The following poem, here in English only, was drafted one noontime when I found myself dining on bar en croûte (crusted sea bass) in a restaurant opposite a woman who was seated at a table on a raised platform, which could be described as a kind of quarterdeck, and who was wearing, as she dined, “sawed off” green leather gloves.

Later that evening, I went to hear the sublime pianist Mitsuko Uchida playing a Mozart concerto with the excellent Orchestre de Paris in the acoustically superb Grande Salle of la Philharmonie de Paris. And after Madame Uchida concluded, l’Orchestre played Anders Hillborg‘s Hell Mountain, which is also an excellent piece, and something about it inspired the rhythm established in the first verse of the poem below.

It may be noted that these first lines and several of the others feature two or more stressed syllables in a row (“gloves; green”; “fish plucked”; “down, people”; “warm sun cream”). I don’t that any of these, except the latter, would qualify as spondees, but they led to the poem’s original title: “The Rhyme of the Spondeed Mariner.”

In the terminology of poetry, a spondee is a metrical foot of two syllables, either both long or both stressed. In ancient Greece, at times libations were accompanied by hymns in spondaic rhythm.

It can only be the length of the poem and a wintry lethargy that prevents me from developing versions en français y en español. The lack of stressed syllables in French might be compensated for by longer vowel sounds. (Toutefois, je continue d’être impressionné lorsque j’entends un professeur de musique français prononcer le nom d’une de mes camarades, « Martina », sans accentuer la deuxième syllabe, comme nous le ferions en anglais ou en espagnol.)

English

And there we kissed, of course we kissed

The ladies all dined in sawed-off gloves; green as green algae.

Dinner was an enormous fish, plucked directly from the sea.

My book, it seemed best put down, people were staring at me,

While the waiter the wine list brandished, pointing to a page.

It seemed my palette must be rinsed with a bottle of Montrachet.

Hadn’t I thought, when I came aboard, my work would be delayed?

On the lido deck, an older swimmer, her suit hanging down,

Thought to make a thoughtful dive, elbows touching her crown.

And then her rib cage hit the water, making a hollow sound,

Two ladies rushed to save her, after downing their chablis.

But the swimmer, for all her shivering, was as alive as you or me,

And all who’d rushed to make videos, now trashed them grumpily.

I went reeling back to my cabin (too much Burgundy),

But there I found the bathroom flooded, a maid changing the sheets.

I longed, I longed, and then I thought: what’s longing done for me?

And so I put on my Speedo (maiden fingers warm sun cream).

We hand in hand to the muster station, feigning emergency.

And there we kissed, of course we kissed, this is poetry.

And all the sawed-off ladies were no longer to be found,

And the ship, the captain listing, it seemed had run aground.

And many were heard to imprecate, but the maid made not a sound.

Certain I was the fault was mine, and began smoothing her skirt,

But no, it seemed, a gaffing hook, had caused some blood to squirt.

A band-aid I was quick to apply, first removing all the dirt.

What more or less can I say, a wedding ring I’ve bought.

And another fish, yet more large, on the shoals is being sought.

Meanwhile, yes, of Montrachet the lady has generously thought.

— Poem and photograph by William Eaton.