Landward Pale
There is every evidence of an increasing interest in ATLANTIC poetry. As an incentive for writers yet unestablished, twice a year we set aside a number of pages in the ATLANTIC to be devoted to the work of young poets.
THE YOUNG POETS
September, the end of summer, tonight
Flashlights and sweat-shirted lifeguards
Prowl the surf. The fires are lit;
Flashlights and sweat-shirted lifeguards
Prowl the surf. The fires are lit;
For this evening a child is lost, and falls
Now, far away and open-eyed
Beyond the soft cry of any mother.
Now, far away and open-eyed
Beyond the soft cry of any mother.
The winds start daggers at our chests,
And the breakers blunder undisturbed
In long rows to the beach.
And the breakers blunder undisturbed
In long rows to the beach.
Under these darkening winds, a child,
With sunburnt nose red as a knuckle,
Runs with the undertow, past the bulk
And stretch of jetty . . .
With sunburnt nose red as a knuckle,
Runs with the undertow, past the bulk
And stretch of jetty . . .
whose pale throat
Whose white fingers and open eyes hang
Above the silver fish that poke at
The cold bloated belly like a crust of bread.
Whose white fingers and open eyes hang
Above the silver fish that poke at
The cold bloated belly like a crust of bread.
On the boardwalk couples pause,
Move on to the pavilion where the dance
Music slaps from the tall speakers like sheets
Drying in a stiff wind, and fades
Out over the water to dark air
And the small floating and final Silence
Rolling forever
Move on to the pavilion where the dance
Music slaps from the tall speakers like sheets
Drying in a stiff wind, and fades
Out over the water to dark air
And the small floating and final Silence
Rolling forever
Landward pale. . . .