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 know 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.)

Finally, I must note: the poem was revised in July 2026.

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 was best put down, people were staring at me,

And then 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 a hanging down,

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

But when her rib cage hit the water, oh did it resound.

Two ladies rushed to the rescue, after downing their Chablis.

(The swimmer, for all her shivering, was as alive as you or me.

Many a hurrying video-maker retreated grumpily.)

Me, I reeled back to my cabin (too much Burgundy),

And found the bathroom a flooding, a maid changing the sheets.

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

The maid nestled my Speedo over a layer of warm sun cream,

And 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.

(Many were heard to imprecate, while the maid made lovely sounds.)

Called, we might call it, I was reaching under her skirt,

When all of a sudden, a gaffing hook, caused some blood to squirt.

A band-aid I quickly applied (after removing all of the dirt).

What more can I say, this very day, a wedding ring I bought.

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

Meanwhile, yes, of more Montrachet, the ladies have kindly thought.

— Poem and photograph by William Eaton.