Sea-side Town

[Hawkman]

The cut-price English sea-side town
has a sort of quiet desperation,
like an ageing tart prowling
the backstreets of Montmartre.

The deserted maze of rain-glazed streets,
haunted by the lingering ghosts
of Fish and Chips,
eventually leads to the sea front,
with its brick-dust beach and shoddy pier.

Marching out to sea on rust streaked legs
it proclaims itself extant
with weary cheer and peeling paint.

On the promenade you will find the inevitable mine,
shorn of its horns, with freshly scarlet coat
and bright white belt, declaring its intent
to collect for shipwrecked sailors.
You will also find the nearly dead,
sitting back to back in temples to the wind.

Those who can, gaze out at tankers
anchored in the cloud-roofed bay,
while grown-up schoolboys,
optimistically in shorts and shades,
pad by on flip-flops,
determined to enjoy
the memory of summers
from a bygone age.

[Bar22do]

It reminds me of a scene from a movie I vaguely remember, in black and white, with the padding schoolboys in shorts, white skin, all looking sickly...
You loosen some of your rhymes, which is all the better for this atmosphere-poem, so beautiful. My preferred stanza is the last, climatic, great.

Thanks a lot, my friend Hawk, Bar

[PrinceMyshkin]

Maybe it's because I spent much of the day reading the last pages of a remarkable novel, my first reaction to this was This is good enough to be a novel! There is something you've done here that has the virtues of both genres, the spaciousness of the novel where an author asserts the time to enclose his characters in the setting that influences them, and the bracing immediacy of (some) poetry.

Hawkman! You've come bloody close to outdoing yourself!

[tailor STATELY]

You do paint a vivid scene.

Brick-dust beach ? I can not imagine.


The Sands of Cali

Oh how I love the beaches of Cali
From fine white sands the beaches vary
to a coarse pebbly matrix
with the occasional jade and
sea-worn glass tossed in
Oh how I love the beaches of Cali
Too long have I longed I long to tarry

tailor STATELY
7/24/2010

[Hawkman]

It reminds me of a scene from a movie I vaguely remember, in black and white, with the padding schoolboys in shorts, white skin, all looking sickly...
You loosen some of your rhymes, which is all the better for this atmosphere-poem, so beautiful. My preferred stanza is the last, climatic, great.

Thanks a lot, my friend Hawk, Bar

Sweet Bar,

You know, I think this place would actually look more attractive in black and white. It's that curious quality of the black and white photograph which always looks like art, whereas a colour depticion of the same scene always looks like an amateur happy-snap, unless a phenomenal effort has been put into the presentation of the image.

I'm happy that you found it so evocative and pleasing to read. I wish I'd had the courage to leave the title as the name of the place, but I was afraid of being sued by their tourist board. :D


Maybe it's because I spent much of the day reading the last pages of a remarkable novel, my first reaction to this was This is good enough to be a novel! There is something you've done here that has the virtues of both genres, the spaciousness of the novel where an author asserts the time to enclose his characters in the setting that influences them, and the bracing immediacy of (some) poetry.

Hawkman! You've come bloody close to outdoing yourself!

Hi Prince. I had to go there on Thursday. It was raining, well, deluging actually, periodically at least. I walked around and these phrases kept forming in my head to describe what I was seeing. I couldn't help thinking how disappointed I'd have been if I was a kid who'd been promised a trip to the seaside and then been confronted with this! Dull, dull, dull.

Victorian terraced houses to the rear and the slate grey of the bay stretching out to the horizon in front. the only interesting bits were the red cliffs a couple of miles away on eihter side.

The place has no variety or drama to hold the eye.


You do paint a vivid scene.

Brick-dust beach ? I can not imagine.



In this part of South Devon, the coastal cliffs are of a pinkish red sandstone. The beaches which form beneath them are brick red.




The Sands of Cali

Oh how I love the beaches of Cali
From fine white sands the beaches vary
to a coarse pebbly matrix
with the occasional jade and
sea-worn glass tossed in
Oh how I love the beaches of Cali
Too long have I longed I long to tarry

tailor STATELY
7/24/2010

Thanks for sharing this, tailor. The last line bothers me a little, I can't quite get the sense of it. May I suggest,

"Too long have I longed to long to tarry."

Regardless, you too paint a vivid picture with your discrete verse.

Thank you all for your comments and for liking the poem.

Live long and prosper, comrades all and fellow scribes :D

H

[hillwalker]

Well, Hawk, having spent much of my life on the Costa-del-North Wales you describe the slightly tacky condition of a typical British holiday resort perfectly.

I loved the phrase

the nearly dead,
sitting back to back in temples to the wind

and I'm pleased you avoided the cliche of the knotted handkerchief headgear and the scent of hot dog on the breeze.

Perhaps the threat of rising sea-levels might not be such a bad thing, as long as it is selective.

H

[adityasam]

With this great piece, you lost me there.

[dafydd manton]

Hillwalker speaks of places like Rhyl, Prestatyn, Colwyn Bay, but it took me to the Mumbles, across from Swansea and Port Talbot, or Porthcawl. Either way, the great days of the British Seaside, and I could almost taste the salt - on the chips - feel the gritty sand between toes and teeth, remember walking up rotten planking to the end of the pier, and wondering if it was going to collapse beneath me and drop me into the sea. That foul, pink candy-floss, amusement arcades, a faint air of tattiness (although Blackpool or Skegness out of season can do that!), paddling in the sea, and watching unspeakable things floating about. Wonderful. I have to say it put me in mind of Dylan Thomas's prose on a seaside holiday, which is one of my favourites. "A tune on an ice-cream cornet. A slap of sea and a tickle of sand......"
Great piece of work, mate. Very, very well crafted. Cheers

D

[blank|verse]

There are some nice, descriptive moments in what is an effectively evocative poem, Hawk.

I think I enjoyed the bits, like hill suggested, where you use figurative language and move beyond that which is visible to the naked eye. (And have I read the phrase 'prowling the [back]streets' somewhere before?? :smilewinkgrin:)

I can see how perhaps you want to eschew the more overtly 'poetic' when describing a scene you don't find inspirational, but that does run the risk of not being that inspirational to the reader. And it did leave me feeling rather sorry for the poor old British seaside resort, which isn't unaccustomed to being spoken off dismissively.

But it did send me back to the wonderful Hamnavoe (http://www.poetryarchive.org/poetryarchive/singlePoem.do;jsessionid=E1A6BC1CC188A00E2AC7AB80F 5B22EBE?poemId=1540) by George Mackay Brown.

[Hawkman]

Hi, hill,

Thanks for reading and for your observations. The North Welsh coast is something of a mystery to me as I’ve only seen it from way out to sea. :D

I’m glad you liked that phrase. I thought it described those ubiquitous neo-classical, concrete “shelters”, where the suicidal can contemplate infinity, whist exposed to the full blast of the elements. (I wanted to call them pergolas but my dictionary defines a pergola as a trellis for climbing plants.)

As for the Gumby impression, I consider that a caricature. I don’t think I have ever actually seen anyone so attired in the flesh. You are right about the requirement for selectivity though :D

adityasam,

Sorry you don’t follow. This poem is redolent with quintessentially English cultural paradigms, so I can understand if you are a bit bewildered by it. If you like you can pm me with questions about it and I’ll do my best to explain.

Dafydd, bach,

Yup I’ve been to Mumbles and it’s a paradise compared with ”----“. There’s just nothing there! A backwater holiday resort with no holidaymakers, bypassed by the 21st Century and probably most of the 20th as well. and I was there in July as well! I wish I could write like Dylan Thomas, but then if I could I’d probably drink myself to death with boredom too. I mean, when you’re that good, what’s to look forward to? You can only get worse or write the same thing over and over again. :D

So Thank you chum for rating me ‘umble scribblings. The cheque is in the post…

B/V,

Firstly I want to thank you for the link and introducing me to yet another poet I’d not heard of. The poem in question is stunning but then he had something to write about! There is a wealth of detail described there and so much life to portray. “-----“ is dead, empty, faded and sad, and I hope that is what I conveyed in the poem. Mea Culpa for the prowling backstreets. I thought of “lurking in the crumbling alleys of Pigalle”, but my memory of the place is based on impressions gained when trying to find my way through, on foot in the dark, in the rain, 28 years ago. It might not be like that now.

Strangely I did find this seaside location inspirational. As I said to Prince, everywhere I looked I had flashes of insight and phrases bounced around inside my head. (I had flashes of Betjemen :D )

I did want you to feel sorry for the resort. That was kind of the point.

Overtly poetical simile and metaphor would have been out of place in the poem. It would have obscured the starkness of a living ghost town.
While I was writing it I cut masses of flowery stuff because it was obscuring the truth of the poem. It also interfered with the rhythm and flow of the piece. Anyway, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, it’s not really my style.

So thanks again to you all for dropping by.

Live long and Prosper, H

[Alexander III]

As has been said, strong vivid descriptions.

I found the beginning to drag on a little to much, however the ending was great, I I could offer any advice it would be to cut out some of the excess, making it more precise.

[AuntShecky]

Couple of quibbles, a question, and a comment.

quibbles all re: the third verse. Could a comma be substituted for the period after "leg"? Also, I'm confused about "pealing paint": did you mean "peeling," or is this intentional wordplay?

Question -- 4th verse. (You don't have to answer this.) Forgive me my ignorance, but the image of the "mine" has left me asea. I don't know what it is. Also, are the nearly dead bodies shellfish and other moribund shorelife?

Overall comment-- The variegated line-lengths and their arrangements seem to suggest the back-and-forth motion of the waves. Very nice.
The images (at least the ones this Statesider could recognize) were quite evocative of a seaside resort. And Bar was right when she said it reminded her of a movie. It reminds me of "The Entertainer" starring Sir Laurence Olivier, as the sleazy title character. Even though your verse suggests some run-down elements, it's not depressing, though. The final verse also differs from that 50s era film in that it brings the scene up to the 21st century, with contemporary terms as "shades" (for sunglasses) and "flip-flops" for those plastic things impersonating shoes.

All in all I'd say this poem was successful.

[dafydd manton]

Far be it from me to argue with Alex, but in my 'umble opinion, the first 10 lines sum up the faded glory and sad situation of all those places we know so well, and probably avoid as a result. Morecambe, to name but one! I thought that the balance was great, but that is from the perspective of some clown who couldn't write a decent poem to save my life! I hve to confess, I just yearn to lean on some rusted railing somewhere, and watch the tide going slowly out, as though it were all a bit too much.
Whatever became of "Kiss Me Quick! hats, Miners' Fortnight and rolled up trouser legs?

[Hawkman]

A3 Thanks for stopping by and I’m glad you liked what you liked. Sorry you thought it a little long but I don’t think I could get much more precise :D I will have to experiment with one word poems :devil:

Auntie, hello good evening and welcome!

With regard to your first query I’m afraid I wasn’t aware of the period after legs, it isn’t supposed to be there and to be honest I just couldn’t see it. (I’ve misplaced my reading glasses) I may start posting everything in Bold so I’ll have a better chance of picking up on this sort of error. The other typo pealing/peeling I’m sorry to say I completely failed to notice. It would have been nice to claim that it was deliberate but I can’t really see how such a pun would work in this instance. I just wish someone had pointed it out earlier.

If you want to know what a mine is, may I refer you to “Minesweeping” by yours truly. They are large metal floaty things designed to blow up ships. If you want a good look at one then visit my profile page and look in the Winter sports album. You’ll have to be logged in to see it.

The Shipwrecked Mariners Society use defused WW2 mine carcases as collecting vessels and leave them lying around the seafronts of British seaside towns. The nearly dead are not shellfish, although you may find the odd crab amongst them :D

I notice you mention The Entertainer, with dear, dear, Larry, but you might also (and perhaps more accurately) think of The Punch and Judy Man as portrayed by the late, great Tony Hanckock.

Glad that you consider it a success. Thanks for reading and enjoying the poem.

Hi Dafydd,

Of course Morcambe has the added disadvantage that the Arch Narcissist, Antony Gormley, has cluttered it up with rusting replicas of himself. They hardly add to the faded charm of the place.

I think that it is still possible to obtain a kiss me quick hat from the residual emporiums pervading the seaside resort, but miner’s fortnight went the way of the miner I suspect. You may feel free to roll up your trouser-legs any time you please, providing, of course, that you refrain from doing so where there is moving traffic. :D

Thanks for your staunch defence of the ode to the seaside resort!

Many thanks to you all for your comments. Live long and prosper - H

[dafydd manton]

I don't want to sound elitist, but until you have encountered pale death knocking at the English coastline, and were of a certain vintage, you probably wouldn't understand the sentiments so well as those of us who remember the ice-cream wafer, the Punch and Judy shows, the sandflies, the donkeys, the hankies, the braces and flat caps, the paper flags on sandcastles, the realisation that a bikini wasn't just a swimsuit.....

[Hawkman]

Whatever happened to the ice cream wafer? I haven't seen one since about 1972!

[hillwalker]

I think it disappeared with the choc-ice.

[Hawkman]

Ah, but choc-ices are still around, they just stuck a stick up their rears and called them Magnums.

[dafydd manton]

Ouch!

[hillwalker]

Whatever happened to the ice cream wafer? I haven't seen one since about 1972!

Which made me wonder - there's probably a freezer compartment in one of them confectionary shops on Rhyl's sea-front that still has one lurking down beneath the permafrost. They don't tend to go in for stock rotation that much.

H

[dafydd manton]

Yeah, with a price in shillings and pence!

[Hawkman]

Ah the permafrost of ancestral freezers, handed down through generations of kiosk owners, with the preserved carcas of an ice cream wafer languishing like a mammoth in Siberian Tundra. Great image, deserving of a poem in its own right.

If the price is still in Lsd I may well have some odd bits of change with which I would be able to purchase it in the appropriate tender. Should be less than half a crown I think.

[dafydd manton]

One and a tanner, as I recall. Botulism extra.

[Asphara]

I love this poem! I've lived in such towns and you make me nostalgic. This poem really understands the aesthetics of decay in these towns; with the fish and chip shops. This is a great poem and actually quite moving.

[hillwalker]

Ah the permafrost of ancestral freezers, handed down through generations of kiosk owners, with the preserved carcas of an ice cream wafer languishing like a mammoth in Siberian Tundra. Great image, deserving of a poem in its own right.

Your wish is my..... etc. etc.

The Choc-Ice’s Lament

In August 1968
I last saw light of day;
a flash of Bingo Arcade lights
then deep in ice I lay.
They buried me in Magna,
but I didn’t make a sound
I just curled up in gratitude -
‘Thank Walls’ I’d not been found.
A Mivvi bivvied next to me
bank holiday weekend
but then a drunken stag party
from Oldham marked her end.
The winter was the quietest time
interred beneath the ‘mob’;
some rebel Neopolitans;
‘back of the wagon’ job.
Then came that dreaded afternoon
my life went ‘glug glug glug’
with poor Luigi left in charge -
he pulled the ruddy plug.

:lurk5:

[dafydd manton]

Now that I do like, especially the bit "A Mivvi bivvied next to me! Can't stop laughing!!

[Hawkman]

Three cheers for the perambulator; hip, hip...

Thanks hill, that was magic!

[Hawkman]

I love this poem! I've lived in such towns and you make me nostalgic. This poem really understands the aesthetics of decay in these towns; with the fish and chip shops. This is a great poem and actually quite moving.

Thanks, and I'm glad it struck a chord for you. H

[qimissung]

It gives a good description of decaying towns anywhere; believe me I've driven through quite a few in Texas and Oklahoma (has anyone seen The Last Picture Show?).

Excellent and sadly evocative, Hawkman.

[Hawkman]

Thanks qim and yes I have. Peter Bogdanovich never really lived up to his promise as a director but he made more of a name for himself as a pundit. (for a while anyway)

I'm glad it resonated with you.

Best, H

[qimissung]

Yeah, that movie was the peak of his career, although Paper Moon was also good.

And hillwaker,The Choc-Ice's Lament-brilliant! :D

[Jerrybaldy]

H
By coincidence I have just returned from a few days in Blackpool and so your poem was even more apt. Would just like to add that all the beauty was in the peeling paint and rust and all that left me cold was the plastic and the new. Its not nostalgia as is from a time before my own, but all the warmth seems to be in the past.
cheers
JB

[Hawkman]

I can quite understand that, Jerry. It was the people who made the atmosphere and the people have changed with the times. Once the seaside resort was the working man's escape, a simple pleasure to be looked forward to for a week or two once a year. Entire factories would holiday together. But like I said, the world has changed. Now it's Las Vegas style casinos, binge drinking and brashness. Like you said, the warmth is missing.

Best, H