thank you very much I think it must be just, terms I know nothing of surfing
words
here in Newfoundland you can surf but only one time if the rocks don't get you
the tides will :)
I was thinking the Malabu was a Chevy
I had fun trying to figure it out
thank you
Philip Burton wrote:
> Dear david,This poem is representative of my earlier surreal style which I
> sometimes revert to.
>
> The scenario is Newqauy's Finistral Bay - the premier surfing beach in
> Europe - only accessible across a golf course! or by cliff path. American
> money has bought the entire bay and is to develop it as a surfing
> 'paradise?'- what this will do to the plentiful wildlife?
>
> The second stanza enters into the floating world stories told of, and only
> by, the itinerent surf guys. The 'heroic' (as regarded by the surfers) tale
> is about the guy who, trapped on the sea bed, somehow managed to write a
> final word on his Malabu (large surfboard)- he wrote 'sonofabitch' with his
> fingernail.
>
> The stanzas represent two 'sealed worlds'- the isolated bay full of natural
> beauty - the drug/adrenalin/sponsor fueled surfers.
> Philip
>
> >From: "D.C Bursey" <[log in to unmask]>
> >Reply-To: The Pennine Poetry Works <[log in to unmask]>
> >To: [log in to unmask]
> >Subject: Re: new sub: Son of the Surf - second draft
> >Date: Wed, 30 Oct 2002 19:27:41 -0330
> >
> >Philip,
> >maybe it is my long nights of study these days trying to think in 3D, I
> >don't know
> >I 've read this more than several times and now even the new version
> >is........
> >right over my head. I like most of your writing so far
> >and I was wondering could you explain this one to me.....please
> >
> >davidc
> >
> >Philip Burton wrote:
> >
> > > Thanks for all crits.. Here goes....2nd draft....
> > >
> > > Son 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
> > > tsunamis of the third, maybe fourth, kind
> > > tunnels through foam
> > > tunnels through time
> > > tunnels home.
> > >
> > > A tellerman dips his voice
> > > paddling the tale of the cool death
> > > of one who, capped by undercurrent
> > > and the surface unattainable,
> > > had scratched on his Malabu
> > > the fingernail epitaph
> > >
> > > sonofabitch
> > >
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