Jersey Shore Magazine

The old sea captains, when their work Was done on the eternal sea, Came each ashore and built a house And settled down reluctantly; And in his front lawn each set up A flagstaff and a telescope. Each little house was painted white With shutters gay and pointed gables From which the vines hung loose or tight Or twisted round like coiled-up cables; And each green lawn was so well dressed It seemed a little sea at rest. And some were stocky men with beards And some were tawny blue-eyed men; And when they talked you might have heard Surnames that end in '-ing' or '-sen'; All sensed, since they had left the scene, A falling off in things marine. You cannot find their houses now, The place is so much built upon; They lived—they say who ought to know— Between Brielle and Manasquan; But you can find in some old store The curious things they brought ashore: Old compasses, chronometers, And here a sextant ornamented, A binnacle and carven wares; A captain's spyglass, rather dented; A keg that raxed a pirate's throttle; A schooner, full-rigged, in a bottle. Weapons with silver work inland; Blue glass the dealer said was Bristol's; Carved shells and bits of Chinese jade; Two old brass-barreled flintlock pistols; And, if these failed to take your fancy, A figurehead called "Spumy Nancy." These old seafarers in their day, If asked about impressions wrought By isles of Ind or far Cathay, Could give no record of their thought: What wonder worker ever knows The wonder of the thing he does? Aye; but the little children knew What deep lagoons they anchored in, What reefs they took their vessels through, And of strange cargoes hard to win. The Isles of Spice, typhoons and thunder, The Yellow sea and all its wonder. They came to think, as they grew old And found themselves with few compeers, That things grow better when they're told, And they themselves improved with years; They'd sail again, did it beseem Experienced men to take to steam. Meanwhile, the long-deserted sea Resented them as one neglected; She swished her tides resentfully And tons and tons of sand collected Which silted up the narrow way That leads to Barnagat's still bay. So that they lived as men marooned; They could not sail now if they hankered; You'd think, to see their homes festooned, A fleet was in the Bay and anchored, So gaily grew the creepers mounting, So gaily flew the flagstaff's bunting. —Oliver St. John Gogarty Between Brielle and Manasquan Editors Note: This poem about old sea captains by Oliver St. John Gogarty (1878-1957) was submitted by Richard B. Graham, Jr., an architect in Brielle, NJ. It was published in POETRY magazine in May 1944 (Vol. LXIV, No. II). Gogarty was an Irish poet, author, otolaryngologist, athlete, politician, and well-known conversationalist, who served as the inspiration for "Buck Mulligan," a character in James Joyce's seminal novel "Ulysses." Gogarty departed Ireland in September 1939 for an extended lecture tour in the United States. When his return was delayed by WWII, he applied for American citizenship. Though he regularly sent letters, funds, and care-packages to his family and returned home for occa- sional holiday visits, he never again lived in Ireland for any extended length of time. His primary American residence was in New York, where he was known to frequent bars on Third Avenue. He also spent time in Vermont and in Wyckoff, New Jersey. "Between Brielle and Manasquan" is believed to have been written during this period. 60 J e r s e y s h o r e • S p r i n g 2 0 1 6

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