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1.
Calm rises after the storm in the brain,
when the sea is but a mother's blue arms,
in the bed of each wave, in the eye
from where the settled foam watches. Salty town,
the buildings have given a pass and a peace.
We are determined to be in the folds
of ripples; we are moved by promises
of wind, like the world is here to watch,
as the heart of a port was a bootlegger's balm.
Bloody, urban streets mimicked wetly,
the walls of important wombs. Borne of
pop gun sounds, Boston voices made good sense.
In the voices were tremors and black limousines
edging through the gathering crowds, standing
like crows full of hunger and personal thirst.
They lined the fences, till crowds were a blur.
Taut miles from cloud to sand, to Nantucket Sound
have been rambuctious and ready, have been
the speech of progression and low roads
beguiled by darkness, beguiled by power.
2.
Cars trafficked in their own meaning. Off
in the distance, all the bungalows died
of fright. All the dirt roads grew storied,
all the miracles came from nightly death.
Time spent under the sun was graceful.
When shadows came, they were ghosts of brothers
who mentioned these discretions, these chilled
forces and soaring skiffs, these jetty-joined tears,
these platitudes. They are precepts
that live, there, like the weakened moonlight
smears itself, unwanted. They wear windbreakers
of pastel shades. Residents clearly shrink
from thinking too much. They think
there is more. How much more? More children
to disparage in firm, strange verbs, in sounds
of accents, or Big Dig boondagles, comely at first.
Did he touch a miracle? Was the wine too strong?
Was there blood on decisions?
Pulse of freedom beats in this boat. And in
the sail's trajectory, moving like torn flesh,
or a man stumbling from a tavern at night.
Flaws are not flaws but imperceptible
chains, linking the perfect to the imperfect,
linking the man to his own tragedy.
Now it is the water and his seething
shock of hair, sitting in northeastern
light. Now it is the boat I feel, the tossed
expression: grim, against moody New England.
Lamont Palmer
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| Comments about this poem (Politician In A Boat by Lamont Palmer) |
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Chris Mendros (6/3/2008 11:06:00 AM)
i think the mention of accent is fine, as it is a distinct characteristic of the Senator and his family. I do agree with SueAnn that some form of ID may be necessary, but something subtle, maybe even a dedication at the top or bottom.
The watery images are especially evocative. |
Raynette Eitel (5/30/2008 11:59:00 PM)
Each time I read this, I glean more of the man, the place, the tie to a long, sad history within a powerful family. You have carefully and cleverly woven in allusions to members of this family 'as the heart of a port was a bootlegger's balm.' and All the dirt roads grew storied, all the miracles came from nightly death.'
Perhaps the ultimate allusion is this one: 'When shadows came, they were ghosts of brothers
who mentioned these discretions, these chilled
forces, wallowing skiffs, these jetty-joined tears,
these platitudes.'
I'd wish you would reconsider the stanza about the 'accents.' Accents are in the eye of the beholder. When I go to Maine, for example, I have to remind myself that I am the one who 'talks funny.' :) Your mention of 'strange verbs' is only because the verbs seem strange to you. If you were from Boston, they would only sound 'correct.' Your poem does not need this judgement.
Your ending is, like the sea, strong, yet whimsical. The poem is amazing.
Raynette |
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