"Landing the Shore End of the Atlantic Cable" by Robert Charles Dudley‘The Transatlantic Serpent’s Tale’ and Other Poetry by Glenn Turner The Society May 10, 2020 Poetry 9 Comments The Transatlantic Serpent’s Tale Do you recall the time when I was born? A time of ferment—Honest Abe was dead. The Civil War had left the country torn, But did not stop the fateful push ahead. ‘Twas then some bold, ambitious men were led To send a steamer through the ocean brine, To lay the first communication line. From Ireland’s shores began the epic trip To drop a cable into the oceans’ keep. Thus sired by sweating sailors aboard the ship Who midwifed the boat and laid me down to sleep, I slithered like an eel into the deep. And when the land of Newfoundland was found The captain proudly brought my tail aground. A dozen years, the crew had worked, inspired. By national will such labor and money was spent. The captain penned the very first message wired: “All’s well, Thank God, the cable is laid!” he sent. With poems and songs they cheered the noble event. And here I have lain since the days of the Civil War. At first I was famous, but now I’m remembered no more. On The Cafe Patio Why should the world be over-wise, In counting all our tears and sighs? Nay, let them only see us, while We wear the mask. —from “We Wear the Mask”, by Paul Laurence Dunbar, 1913 I visited a street cafe, and took a table by the tree where nobody would notice me. I wore my usual mask that day. At length the heedless waiter came. The blowing of the autumn air set shadows dancing everywhere like some uncanny woodland game. A book of poems held me in thrall. I lingered in that peaceful place to start to map the inward space uncovered by some poet’s scrawl. I sipped my coffee, had some food, like other diners sitting near. The poet’s riddles in my ear set me in a bewildered mood. The cafe faded from my sight. I drifted in poetic trance, then, drawing near in a mystic dance a vast mosaic came to light. Its colored pieces always fell in place to form a perfect world for just a moment, then were hurled into a cosmic, swirling well. This happens everywhere I go. Sometimes some one will raise a brow, but no one seems to notice now, here on this cafe patio. Glenn Turner is a retired man in Southern California. Mostly self-taught in poetry, he enjoys practicing the traditional forms, and inspiring the reader. He has written a variety of poems including ballads and humorous doggerel. He edited the newsletter for the Ventura County Writing Club for awhile a few years ago. NOTE: The Society considers this page, where your poetry resides, to be your residence as well, where you may invite family, friends, and others to visit. Feel free to treat this page as your home and remove anyone here who harasses or disrespects you. Simply send an email to email@example.com. Put “Remove Comment” in the subject line and list which comment or comments you would like removed. The Society does not endorse any views expressed in individual poems or comments and reserves the right to remove any comments to maintain the decorum of this website and the integrity of the Society. Share this:Click to share on Twitter (Opens in new window)Click to share on Facebook (Opens in new window)Click to print (Opens in new window)Click to share on LinkedIn (Opens in new window)Click to share on WhatsApp (Opens in new window)Click to email this to a friend (Opens in new window)Click to share on Pinterest (Opens in new window) 9 Responses Joe Tessitore May 10, 2020 I enjoyed them both and found them both very thought-provoking. “On the Cafe Patio” captures for me the bewilderment of our present reality and, I guess, the unreality of it all. Reply Julian D. Woodruff May 10, 2020 The 1st person POV in the cable poem is a nice conceit. The Introdiction of more and more “extra” syllables after the 1st stanza seemed almost an analogy for the ever lengthening cable. Reply C.B. Anderson May 10, 2020 Or, perhaps the extra syllables are simply the result of failing to keep track of the metrical feet. This is fixable. If in S3 L2 “in” had been used instead of “into,” and in S3 L3 “on” had been used instead of “aboard,” some of this would have been easily avoided. We are told not to count syllables, but counting feet is another matter. Reply Joe Tessitore May 10, 2020 The Weeping Willow The weeping willow bowed her head So none could see the tears she shed Nor ascertain just why she wept Nor share the hidden pain she kept. Then on a blanket spread beneath A mother wove a willow wreath And gave it to her little child And then the weeping willow smiled. Happy Mothers Day Reply Susan Jarvis Bryant May 11, 2020 Joe, this is simply beautiful. It puts me and Mike in mind of Trees by Joyce Kilmer… only better. Reply Joseph S. Salemi May 10, 2020 The use of Dunbar’s poem from We Wear the Mask as an inspiration for commentary on our current predicament prompts this question: Why hasn’t anybody used Hawthorne’s powerful short story “The Minister’s Black Veil” as a similar inspiration? Reply Rob Crisell May 10, 2020 I really enjoyed both these poems, especially On the Cafe Patio. As imbibers of poetry, we’ve all had an experience similar to that described in that poem. Reply David Watt May 11, 2020 ‘On The Cafe Patio’ is my favorite of the these two distinctive poems. To read poetry in public is indeed likely to raise the odd eyebrow these days. Reply Susan Jarvis Bryant May 11, 2020 On The Café Patio is magical. I can feel the autumn breeze and the see the poetry book with its words rising up to form a new and “perfect world” … for “just a moment”. Wonderful words have me playing a part in mysterious new surrounds on many an occasion – they’re my masked salvation. A marvelous read, indeed. 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