God Fashioned the Ship of the World
God fashioned the ship of the world carefully.
With the infinite skill of an All-Master
Made He the hull and the sails,
Held He the rudder
Ready for adjustment.
Erect stood He, scanning His work proudly.
Then -- at fateful time -- a wrong called,
And God turned, heeding.
Lo, the ship, at this opportunity, slipped slyly,
Making cunning noiseless travel down the ways.
So that, forever rudderless, it went upon the seas
Going ridiculous voyages,
Making quaint progress,
Turning as with serious purpose
Before stupid winds.
And there were many in the sky
Who laughed at this thing.
poem by Stephen Crane
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Going To Paris
We are going to paris
In a ship with red sails
As the storm gathers slowly
We eat fishheads and snails
The mate jumps up, throws down a line
To a man overboard for the ninetieth time
And then he says with a wink
Sometimes I think
Ive been doing this forever!
We are going to paris
In a ship called the ? ?
There are signs in the sky at night
That the captain says hes seen
I keep books under my pillow
And read them before I sleep
Strange places I go to,
Strange companies I keep
We are going to paris
We are one and thirty strong
I can feel it in the air
Well be there before long
The wind has come
Like a man insane, insane
We are going to paris
It rains and it rains
We are going to paris
In a ship with red sails
We are going to paris
In a ship with red sails
song performed by by Waterboys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Winds of Fate
One ship drives east and another drives west
With the selfsame winds that blow.
Tis the set of the sails
And not the gales
Which tells us the way to go.
Like the winds of the seas are the ways of fate,
As we voyage along through the life:
Tis the set of a soul
That decides its goal,
And not the calm or the strife.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox from World Voices
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The Merchant
Where sails the ship?--It leads the Tyrian forth
For the rich amber of the liberal north.
Be kind, ye seas--winds, lend your gentlest wing,
May in each creek sweet wells restoring spring!--
To you, ye gods, belong the merchant!--o'er
The waves his sails the wide world's goods explore;
And, all the while, wherever waft the gales
The wide world's good sails with him as he sails!
poem by Friedrich Schiller
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The man without a purpose is like a ship without a rudder - waif, a nothing, a no man. Have a purpose in life, and, having it, throw such strength of mind and muscle into your work as God has given you.
quote by Thomas Carlyle
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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When The Ship Comes In
(dylan)
Oh the time will come up
When the winds will stop
And the breeze will cease to be a breezin
Like the stillness in the wind
For the hurricane begins
The hour when the ship comes in
Oh the seas will split
And the ship will hit
And the shoreline sands will be shaken
Then the tide will sound and the wind will pound
And the morning will be breakin
Oh the fishes will laugh
As they swim out of the path
And the seagulls theyll be smilin
And the rocks on the sand
Will proudly stand
The hour that the ship comes in
And the words they use
For to get the ship confused
Will not be understood as they are spoken
For the chains of the sea
Will have busted in the night
And be buried at the bottom of the ocean
Verse 2
A song will lift as the main sail shifts
And the boat drifts onto the shoreline
And the sun will respect every face on the deck
The hour when the ship comes in
Then the sands will roll out a carpet of gold
For your weary toes to be a touchin
And the ships wise men will remind you once again
That the whole wide world is watchin
song performed by by Hollies
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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No Title
Title less
The ship sails on plowing
the surface
of eternity´s echo.
Where new dogmas
will be born,
man die in the name
of a deity.
The ship sails on seas
of timelessness
till the echo ceases.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Captain Of Your Soul
Are you captain of your soul
that lives with you and makes you whole?
Or are there mutineers tearing at you,
attacking you so your soul can't get through?
If you steer your ship with your soul at the wheel
all of your voyages will keep an even keel.
You will not falter during stormy seas.
For your soul will keep your ship at ease.
It will guide you safely to distant shores.
It will keep you dry whenever rain pours.
For as the captain of your soul you'll find
you will leave the fierce winds all behind.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 2. The Musician's Tale; The Ballad of Carmilhan - II.
The jolly skipper paused awhile,
And then again began;
'There is a Spectre Ship,' quoth he,
'A ship of the Dead that sails the sea,
And is called the Carmilhan.
'A ghostly ship, with a ghostly crew,
In tempests she appears;
And before the gale, or against the gale,
She sails without a rag of sail,
Without a helmsman steers.
'She haunts the Atlantic north and south,
But mostly the mid-sea,
Where three great rocks rise bleak and bare
Like furnace-chimneys in the air,
And are called the Chimneys Three.
'And ill betide the luckless ship
That meets the Carmilhan;
Over her decks the seas will leap,
She must go down into the deep,
And perish mouse and man.'
The captain of the Valdemar
Laughed loud with merry heart.
'I should like to see this ship,' said he;
'I should like to find these Chimneys Three,
That are marked down in the chart.
'I have sailed right over the spot,' he said
'With a good stiff breeze behind,
When the sea was blue, and the sky was clear,--
You can follow my course by these pinholes here,--
And never a rock could find.'
And then he swore a dreadful oath,
He swore by the Kingdoms Three,
That, should he meet the Carmilhan,
He would run her down, although he ran
Right into Eternity!
All this, while passing to and fro,
The cabin-boy had heard;
He lingered at the door to hear,
And drank in all with greedy ear,
And pondered every word.
He was a simple country lad,
But of a roving mind.
'Oh, it must be like heaven,' thought he,
'Those far-off foreign lands to see,
And fortune seek and find!'
But in the fo'castle, when he heard
The mariners blaspheme,
He thought of home, he thought of God,
And his mother under the churchyard sod,
And wished it were a dream.
One friend on board that ship had he;
T was the Klaboterman,
Who saw the Bible in his chest,
And made a sign upon his breast,
All evil things to ban.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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The Palm-Tree
Is it the palm, the cocoa-palm,
On the Indian Sea, by the isles of balm?
Or is it a ship in the breezeless calm?
A ship whose keel is of palm beneath,
Whose ribs of palm have a palm-bark sheath,
And a rudder of palm it steereth with.
Branches of palm are its spars and rails,
Fibres of palm are its woven sails,
And the rope is of palm that idly trails!
What does the good ship bear so well?
The cocoa-nut with its stony shell,
And the milky sap of its inner cell.
What are its jars, so smooth and fine,
But hollowed nuts, filled with oil and wine,
And the cabbage that ripens under the Line?
Who smokes his nargileh, cool and calm?
The master, whose cunning and skill could charm
Cargo and ship from the bounteous palm.
In the cabin he sits on a palm-mat soft,
From a beaker of palm his drink is quaffed,
And a palm-thatch shields from the sun aloft!
His dress is woven of palmy strands,
And he holds a palm-leaf scroll in his hands,
Traced with the Prophet's wise commands!
The turban folded about his head
Was daintily wrought of the palm-leaf braid,
And the fan that cools him of palm was made.
Of threads of palm was the carpet spun
Whereon he kneels when the day is done,
And the foreheads of Islam are bowed as one!
To him the palm is a gift divine,
Wherein all uses of man combine,--
House, and raiment, and food, and wine!
And, in the hour of his great release,
His need of the palm shall only cease
With the shroud wherein he lieth in peace.
'Allah il Allah!' he sings his psalm,
On the Indian Sea, by the isles of balm;
'Thanks to Allah who gives the palm!'
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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The Great Titanic
It was on one Monday morning just about one o'clock
When that great Titanic began to reel and rock;
People began to scream and cry,
Saying, 'Lord, am I going to die?'
Chorus
It was sad when that great ship went down,
It was sad when that great ship went down,
Husbands and wives and little children lost their lives,
It was sad when that great ship went down
.
When that ship left England it was making for the shore,
The rich had declared that they would not ride with the poor,
So they put the poor below,
They were the first to go.
While they were building they said what they would do,
We will build a ship that water can't go through;
But God with power in hand
Showed the world that it could not stand.
Those people on that ship were a long ways from home,
With friends all around they did n't know that the time had come;
Death came riding by,
Sixteen hundred had to die.
While Paul was sailing his men around,
God told him that not a man should drown;
If you trust and obey,
I will save you all to-day.
You know it must have been awful with those people on the sea,
They say that they were singing, 'Nearer My God to Thee.'
While some were homeward bound,
Sixteen hundred had to drown.
poem by Anonymous Americas
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A man with a half volition goes backwards and forwards, and makes no way on the smoothest road a man with a whole volition advances on the roughest, and will reach his purpose, if there be even a little worthiness in it. The man without a purpose is like a ship without a rudder - a waif, a nothing, a no man. Have a purpose in life and having it, throw such strength of mind and muscle into your work as God has given you.
quote by Thomas Carlyle
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Abandon Ship!
I'd like to get off this ship
That you're sailing into heavy seas,
You won't listen to my warning,
So you must do as you please.
This 'ship' is our relation-ship
And you're heading for a reef,
Our friend-ship will be wrecked
In a storm of pain and grief!
What am I going to do,
Dear Captain of my heart?
I never dreamt it possible
That you and I would part.
You look at me so quizzically,
Your smile turns to a frown....
Get off this ship at once
Or you and I will drown!
I've tried so hard to make you see
The folly of your ways,
The nights have been so desolate,
So comfortless the days.
I thought you really cared for me,
A true and loyal friend,
The sun is setting in the West
And soon our Day will end.
Abandon ship or change your course
Before it is too late -
I can't believe your attitude,
What an evil, bitter fate! !
poem by John Thorkild Ellison
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Ceyx And Alcione lll
So she worried-really worried-when Ceyx announced at breakfast one morning his intention of going on a sea voyage. It made no difference that he was going to Delphi on business. She worried because she loved him dearly, and, better than him, knew the power of the winds, before which taverns collapsed and chairs, cats, small children flew through the air like birds.
'No! '
'Honey, I must! I will! Delphi is definitely on my agenda. Frankly, it could make a big difference in our life style'.
'Absolutely not. I have a bad feeling about this one, trust me'.
'I'm going'.
'Then I'm going, too.'
'Forget it.'
Yes, no, etcetera...back and forth-it would make your head spin.
Finally she said 'ok.go'
The day of departure dawned. The ship was ready. Ceyx boarded and turned to bid his wife goodbye. She could barely look at him. Did she know what was to come? Maybe yes, maybe no.
'Don't worry, honey, it's only for a while. I'll come back to you- promise.
Maybe yes, maybe no. And the ship disappeared over the horizon, its sails filled with gentle winds. But this was before the days of radar,
weather forecasts and hurricane warnings, so the sailors could scarcely anticipate foul weather such as befell them next morning. Sure enough, a storm blew up, worse than any Alcione could imagine, spinning and capsizing the ship in a furor of ill-winds. In a short time the ship was in pieces and its hands walking the undersea currents. Ceyx himself was pulled under. His last word, as the wave crashed over his head was 'Alcione'. His fate was the dread of all mortals-to remain unburied in the sight of the gods, without even so much as an oar planted in the sand to mark the spot where the ship's carcass was cast ashore.
poem by Morgan Michaels
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A Ship Sails up to Bideford
A ship sails up to Bideford;
Upon a western breeze,
Mast by mast, sail over sail,
She rises from the seas,
And sights the hills of Devon
And the misty English trees.
She comes from Eastern islands;
The sun is in her hold;
She bears the fruit of Jaffa,
Dates, oranges and gold;
She brings the silk of China,
And bales of Persian dyes,
And birds with sparkling feathers
And snakes with diamond eyes.
She’s gliding in the starlight
As white as any gull;
The east is gliding with her
In the shadows of her hull.
A ship sails up to Bideford;
Upon a western breeze,
With fruits of Eastern summers
She rises from the seas,
And sights the hills of Devon
And the misty English trees.
poem by Herbert Asquith
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Homeland Africa
Ship ahoi ship ahoi ship ahoi ship ahoi
Ship ahoi ship ahoi ship ahoi ship ahoi
Ship ahoi ship ahoi ship ahoi ship ahoi
Down the ocean a ship comes sailing through the waves
Filled with hundreds of men they take as slaves
Just long for their true homeland africa
And to be saved they want to be free
Men women and babyslaves
Coming to the land of liberty, liberty
Ship ahoi ship ahoi ship ahoi ship ahoi...
They are tired of waiting for a brand new day
Some of them sing and chant some of them pray
And some men got a little tired too
No one knows if the journey pay
Men women and babyslaves
Coming to the land of liberty, liberty
Ship ahoi ship ahoi ship ahoi ship ahoi...
song performed by by Boney M.
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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God Needs Antonio
Your soul was lifted by the wings today
Hearing the master of the violin:
You praised him, praised the great Sabastian too
Who made that fine Chaconne; but did you think
Of old Antonio Stradivari?--him
Who a good century and a half ago
Put his true work in that brown instrument
And by the nice adjustment of its frame
Gave it responsive life, continuous
With the master's finger-tips and perfected
Like them by delicate rectitude of use.
That plain white-aproned man, who stood at work
Patient and accurate full fourscore years,
Cherished his sight and touch by temperance,
And since keen sense is love of perfectness
Made perfect violins, the needed paths
For inspiration and high mastery.
No simpler man than he; he never cried,
"why was I born to this monotonous task
Of making violins?" or flung them down
To suit with hurling act well-hurled curse
At labor on such perishable stuff.
Hence neighbors in Cremona held him dull,
Called him a slave, a mill-horse, a machine.
Naldo, a painter of eclectic school,
Knowing all tricks of style at thirty-one,
And weary of them, while Antonio
At sixty-nine wrought placidly his best,
Making the violin you heard today--
Naldo would tease him oft to tell his aims.
"Perhaps thou hast some pleasant vice to feed-
the love of louis d'ors in heaps of four,
Each violin a heap--I've naught to blame;
My vices waste such heaps. But then, why work
With painful nicety?"
Antonio then:
"I like the gold--well, yes--but not for meals.
And as my stomach, so my eye and hand,
And inward sense that works along with both,
Have hunger that can never feed on coin.
Who draws a line and satisfies his soul,
Making it crooked where it should be straight?
Antonio Stradivari has an eye
That winces at false work and loves the true."
Then Naldo: "'Tis a petty kind of fame
At best, that comes of making violins;
And saves no masses, either. Thou wilt go
To purgatory none the less."
But he:
"'Twere purgatory here to make them ill;
And for my fame--when any master holds
'Twixt chin and hand a violin of mine,
He will be glad that Stradivari lived,
Made violins, and made them of the best.
The masters only know whose work is good:
They will choose mine, and while God gives them skill
I give them instruments to play upon,
God choosing me to help him.
"What! Were God
at fault for violins, thou absent?"
"Yes;
He were at fault for Stradivari's work."
"Why, many hold Giuseppe's violins
As good as thine."
"May be: they are different.
His quality declines: he spoils his hand
With over-drinking. But were his the best,
He could not work for two. My work is mine,
And, heresy or not, if my hand slacked
I should rob God--since his is fullest good -
Leaving a blank instead of violins.
I say, not God himself can make man's best
Without best men to help him.
'Tis God gives skill,
But not without men's hands: he could not make
Antonio Stradivari's violins
Without Antonio. Get thee to thy easel."
poem by George Eliot
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Aboard At A Ship's Helm
ABOARD, at a ship's helm,
A young steersman, steering with care.
A bell through fog on a sea-coast dolefully ringing,
An ocean-bell--O a warning bell, rock'd by the waves.
O you give good notice indeed, you bell by the sea-reefs ringing,
Ringing, ringing, to warn the ship from its wreck-place.
For, as on the alert, O steersman, you mind the bell's admonition,
The bows turn,--the freighted ship, tacking, speeds away under her
gray sails,
The beautiful and noble ship, with all her precious wealth, speeds
away gaily and safe.
But O the ship, the immortal ship! O ship aboard the ship! 10
O ship of the body--ship of the soul--voyaging, voyaging, voyaging.
poem by Walt Whitman
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Im so sorry
I'm so sorry
Sorry for making you think all men are the same
Sorry for making you feel naked
Sorry for sharing my dreams with the outside world
I'm so sorry
Sorry for taking late night calls in your presence
Sorry for not making you my number one
Sorry for not saying thank you
I'm so sorry
Sorry for the tears I've made you cry
Sorry for not answering when you called upon my name
Sorry for waking up and not finding me there
Sorry for making you feel unappreciated and unloved
I'm so sorry
Sorry for not saying Happy Birthday
Sorry for being a nightmare in your life
Sorry for making you my punching bag
I'm so sorry
Sorry for making you say sorry when it was not your fault
Sorry for the promises I made but never kept
I'm so sorry
poem by Neo tshegofatso Molefe
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When The Ship Comes In
Oh the time will come up
When the winds will stop
And the breeze will cease to be breathin.
Like the stillness in the wind
fore the hurricane begins,
The hour when the ship comes in.
Oh the seas will split
And the ship will hit
And the sands on the shoreline will be shaking.
Then the tide will sound
And the wind will pound
And the morning will be breaking.
Oh the fishes will laugh
As they swim out of the path
And the seagulls theyll be smiling.
And the rocks on the sand
Will proudly stand,
The hour that the ship comes in.
And the words that are used
For to get the ship confused
Will not be understood as theyre spoken.
For the chains of the sea
Will have busted in the night
And will be buried at the bottom of the ocean.
A song will lift
As the mainsail shifts
And the boat drifts on to the shoreline.
And the sun will respect
Every face on the deck,
The hour that the ship comes in.
Then the sands will roll
Out a carpet of gold
For your weary toes to be a-touchin.
And the ships wise men
Will remind you once again
That the whole wide world is watchin.
Oh the foes will rise
With the sleep still in their eyes
And theyll jerk from their beds and think theyre dreamin.
But theyll pinch themselves and squeal
And know that its for real,
The hour when the ship comes in.
Then theyll raise their hands,
Sayin well meet all your demands,
But well shout from the bow your days are numbered.
And like pharaohs tribe,
Theyll be drownded in the tide,
And like goliath, theyll be conquered.
song performed by by Bob Dylan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Flying Dutchman
The blue water stretches
as far as visibility allows to see
and there’s fog
rising white before the storm
out of the water.
The dusk becomes grey
and the sea from blue to dark black
while the night
darker than ink, as only companion
folds over the old ancient ship.
It’s Van der Decken standing as tiller man
behind the big wheel
and forever he steers the ship
on the journey that she goes.
Always cursing
his loud voice thunders
like lightning falling around him
for sailors to tend the sails right
and sails are hoisted crunching, groaning and trembling
with strong ropes
and the ship jumps
over the smashing waves.
Like a phantom
the Flying Dutchman appears
with white sails like a wraith
over the horizon
where it sails before a storm with speed.
The ship becomes lager
as the storm wind
brings her closer
and you hear her creak
against the power of the wind.
There’s thunder bolts blinding suddenly
and sea birds flies screeching
out in front of her,
while Van der Decken’s skeleton
drills his men powerless
to set the sails right
that is vibrating against the wind.
“How long still Lord, ”
echoes against the sea and sky,
without a answer
ever coming
and suddenly the ship is gone
as if it disappeared in the naught.
poem by Gert Strydom
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