Parting

By John Moncure Wetterau

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.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Moncure Wetterau
• Release date: Jan 18, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301963966

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.

Book preview

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