[Carol Taylor]

Sketches from Route 1 with Ed the Spense

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FUCK MILK! GOT POT? a wall of T-shirts cries,
I’M SHIT-FACED ON DUVAL STREET IN KEY WEST
TELL YOUR BOOBS STOP STARING AT MY EYES
as here, in Paradise, their chests addressed
with poetry and flair, the young attest
to perfumed tropic air, the sun-splashed play
of light on sea, a primal, noble quest:
I LIKE TO EAT IT RAW LIKE HEMINGWAY
A string of crowded clam bars throbs in disarray.

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A string of Ski-Doos throbs in disarray,
the ocean churned to iridescent green.
No comfort here for shades and depths of gray,
or those who think that swells of opaline
seem artificial, tinted, or obscene.
This sea is key-lime lime; the buildings blue,
canary, mauve, or pink – aquamarine -
and all that matters is an ocean view,
a lipo-sculptured body, and a bold tattoo.

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Venceremos, reads the old tattoo
behind the bar on Calle Ocho Street
where men who once were men with guns now brew
two double skim milk lattes, not too sweet.
On every other Thursday night they meet
above a grocery store, and ramble on
on politics, betrayal and deceit,
the summer breezes off the Malecon,
how dolphins helped a fisherman save Elian.

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No talk of fishermen or Elian
invades the Palm Beach Palm, where well-aged meat
is all that counts: blood-red chateaubriand
shall make this gray and white-haired crowd complete.
This is no place for vegans; the effete
are not among the well-tanned coterie
that chatters here, bejeweled and indiscrete.
The Palm Beach Palm exudes prosperity;
a scent of flesh and freshly oiled mahogany.

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A regal sense of dark mahogany;
thick drapes obscure all views of sun or sand;
cut glass and jade, chinoiserie; and she -
straight-backed at ninety-three - will take a stand!
They plan to raze her building, and demand
she leave. But she shall float above the beach -
her rugs, TV, her tchotchkes close at hand -
twenty stories high, where seagulls screech.
Suspended by pure will, she hangs beyond their reach.

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Suspended by a dream beyond your reach,
you hang above this land - forevermore
El chulo – Ponce, you pimp, you half-pint leech,
you cockamamy, cracked conquistador;
you soul, you fairy queen, you metaphor
for all the fools who choose to fantasize
that God rolls dice along this sun-crazed shore.
We’ve fallen for your whispering, your sighs!
I’VE FOUND ETERNAL YOUTH a wall of T-shirts cries.

Michael Cantor, Newburyport

[Richard Wilbur]

These vigorous Spenserian stanzas take us up the Florida coast, starting with th dismal spring-breakers of Duval Street, and I think the dense rhyming helps to convey the too-muchness of it all. The ambience of each locus is well-conveyed, and there is wit throughout, especially in the last stanza where, having invoked Ponce de Leon, the poem remebers that “ponce” is slang for “pimp.” The faults I find mostly have to do with forced rhyme: in the first stanza “addressed” and “quest” seem strained, and in the 4th stanza “complete” won’t do at all. However, “indiscrete,” meaning “all alike,” is rather classy.

~Richard Wilbur

[Chris Childers]

This is a really cool poem. First, I love Mr. Wilbur's mention of "dismal spring-breakers," since I'm about to become one in the Virgin Islands, but what I really love about this poem is the way that, everything becoming younger, trendier, more up-to-the-minute, it becomes simultaneously more decadent & farther than before from the longed-after fountain of youth. The greater the fleshy shallowness, the more aged it all starts to seem. A very well-rendered poem, all things considered.

Chris

[Rose Kelleher]

This is so vivid--I can practically feel the sun dazzling my eyes as I read it. Love the combination of pop culture and history, and the way lines like these:

you metaphor
for all the fools who choose to fantasize

roll off the tongue. But perhaps most of all, I like to see a well-crafted formal poem that begins with FUCK, in all caps no less.

[Tim Murphy]

Colleagues, I hope you'll agree that it was daring, if not reckless, for yr lariat to send a Master of such Reserve and Reticence a poem beginning FUCK MILK! OK, so maybe a couple rhymes are over the top, but I know Rte 1 and Duval Street pretty well too. One time when Alan and I sailed some young friends down there they bought us two tee shirts. Mine was a Key West Salvage shirt that said "The floggings will continue until the morale improves," which I stole for "Mr. Christian's Diary" in VFN. (I also wore it the first time we took Dick sailing, and it cracked him up. Alan's said "It's not a bald spot. It's a solar panel for a sex machine." I chose two of these poems for their uncanny sense of place, or rather multiple senses of place, Michael's and Henry's.

[Jim Hayes]

Superb, only superb, every single line of it.

[Terese Coe]

There are many brilliant moments here, and one of my favorites is "Venceremos." (Wish you'd put it in italics, Michael.)

Such a gorgeous word in Spanish. And here it has multiple meanings. I've already effused over the final stanza, especially, at D.E.

Terese

[Michael Cantor]

My sincere thanks to Richard Wilbur for the time and the honor of his critique, and to Tim Murphy for providing me with the opportunity to participate in this poem-fest.

Richard, your comments on S1 are right-on. I was working to crowd in as much internal rhyme as possible to catch the feeling of the Duval Street area - and I share your unhappiness with "adressed" and "quest". Once I got past the T-shirts, that stanza was a battle.

What I found most classy about "indiscrete" is your gentle assumption that I knew what I was doing with the misspelling. Actually, it was a case of serendipitous illiteracy. I originally meant to say "indiscreet", but spelled it incorrectly. Several critters noted the error. Thinking it through, I decided to stay with the second meaning you chose to praise. I'm pleased you noticed it, but it wasn't planned from the start. For what it's worth, my note to Terese and Susan - going back to their comments on the original post - is below:

“Indiscreet” is what I meant to say, and the correct spelling, and thanks. However, when I looked at it again, it struck me that the mass of jabbering and self-important fressers was “indiscrete” as well – they blend into one loud voice – and if I leave it as it is I get some serendipitous wordplay. So I’m not making the correction, I’ll pretend it was deliberate cleverness rather than iliteracy, and I will depend on you and Susan to keep the secret.

Rose - I'm 68 years old, and I've written exactly one poem in my entire life that started with "FUCK", and that's the one that Tim the Murph chose to submit to Mr. Parnassus. What can I say?

Tim - thanks for the support. If the poetry doesn't work out, maybe I can free lance doing T-shirts for the Key West shops.

Terese - the italics on "Venceremos" and a few of the other Spanish and Yiddish words didn't make it to the repost. Thanks for pointing it out, and I've asked Tim or Carol to make the change if they have the time.

Thank you all, and particularly Richard Wilbur, for the feedback and encouragement.

Michael Cantor

[Janet Kenny]

Michael,
I've already admired this rich brew. I think "compete" might serve instead of "complete" in stanza 4 and it offers opportunities for more malice.
Janet

[wendy v]

Well, I for one am offended. I think FUCK should be capped and bold.

This is truly a thing of hideous beauty, Michael. I do like Janet's 'compete' suggestion.

All the poems are marvelous, and I've enjoyed all the comments to them. Only on Eratosphere do members get treated to stuff like this. Thanks to all the poets, (brave souls, I think; such composure ! ) and to Tim for bringing Mr Wilbur our way again.




[This message has been edited by wendy v (edited March 20, 2005).]