This is a true story. The poem was inspired by Elle's The Overnight Ferry.
A scholar might have liked the way
We droned within a Chinese painting:
Mist and half-seen rocky shores. The
Town itself was disappointing, raw,
As west coast cities are, nowhere
Near so entertaining as brochures
Had claimed it'd be. We marched
For hours in the drizzle, my son and
Two mercenary girls, over from
Japan. I was the hapless chaperone.
The girls went through every store,
The tawdry shit-chic hippy boutiques,
Sterile, soulless shopping malls.
We stopped to eat, but they disdained
The places serving ethnic fare.
We went, instead, to chains, and ate
Their dismal, starchy food. The evening
Took its time, but came, and we
Went to our separate rooms inside
A nondescript motel. I crept downstairs
For alcohol, and drank myself to sleep
Before a movie I'd already seen. I
Have no idea what they did. The morning
Came. We shopped some more, the
Same damned stores and malls we shopped
Before, but, this time, without rain. At last,
We had to board the ferry. In the brilliant
Evening sun, we hastened from Victoria,
To thread the Sound between the mountains,
To the west, the blue Olympics; to the east,
The white Cascades, and, here and there,
The great volcanoes: Baker north (where
Someone almost dear to me as you is living),
Rainier central. To the south, Saint Helens
With its broken cone. The sun had set when
We reached port. The mercenaries fell asleep.
I stared out of the window of the car that came
To take us "home." I saw your face and
Told myself if you should ever come to grips
With loving me, my love remains. I'll take
You with me on the ferry, even if the weather's
Bad, and we can go to Canada, our destination
Less important than our time together, far
From everyone, alone.
Poetry by Lawrence Beck
Read 52 times
Written on 2016-05-25 at 14:10
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Northwest Passage
The trip up had its charms, I guess.A scholar might have liked the way
We droned within a Chinese painting:
Mist and half-seen rocky shores. The
Town itself was disappointing, raw,
As west coast cities are, nowhere
Near so entertaining as brochures
Had claimed it'd be. We marched
For hours in the drizzle, my son and
Two mercenary girls, over from
Japan. I was the hapless chaperone.
The girls went through every store,
The tawdry shit-chic hippy boutiques,
Sterile, soulless shopping malls.
We stopped to eat, but they disdained
The places serving ethnic fare.
We went, instead, to chains, and ate
Their dismal, starchy food. The evening
Took its time, but came, and we
Went to our separate rooms inside
A nondescript motel. I crept downstairs
For alcohol, and drank myself to sleep
Before a movie I'd already seen. I
Have no idea what they did. The morning
Came. We shopped some more, the
Same damned stores and malls we shopped
Before, but, this time, without rain. At last,
We had to board the ferry. In the brilliant
Evening sun, we hastened from Victoria,
To thread the Sound between the mountains,
To the west, the blue Olympics; to the east,
The white Cascades, and, here and there,
The great volcanoes: Baker north (where
Someone almost dear to me as you is living),
Rainier central. To the south, Saint Helens
With its broken cone. The sun had set when
We reached port. The mercenaries fell asleep.
I stared out of the window of the car that came
To take us "home." I saw your face and
Told myself if you should ever come to grips
With loving me, my love remains. I'll take
You with me on the ferry, even if the weather's
Bad, and we can go to Canada, our destination
Less important than our time together, far
From everyone, alone.
Poetry by Lawrence Beck
Read 52 times
Written on 2016-05-25 at 14:10
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text| Texts |
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