Poems about rowing



Time: a Rowing Poem

5 minutes.
I sit on the water. The water's surface is calm and quiet.
While the strokes continue, I look at the person sitting in front of me.
I can only see their back, but I've become used to it.

4 minutes.
The coxswain is calling starts.
There's only a few minutes left, but I cannot keep time.
Everything's happening so fast.

3 minutes.
The judges call for the boats to line up.
Gracefully, we glide across the water.
Smooth and kept.
Our balance leans the boat port-side, but it is soon restored thorough the echoing voice of our coxswain.

2 minutes.
We're in our lane. I now take in the presence of the other boats.
They look fierce and prepared, then I look back into our boat.
We need to stand just as strong.
We are strong, if not stronger.
I remember that, because there's no backing down.
I will not show fear.

1 minute.
Coxswain tells us to sit at three-quarters slide.
The point is adjusted and voices become silent.
I am reminded of every day I worked at practice.
Down to the last hour.
Down to the last minute.
My concentration becomes keener.
I take my final reassuring breaths.
I am fearless.
I am strong.
I am a rower.

0 minutes.
€All boats, ready. ”
I dip my oar in a bit deeper. The silence is almost frightening.
My nerves are on a thin thread.
I breathe deeply. There's no turning back.
€Go! ”
€Three-quarters, half, three-quarters, full, full. ”
€Power 10! Let's do this! That's 10! 9! ”
Only three sounds can be heard.
The placement and swing of our blades against the boat.
The coxswain's encouragement.
My ragged breaths.

I don't dare look away.
€Keep the pressure, girls! We can beat Oakland! They're a boat-length ahead! Bring me up to their 8 seat! ”
I disregard the alarms going off in my body.
I exert all of my energy. I'm feeling lighter.
€We're gaining on them! Get me to their 7 seat! ”
Time is nothing to me.
I cannot think, only do.
My sole thought is my technique.

€Ladies, we're walking them! Bring me to their 3 seat! ”
I don't doubt my coxswain's words, but I am tempted to look to the side.
Our boat leans starboard for a stroke, but jolts back in balance with the next stroke.
My body begs for a rest, even a let-up.
But that's exactly what the other teams want.
A chance.
A single chance to dominate us.
But I won't give in.
Not now, not ever.
€We are even with Oakland! We're in the last 500, girls! Don't let them catch up! ”

The last 500...?
But we have gone so far.
I won't give up!
€Ladies, power 10 in 2! That's 1! 2! That's 10! 9! ”
This is the last chance...to show them everything.
My will.
My strength.
My resolution.
The time is now!

Suddenly, added adrenaline runs through my body.
My breaths become more ragged and I feel a bit high.
I don't let up.
The horn goes off, signaling our finish.
I lose the will to move.
Our coxswain tells us to paddle, but relearning how to breathe seemed more important to me.
Regardless of the silent screams of pain in my body, I obey my coxswain's order.
We wane off after a while and once all boats cross the finish, we congratulate the other clubs.
I'm becoming tired; my body is crying, but we've succeeded.

Everyone worked hard.
We shared everything.
C onfidence.
And there's only one way to show how strong we really are.

We row.
And that's all there is to it.

poem,  rowing,  time.

Author: Celeste DiLullo
Date: 27/01/2020



There's rowing
From the hall
Raised voices

Opens eyes
Her sister

(drunken slosh)
Still sleeps on

Behind her
Her parents'
Loud voices

Rising high
Quite musical
As if were

For two roles
In an old


Listens out
For the words

What's the cause
Of the row

Her father's
Drunken voice
From the Square

In the night
Singing out
Rose Marie

She gets up
Out of bed
Chilly dawn

Birds singing
Is snoring

Mouth open
Her clothes strewn

On the floor
By the door

Boyfriend sleeps
Behind her

His dark hair
Sticking out

Didn't know
He'd sneaked in

At some hour
The row stops
A few murmurs

Then silence
A door bangs
Then a voice

(her mother's)
Bellows out


Wonders if
Benny's up
In the flat

Up the stairs
Whether his
Parents row

As hers do
She'll see him
That morning

In the Square
She'll ask him
When he's there

With his brown
Hair and quiff
Hazel eyes

And warm stare.


Author: Terry Collett
Date: 07/01/2020


Rowing on the river arts poetica

It seems, my words
Have lost their allure,
This morning.
And i am too fixated,
On vainly scrawling.
To see
The crafts of others,
Floating on the river poetry.
I am, hands to the oars, rowing against,
A beautiful tide.
To attain a mooring,
On the inside of a thought. what would happen,
If i...
Let go and read just
One or two poems
From other,
Weary skullsmen
And made comment.
It mayhap...
Nothing, but then it,
Instead of poetry,
Decrying a dying state.

The poet in the other boat,
Rowing silently,
For a moment, or a lifetime
Is encouraged to,
Greater acts
Of creativity.
Just maybe... maybe.

arts,  river,  rowing.

Author: betterdays
Date: 14/11/2019


Me And My Little Rowing Boat

It is my legs
My shopping bag
My companion
My float,
The two oars
My extended arms
Parting the water
In my little rowing boat.
We get there eventually
There are complaints on the way
But we ignore those and soldier on
Loweing the drawbridge in the moat.
Tricky I grant you, in your best frock
No man to help, just me, and my pal.
Keep calm, our motto, or we do rock.
Frothy waters jet up our way
Every now and then
It is like the rivers lets rip
Pulls out its cork to say "when"
Turbulance, oh yes, it is a scary time
The boat behaves like it's on the Irish Sea
Stiff talkings to and patience then it is fine.
We sail to the bank oh its a stone throw away
We disembark like a liner on the ocean
I tie it up to the nearest tree
Walk off through the wood in time for tea.
Piling the two carrier bags on board
It is chocs away into the moat
Back to the castle we go, my home,
To rest, me and my little rowing boat.

boat,  rowing.

Author: cheryl love
Date: 04/09/2019


A Poet's Guide to Rowing

I wonder why you want to row
When there are just so many terms to know
Before you get in the boat and place an oar in the water,
Before you take a single stroke don't think you ought to
Remind yourself of what they are, these parts and pieces,
Actions and orders that rowers use (but poets don't)
So forgive me if I leave some out.

Let's take a look at the boat (or rather the shell):
The seat you sit on,
€slides, backstop, shoes and riggers.

The skeg that stabilizes the shell,
€shoulder, saxboard, and pogies.
The top-nut that keeps the rowlock in place,
€swivel, stretcher and rollers.

Now for the oar (or rather the scull):
There's the Spoon blade, the Macon blade,
€Smoothie or Tulip.

Ready (or not) for the stroke you take?
An Airstroke (in the air),
€backsplash, backwater, or body stroke,

Go on bury the blade, check the cover,
€ but don't catch a crab!
Mind out for the drunken spider,
€watch the feather and the finish,

Inside hand, outside hand,
€hands away, miss the water,
Leg back, lie back,
€pause the paddling, watch the pitch,

Release and recover,
€don't shoot your slide,
Swing the stroke rate,
€and space those puddles.

Careful there's no skying,
€and absolutely no washing out.

Ready for a repecharge?
Or perhaps you'd prefer an egg-beater?
Ask the cox to call a flutter.

Easy oars
€Hold her hard
Ship oars
€One foot up & out
Waist, ready, up
€Shoulders, ready, up
€Way enough!

guide,  poet,  rowing.

Author: Nigel Morgan
Date: 12/06/2019



I would have rowed to you
Had you not rowed to me, to the city
Inside our heads and outside our bodies

And one cracked knuckle was there,
The welcoming committee –
We are inside, we are inside we are in
The most delicious parts of you and me

I breathe in some scent,
Fly into another sector, another crevice
Thinking love does the strange things:

I would have rowed to you had you
Not rowed to me – I would have
Rowed to you had you not rowed to
Me. And we drown in each other, baby.


Author: Sarina
Date: 22/04/2019


Rowing with one oar

Shore slips tangent
Once each turn
And life pivots
On blade's pull

From age's widened spiral
We watch to find
Another oar

How to circle
Back to land

oar,  rowing.

Author: norm milliken
Date: 11/03/2019



A story, a story!
(Let it go. Let it come. )
I was stamped out like a Plymouth fender
Into this world.
First came the crib
With its glacial bars.
Then dolls
And the devotion to their plactic mouths.
Then there was school,
The little straight rows of chairs,
Blotting my name over and over,
But undersea all the time,
A stranger whose elbows wouldn't work.
Then there was life
With its cruel houses
And people who seldom touched-
Though touch is all-
But I grew,
Like a pig in a trenchcoat I grew,
And then there were many strange apparitions,
The nagging rain, the sun turning into poison
And all of that, saws working through my heart,
But I grew, I grew,
And God was there like an island I had not rowed to,
Still ignorant of Him, my arms, and my legs worked,
And I grew, I grew,
I wore rubies and bought tomatoes
And now, in my middle age,
About nineteen in the head I'd say,
I am rowing, I am rowing
Though the oarlocks stick and are rusty
And the sea blinks and rolls
Like a worried eyebal,
But I am rowing, I am rowing,
Though the wind pushes me back
And I know that that island will not be perfect,
It will have the flaws of life,
The absurdities of the dinner table,
But there will be a door
And I will open it
And I will get rid of the rat insdie me,
The gnawing pestilential rat.
God will take it with his two hands
And embrace it.

As the African says:
This is my tale which I have told,
If it be sweet, if it be not sweet,
Take somewhere else and let some return to me.
This story ends with me still rowing.


Author: Anne Sexton
Date: 08/12/2018