Hi Philip,
This is a really exciting poem! The 2nd and 3rd stanzas really capture a
life-style/culture/group and show me things pictures or photographs could
never show!
I have a few small questions:
I guess, in the 3rd stanza, the word "downed" could/should read "drowned" -
I find I keep wanting it to be "drowned"!
I also wonder about "pounder" because it sounds more like big waves than
small skylarks!
Does the "tellerman" (an unusual word to me) merely/just/simply mean "the
one who's telling the tale" or is there another reason for selecting the
particular word?
And the ending stanza seems slight in comparison to what's gone before it. I
feel I'd like more drama! Where are the camper vans? What's the weather
doing while they're in there with their dim lights? What can they hear?
Then I keep wondering what the 1st stanza is doing for this particular poem?
I sense it's scene-setting but I wonder if the scene needs to be set. Once
I'd read the poem through once I then wanted to start it at the surf!
But I guess I'm wanting to read a poem about "Surfers" and not a poem about
"Finistral Bay" - because the surfing part of the poem's unique and the
place it's happening at ought, IMO, only to be there to back up the drama
(not get in the way).
I mean if I ever drove near Finestral Bay I really would turn off to see the
place because I'd read about the surfers (during the day and in the evening)
and not because I'd read about the daisies, the shale, the sand.
Could the title, or maybe just one line, say where it's at? Or could you put
things you feel essential down near the skylarks?
Bob
>From: Philip Burton <[log in to unmask]>
>Reply-To: The Pennine Poetry Works <[log in to unmask]>
>To: [log in to unmask]
>Subject: new submission - Sons of the Surf
>Date: Sun, 27 Oct 2002 01:28:52 +0100
>
> Sons of the Surf
>
>
>Proud as a damson - Finistral Bay
>high on lawns and Michaelmas daisy
>her links and shales stiff with valerian
>and ancient youths, expectant
>as new-laid mothers.
>
>Surf is not up - there are tales though
>ebbing, dreams for the tongue
>honed and waxed and sun-turned
>versions of office block waves
>tsunamis of the third, maybe fourth, kind
>tunnels through foam
>tunnels through time
>tunnels home.
>
>The tellerman dips his voice
>paddling the tale of the cool death
>of one who downed in undercurrent
>and, no surface attainable,
>had scratched on his Malabu
>the fingernail epitaph
>
>sonofabitch
>
>
>Skylarks pounder the cliffwalk air
>while unbuttoned boys dig like zips
>in the firm flesh of wet sand, and squeal.
>
>Then to the camper vans, dim lights
>damp sleeping bags
>fruit, fruit salad.
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
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