E. J. Pratt (1882–1964) was a Canadian poet with a sailor’s eye and a theologian’s nerve. Trained for the ministry, he abandoned pulpits for poems, and brought with him a moral seriousness stripped of sentimentality. His work is often nautical, scientific, and unsparingly physical. Pratt writes nature not as metaphorical comfort, but as mechanism—precise, indifferent, and lethal when necessary.
The Shark is one of his cleanest cuts.
The Shark
So leisurely he swam;
His fin,
Like a piece of sheet-iron,
Three-cornered,
And with knife-edge,
Stirred not a bubble
As it moved
With its base-line on the water.
His body was tubular
And tapered
And smoke-blue,
And as he passed the wharf
He turned,
And snapped at a flat-fish
That was dead and floating.
And I saw the flash of a white throat,
And a double row of white teeth,
And eyes of metallic grey,
Hard and narrow and slit.
Then out of the harbour,
With that three-cornered fin
Shearing without a bubble the water
Lithely,
Leisurely,
He swam—
That strange fish,
Tubular, tapered, smoke-blue,
Part vulture, part wolf,
Part neither—for his blood was cold.
Short notes on The Shark
No symbolism required.
The shark is not a stand-in for evil, capitalism, war, or the subconscious. It is a shark. Pratt’s restraint is the point.Engineering language.
“Sheet-iron,” “knife-edge,” “tubular,” “tapered.” This is a poem written with calipers, not adjectives borrowed from romance.Motion without drama.
“Leisurely” is doing heavy work. The menace lies in the absence of urgency.Cold blood matters.
The final line denies moral analogy. “Part vulture, part wolf” is immediately revoked. The shark belongs to neither warm-blooded hunger nor carrion logic.Harbour, not open sea.
This is civilization’s edge. The shark knows it. That’s the quiet unease.Modern, not Victorian.
Early 20th century. Post-Darwin, post-romance. The universe does not explain itself, and Pratt doesn’t ask it to.
