12.7.15

I saw this poem today and thought it was the poetic equivalent of a mic-drop.


And the Sea


by Patrick Ryan Frank




Once, I wanted to be Hemingway.
But so did Hemingway. That act is hard—
dumb facts decked out as art, and anyway,
who gets what they want? And then who cares?
What matters when the water at your feet
is running out without you? I grew my beard
and bought a little boat on credit, named
it after myself and painted all of it blue,
then put us out to sea. And when it’s calm
and when the sun is out, we disappear.
We’re gone. What else was I supposed to do?


I haven't read much Hemmingway, and none of it nautical, but here are some quotes from The Old Man and the Sea to maybe get at what Patrick was saying. 


“He always thought of the sea as 'la mar' which is what people call her in Spanish when they love her. Sometimes those who love her say bad things of her but they are always said as though she were a woman. Some of the younger fishermen, those who used buoys as floats for their lines and had motorboats, bought when the shark livers had brought much money, spoke of her as 'el mar' which is masculine.They spoke of her as a contestant or a place or even an enemy. But the old man always thought of her as feminine and as something that gave or withheld great favours, and if she did wild or wicked things it was because she could not help them. The moon affects her as it does a woman, he thought.” 


“He no longer dreamed of storms, nor of women, nor of great occurrences, nor of great fish, nor fights, nor contests of strength, nor of his wife. He only dreamed of places now and the lions on the beach. They played like young cats in the dusk and he loved them as he loved the boy. He never dreamed about the boy. He simply woke, looked out the open door at the moon and unrolled his trousers and put them on.” 

― Ernest Hemingway, The Old Man and the Sea



I'm not sure what to make of the poem, whether is the speaker is upset that he followed a pattern made by another writer, or upset because that pattern seemed inevitable, or maybe that he didn't think of it sooner? To maybe get a better idea for his voice, here are some more of his poems. 

Gamophobia 

          ~the fear of marriage 

It's just that each of us is engaged already—
to Death, that great polygamist. Why take
a hand that will be taken from you, steady
or not, leaving just the anger and ache
of a lover lost to a rival? I can't compete
with that insatiable heart, which burns and burns
us all to nothing. His love is utter, complete,
the stuff of legends, impossible to spurn.
Every time we cross the street, I fear
he'll catch us holding hands. He's the jealous type.
I can see it now: we're kissing and Death appears
with a rush and crash, taking bloody swipes
as the neighbors say, Kids and their reckless hearts;
everybody knew it was doomed from the start.

Projectionist


There is nothing that I cannot show you,
no face nor body, hour of any day,
no place too far or strange for me to reveal
among the permutations of my light,
penumbras, focus and the turning reel.
Though we will never meet, I will know you
when you settle in your seat and the fugitives hide
and a green car idles in an alleyway;
while always I in my Plutonic dark—
unknown, unknowingly beloved—work
lavishly my magic with my lamp
and lens and spool. Look, the lovers linger
on a hushed side street. Look, the enemy camp.
And here you are, rushing between my fingers.



These works are intriguing, they ask for closer reading. I like that that they are similar in size and length (the last two being semi-traditionally-structured sonnets), and each builds a story and image in a short time, but still leads the reader to what is not written, that may follow. I like the first-person narration from the speaker as well, it gets right to the meat of things. I hope you like them too.