On the English Riviera by Karen Kelsay
by Jonathon | 2.23.12
We step across the green onto the promenade
and watch a sloop transition past the harbor of Torquay.
It’s late afternoon. Beside me, a German woman
chatters about retirement. Her husband sleeps
in a hired deck chair, his yellow canvas hat
slanted across his face. Beside a long line of beach huts,
a mother rummages through her bag for coins
and sends her daughter to the ice cream stand.
I trace my finger over your skin, feeling
a raised line between the wrist and thumb—
the lonely brief of your own fast-track, wheelwright
ridden past. Its faint glossiness has tattooed
you with your former self, a thin scar from
your racing days. We marvel at the lack
of waves and watch the sun wedge purple shadows
between rows of white Victorians
near the strand. Strange trees line the walk
as easterly winds chicane through their fronds.
They remind me of old people, the trees: minds rustling
over a sea of yesterdays, hands fluttering at foreigners
on the English Riviera—each with a story
ridged along their quaint English palms.
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Karen Kelsay is always welcome to play in our sandbox. A brief bio can be found here, and more of her work published on WIZ can be found here. Her White Violet Press is also worth a look.
February 25th, 2012 at 1:28 pm
I’ve been struck by the variety of form and style in this little “triptych” of poems. You are known as a formalist, of course, and demonstrate here a sensitivity to form as an organic principle. More than a principle: a fact. Form is, even when it follows know set of rules, no labelled shape or structure. Poetry must speak, and it must suggest, and your poems rarely disappoint on both fronts. Thanks again for sharing them.
April 8th, 2012 at 6:06 am
Very scenic moment. Sentimental without being maudlin. Tight execution.