Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, SONNETS OF A FISHING VILLAGE, by BURT FRANKLIN JENNESS


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

SONNETS OF A FISHING VILLAGE, by                    
First Line: Low gabled houses fringe the cobbled streets
Last Line: Of mother nature, twofold from the sea.
Subject(s): Fish & Fishing; Anglers


Low gabled houses fringe the cobbled streets,
Which, winding through a labyrinth of trees,
Give lacy vistas, where one dimly sees
The green-rimmed harbor, with its tiny fleets
Of fishing smacks, and rows of sagging docks.
Cliff dwellings lean far out above the tide,
And draw their skirts of sea-weed down to hide
Their bandy legs and feet of jagged rocks.

The village roofs curl upward to the sun;
The chimneys sit atop like old cocked hats;
The lichen-covered storm shutters have run
The gamut of weird hues and like cravats
On sharp chinned aged men, they hang askew,
From windows that sad eyes peer seaward through.

Beside the weathered doors the fishing nets
Hang high, like giant cobwebs in the sun;
Vine-covered dories, whose life work is done,
Now ride a sea of phlox and violets.
Housewives of doubtful waistline and drawn hair,
Stand, arms akimbo, by their neighbor's fence;
Their small town gossip is poor recompense
For tragedies which line their brows with care.

Hard visaged men, with deep set, steely eyes,
And short bowed legs, and broad, thick, rounded backs—
Their clothes still redolent of squalid smacks;
Their pipes between their leathern lips slant-wise—
Stomp up the hard shell walks to greet at night
The sturdy, bare legged children in glad flight.

Below the town at ebb tide, murky plains
Stretch out to sea, where but a little time
Before, small craft were swinging at their chains,
And now up-keeled, lie helpless in the slime.
The dawn discloses through its haziness,
The clam diggers, bent low, with spades in hand,
And, like the Angelus, they seem to bless
In suppliance, the harvest of their land.

Peace comes to these folk, with each setting sun
Which gilds alike their hills, and cottage panes;
To them time is not ended, or begun,
Save as they cast their lines or haul their seines,
Receiving benedictions at the knee
Of mother nature, twofold from the sea.





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