer Space?”
It vexes me. I find it a disturbing sort of race.
But I’m pleased that Abby’s safe and sound. She looks so nice and sweet.
I’m sorry that her journey now can never be complete.

I hope they save her “Wild Eyes”, that they raise sufficient store
Of cash to save her from a grave upon the ocean floor.
She must have been so frightened when that long wave spun her round.
I’m glad the rescue went so well, that Abby’s safe and sound!

© Stephen Whiteside   13.06.10

Posted in The ocean, Topical | No Comments »

Bert

Tuesday, June 8th, 2010

Here’s another childrens’ poem about a penguin. I’m not going to bother with an illustration this time. I can’t keep using that same picture of a penguin! I’ve used it twice already!

Bert
A little penguin found himself above a cliff of ice.
The water looked a long way down. It wasn’t very nice.
He tried to climb back up again. The slope was far too steep,
Yet still, he could not bring himself to face that mighty leap.

He thought perhaps if he’d been born a very long time earlier,
His wings would be much bigger, and their muscles would be burlier,
And then he’d simply flap his wings, and lift into the sky,
But thoughts like this were of no use. They made him want to cry.

He saw a skua overhead. It seemed a trifle near,
And very hungry. Still, he could not overcome his fear.
He saw a leopard seal below. The ice he firmly gripped.
“Thank God I didn’t jump!” he thought. That was when he slipped.

Down and down and down he plunged. He hit the water, “Whack!”
He hadn’t landed gracefully, but flat upon his back.
He had too much to think of, though, so no pain did he feel.
He turned to left. He turned to right. Where was that leopard seal?

He broke the surface briefly as across the sea he sped,
And glimpsed his buddies huddled on an ice floe up ahead.
“Come on, you can do it, Bert!” He heard them cheer him on,
And guessed that he was very close to being preyed upon.

He didn’t risk a glimpse behind. Besides, there was no need.
The faces of his friends made clear he had to move with speed.
The floe was near. He swam and swam, then made a final leap.
He felt the seal go “Snap!”…and miss. He landed in a heap.

His buddies helped him up. They gathered ‘round him. Said, “Jeez, Bert!
We saw the whole thing. Thought you were a goner, for a cert!”
“Yeah, same,” said Bert. “‘Twas really great to see you guys ahead.
I reckon that without your help, by now I would be dead.”

So Bert, he was a hero, for a little while, at least,
For he had run the gauntlet with the wild and savage beast,
But tomorrow was another day, and who knew what it brought?
Penguins’ lives are wild and fast, and often very short!

© Stephen Whiteside   12.02.09

This poem ends on a bit of a downer, doesn’t it? Hmm. I don’t know why he was called “Bert”.

Posted in Animals, The ocean | No Comments »

Voyage To The Bottom Of The Soup Bowl

Tuesday, June 8th, 2010

Well, the spam is really starting to kick in now. That 3:1 ratio I spoke of a few days ago is starting to take a real hammering! Never mind, each delightful little message disappears at the click of a button!

So what poem/s for today? Hmmm… Here’s a poem I posted on the Australian Bush Poets’ Association poetry forum last year. I was informed that it was a poem for children, and it was moved to an appropriate section on the web-site. I’m not so sure, though. I think most children would struggle with this. It is certainly very silly, though!

Voyage To The Bottom Of The Soup Bowl
(with apologies to Jules Verne and Cervantes)

“It’s strong and square and orange, its edges sharp and stark.
Perhaps it is the egg case of a jelly fish or shark.”

“Carrot,” says my talented deputy.

“It’s tough and forms a crescent; its colour, vivid green;
A line of ridges down its back. The strangest thing I’ve seen.”

“Celery,” says my perspicacious partner.

“The floor is hard and very smooth. I meet it with a shock.
I think it is a new and undiscovered type of rock.”

“Plastic,” says my trusty assistant.

© Stephen Whiteside   03.02.09

Posted in Around the house, The ocean | No Comments »

The Chinstrap Penguin

Saturday, June 5th, 2010

Some years ago I set myself the challenge of writing a poem that children would want to chant in the school yard. I don’t know if I succeeded – probably didn’t, really – but I do know that I still wrote a poem that children really enjoy. I usually start and finish my school shows with it, because it is so popular.

The other decision I made was that it would be a poem about penguins. I did a bit of research, and decided my favourite penguin – based purely on the highly superficial criterion of appearance – was the chinstrap penguin.

The Chinstrap Penguin

The chinstrap penguin
Doesn’t wear a hat.
Doesn’t wear a helmet.
Doesn’t wear a cap.

Doesn’t wear a busby.
Doesn’t wear a coonskin.
Doesn’t wear nothin’.
Just has a chinstrap.

Chinstrap. Chinstrap.
Just has a chinstrap.
Why is a penguin
Born with a chinstrap?

The emperor is bigger.
The king is bigger too.
Adelies are more numerous.
There’s fairys at the zoo.

The gentoo has a pretty flash
That sits above the eye,
And penguins all swim very well,
Though none of them can fly.

The macaroni has a crest,
Magellan, bands across the breast,
But chinstraps stand out from the rest.
Chinstrap penguins are the best!

The chinstrap penguin
Doesn’t wear a hat.
Doesn’t wear a helmet.
Doesn’t wear a cap.

Doesn’t wear a busby.
Doesn’t wear a coonskin.
Doesn’t wear nothin’.
Just has a chinstrap.

Chinstrap. Chinstrap.
Just has a chinstrap.
Why is a penguin
Born with a chinstrap?

© Stephen Whiteside   27.11.1999

I should talk a bit about the structure of this poem, because it is not like anything I have written before or since. It is really a song – a song without a tune.

The first three verses together really comprise a chorus. The poem begins and ends with these three verses. Verses tend to be longer than choruses, don’t they – or at least the same length – but in this case the chorus is a lot longer than the verses!

Two “proper” verses then follow, once again four lines each, with an AA pattern.

The next four lines are interesting. The rhyming pattern is different – AAAA. For want of a better word, I have called it a “bridge” – it acts as a bridge between the verses and the final rendition of the chorus.

So, with a chorus, verses, and even a bridge, it is really a song! A melody would spoil it, though. It works best just as it is – a chant!

Posted in Animals, The ocean | No Comments »

The Little Whale That Wouldn’t Eat Its Krill

Tuesday, June 1st, 2010

Here’s another type of krill poem.

The Little Whale That Wouldn’t Eat It Krill

There was a very little whale
Who gradually began to fail
His growing abdomen to fill.
He would not eat his daily krill.

And then one day he told his mum,
“I do not like it in my tum”
(And at the risk of being disgraced),
“It has a cold and soggy taste.”

His mother found the news a shock,
And yet she didn’t do her block.
She knew her tacker had to eat.
She didn’t shriek or squawk or bleat.

An idea hit her on the spot.
“Perhaps you’d like it better not;
Boiled or battered, poached or fried?
You’ll never know until you’ve tried.”

“Yes, that sounds good,” replied her son.
“Cooking krill. That sounds like fun.
I think I’d like my belly filled
With tons of krill that’s lightly grilled.

“And just a dash of lemon juice.”
His mum replied, “Oh, what’s the use.
We’ll never find a stove out here.
That you will starve is my great fear.”

The little whale felt very bad
To see his mother look so sad.
He knew that if she only could
She’d serve him food that tasted good.

Of course, he didn’t want to die.
He thought, “I’ll give it one more try.”
He took a gulp. It wasn’t great,
And would look better on a plate.

A hot krill loaf he’d love to carve,
But soon he saw he’d quickly starve
Unless each day he ate his fill
Of cold and raw and soggy krill.

With time he did accept the taste,
Although in dreams he still did baste
Hot roasting krill in oven dish.
He knew he’d never have his wish.

He put on weight. His mum was glad.
He thought it didn’t taste so bad.
By all reports, he’s out there still.
Consuming massive clouds of krill!

© Stephen Whiteside   22.03.07

Posted in Animals, The ocean | No Comments »

The Bowhead and the Pack Ice

Sunday, May 30th, 2010

I forget exactly how I came to write this poem. I must have been reading about bowhead whales for some reason. I was amazed by the idea of them using their heads as great battering rams to force their way up through the pack ice when necessary. Then I read about how they can be weakened, but not necessarily killed, by harpoons, and the creative juices started to flow. A small number of bowhead whales are still legally hunted every year by the Inuit people.

Unlike right whales, bowheads only exist in the northern hemisphere. Still, we get all those beaut penguins down here, and the north don’t get any of them at all! Then again, they get those cool belugas and narwhals…

Enough. Here is…

The Bowhead and the Pack ice

The bowhead whale manouvred underneath the sheet of ice.
He rose and pressed against it, thought “I’ll break it in a trice.”
Alas, it didn’t budge at all. “No matter,” thought the whale,
“I’ll move to where it’s thinner. Then I surely cannot fail.”
Yet still he could not crack the ice. He felt a little sick;
Sick and rather puzzled, for it didn’t seem too thick.
Soon he’d need to take a breath. He’d held it half an hour.
It was a mighty time, but there were limits to his power.
He felt a trifle frantic. Had there been a fall of snow?
Perhaps a polar bear was perched each place he chose to go.

He thought then of the harpoon that had buried half its length
In his blubber and his muscle. It had robbed him of his strength.
Yes, that must be the answer. He felt sorry for himself.
Then he brushed the thought aside. “I must beat this icy shelf.”
He found a patch of brighter light that signaled thinner ice.
“Well, this is ‘do or die’ for me; succeed, or pay the price.”
He dived down deep to give himself a chance to build up speed,
Then raced back up. He hit the ice. It smashed, and he was freed.
Relief surged swiftly through him. It had been a nasty scare.
He rested at the surface, breathing massive gulps of air.

The harpoon wouldn’t kill him. He was pretty sure of that,
But now that he reflected, it had left him feeling flat.
The harpoon wasn’t coming out. That seemed pretty sure.
He’d rubbed his wound…how many times? A dozen? Maybe more.
He’d have to learn to live with it. With luck, he thought he could.
He’d make to form a treaty with that savage lump of wood.
He knew his strength would soon return. He wasn’t done for yet.
In time he’d smash through ice once more. There was no need to fret.
Meanwhile, he’d be careful. He’d avoid the icy sheet.
He’d stick to open water till he had the problem beat!

© Stephen Whiteside   27.10.06

I just noticed, this is structured as three ten-line verses (five sets of rhyming couplets in each). I can’t remember if this was deliberate or not, but it’s pretty neat!

Posted in The ocean, Whales | No Comments »

Footprints

Saturday, May 29th, 2010

Here’s a simple little poem for a simple photo. See the circle of calm water? That is made by the tail-flukes of a whale – in this case, a northern right whale. It is commonly called a “footprint”. Footprints can be made in two ways. They can be the result of a whale diving down through calm water. More interestingly, sometimes you don’t see the whale at all, and the line of footprints is the only indication you have that a whale is passing just below the surface, creating a circle of calm water with each upward thrust of his tail!

Footprints

Have you ever seen the footprints of a mighty, massive whale;
Those circles of flat water that always tell the tale
Of leviathan well hidden passing silently below.
If it wasn’t for those footprints then you’d never ever know.

© Stephen Whiteside   06.07.06

Posted in The ocean, Whales | No Comments »

Calling Long Distance

Friday, May 21st, 2010

Blue whales are amazing animals. They are the biggest animal that has ever lived on the Earth – larger than any of the dinosaurs. A blue whale’s heart is the size of a small car, and a child could crawl down inside its largest blood vessel (the aorta).

Blue whales communicate at extremely low frequencies, much of which is below the threshold of human hearing. These very long wave-length noises allow them to keep in touch over vast distances, perhaps even from one side of an ocean to another.

However, many scientists are concerned that blue whales are struggling to hear each other these days. The oceans are much noisier places than they used to be, mainly because of modern ships. There are not many blue whales left, as a result of the commercial whaling practices of the last century. If they are now struggling to keep in touch with other, then concerns for their future must be further heightened.

I love the idea of being able to communicate over vast distances without the use of modern technology. Hence this poem.

Calling Long Distance

Blue whales have the lowest voices, make the deepest sounds.
Their calls could go a thousand miles. They seem to know no bounds.
Imagine, then, a chat between a family of blues,
Exchanging bits of gossip, telling stories, swapping news.

“How ya goin’, honey?” says the daddy to the mummy.
“I won’t be home for dinner, though I know it would be yummy.
But do not fret about me, for I soon shall eat my fill,
“Cause fifty miles away I’ve found a hundred tons of krill.
Tell the kids I love them, but I won’t be home today,
For though I’m swimming fast  I’m still a thousand miles away.
I cannot catch a jumbo jet. I wouldn’t fit inside,
And I could not take a liner. It would deeply hurt my pride.
We’re pretty clever critters, you and me, I’ll freely own,
Chatting between continents, without a telephone.
We do not need a stack of coins. We do not need a card.
We do not need a mobile phone, we might lumps of lard.
We could chat like this forever. We need never end this call,
But it’s getting late, so get some rest, and soon I’ll see you all.”

© Stephen Whiteside   16.07.04

That’s another thing about blue whales. Even though they are so big, they are extremely fast swimmers. That’s why whalers could not really kill them until the advent of the steamship and explosive harpoons.

Posted in Animals, The ocean, Whales | No Comments »

One-Eyed Jake the Pirate

Sunday, May 9th, 2010

I was showing my son some clips of Dr. Hook on You-Tube last night. I really like the songs of Shel Silverstein, and the bloke in the eye-patch looks cool, too.

He, being something of a history buff, responded with this interesting fact about pirates and their eye-patches. I thought it would make a good poem.

One-Eyed Jake the Pirate

I’m One-Eyed Jake the Pirate.
I wear a black eye patch.
In all degrees on seven seas
There’s no man who’s my match.

You likely think I lost an eye
In battle fierce and wild.
The reason that I wear this patch
Is very much more mild.

It’s black as night beneath the deck
Upon this pirate ship.
At end of watch I climb below,
And fear I’ll fall or slip.

The single eye beneath this patch
Believes that day is night.
I wear no patch in gloomy hold,
And find I see all right.

I’m One-Eyed Jake the Pirate.
You think my patch looks cool,
But that’s not why I wear it, no,
It’s just that I’m no fool!

© Stephen Whiteside   10.05.10

Posted in The ocean | No Comments »