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    Parting
    Parting
    Parting
    Ebook114 pages26 minutes

    Parting

    By John Moncure Wetterau

    ()

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    About this ebook

    New and selected poems make an excellent introduction to a fine American poet.
    Dixieland piano late at night in a pine woods … an elderly woman's blue dress … a postal clerk dispensing stamps, packaging, and devotion … a ring and a prayer thrown into the River Ping … a Thai lover on the back of a Honda 125 … a man singing in a sidewalk machine shop … an unexpected death …
    The author's recent poems were written in Maine, Thailand, and Australia. They continue and extend the work in his three full length collections (each generously sampled here).
    The author uses simple words, usually beginning with a description, moving as he writes toward deeper understanding of the subject. "Every poem is a battle against style," he has said, "not to repeat yourself, to let the subject speak with its own voice."
    There is something for everyone in this book. The clear open poems have a glow that strengthens on re-reading. A treat for poetry lovers.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherJohn Moncure Wetterau
    Release dateJan 18, 2013
    ISBN9781301963966
    Parting
    Author

    John Moncure Wetterau

    Born in Greenwich Village, New York City, but raised, mostly, by my grandparents in Woodstock, a small town in the Catskill mountains. Midway through sophomore year at Hamilton College, an inner voice said, "Get out!" It seemed crazy, but I knew it was the right thing to do. A fraternity brother told me I'd have no trouble finding work on the shrimp boats in Key West. A friend and I hitchhiked south. Near the New Jersey line we got a ride with another young guy, Pete. "Where you headed?" "Florida." "Me, too." He told us that he'd gotten up before dawn in a small Vermont town, thrown clothes and a baseball glove in the trunk, left a note on his girlfriend's porch, and taken off. We rocked on down the coast, listening to Brenda Lee, getting warmer each day. I left my friends near Miami and went on to Key West. When I got there, I walked to the harbor and asked for a job on the first boat I found that had anyone on board. The captain said, "Shrimp season's over, kid." I think he felt sorry for me. He pointed to a rusty shrimper across the water. "He might take you." I picked up my bag and ran around to the other jetty, arriving just as the boat began to pull away. A man on deck was doing something with a cable. He wore a sweatshirt and had a two-day growth. "I'm looking for work," I shouted over the engine. "You a winch man?" The winch occupied a large part of the deck, a complicated assembly of giant gears and levers. The strip of water below my feet widened. It was jump or forget it. I had a vision of winching the boat upside down in the Gulf. I shook my head and walked to the Southern Cross Hotel, a wooden building with white peeling paint and a sign declaring, The Southernmost Hotel in the United States. I wrote it down in a notebook and have been writing ever since. Along the way I served in the Air Force, earned a degree in computer science from the University of Hawaii, married twice, and raised children. The adventures, the loves and betrayals, the teachers, the lessons---they are in my stories and poems, where, like all writers, I have tried to make of my deeper bio something worthwhile.

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      Book preview

      Parting - John Moncure Wetterau

      New Poems

      The Artist's Reward

      always the blank page,

      the blank day,

      to make your marks

      (as Colleen put it),

      another chance

      to get it right,

      or closer

      Sankta Lucia – 2011

      December, a white church

      on a Maine island

      at dusk—Sankta Lucia

      in a snow-white dress,

      wearing a wreath of lighted candles,

      leads her attendants singing

      through the crowded pews.

      She is newly beautiful,

      standing in front, flanked

      on each side by younger girls

      in order of their size and age,

      all in white.

      At one end, extra close

      to the next attendant,

      the shortest looks up earnestly,

      round face, round eyes, tiny

      round compressed mouth.

      She is too young or shy to sing.

      She is hoping for a good outcome;

      she hopes with all her being

      for something sensed

      in the air above us.

      As Sankta Lucia promises light,

      the little girl prays without words;

      together, we will brave the dark.

      O Rosy

      Dusan said you died a beautiful death,

      "at peace, the complete peace given

      only to those of great integrity."

      Ten years since we lay together

      in the small bedroom with the roof

      window, making light of life.

      We loved you,

      your kindness flowering

      from a field of sorrow.

      Lying beside you, feeling

      the pain never spoken…

      O Rosy, I have not your alchemy,

      have little of your kindness,

      how do I change this to gold?

      I can't see for tears. Can only howl

      like a wolf: Rosy

      O Rosy

      After Fate Has Ripped Away

      The Curtain Of Your Dreams

      And You See That Everything

      Is Taken From You

      lightness

      spreads through you,

      quiet as

      sunrise at sea

      My Uncle Robin

      Light

      in your cabin window,

      practicing late:

      Dixieland piano

      fading through the pines,

      vibrant, disciplined,

      mellower each year,

      keeping faith with

      the sound you loved—

      only faith can carry on

      what matters;

      I heard this in the woods

      forty years ago, but

      didn't fully understand.

      Robin, you should know,

      The Yellow Dog Jazz Band

      is playing your music

      in

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