Hiked through the dunes today, and I took a pic of one of my favorite dune shacks, which was Harry Kemp’s. It is odd there is nothing to identify the shack, but I suppose folks don’t much remember the poet of the dunes these days. Walking around the shack, I was definitely put in mind of Kemp, and here is one of my favorites of his poems:
Seaside Talkers (Provincetown Summer 1917)
They drank the bitter, salt wine of the sea,
They breathed up drowning bubbles from below
While we sat in the storm’s red after-glow
Discussing Art and Love – sipping tea.
I was a poet, he, an artist; she,
A famous actress . . . lightly to and fro
We shuttled epigrams as salesmen show
Rich silks that change in colors momently.
And while the fishers clung to planks and spars
And rode the huge backs of waves, we sat
Beneath a young night full of summer stars:
And we discussed of life this way and that
Until we felt, when we arose for bed,
That there was nothing left had not been said.