Poetry, they say, can be an expression incapable of being put in
words. That is certainly not true of Bill Arnold's Beachcomber. It
is a book which resonates with feelings, things felt, and sensed,
with all the vivid senses of the human soul, including the author's
personal history and blended with a genuine sense of Florida. This
is a work that exists in the heart of reader, and freely shares
emotions we all share in our closest relationships, especially
love, and all its manifestations: between the poet and his deepest
experiences while growing up in Florida, falling in love amid the
lush tropics. It is full of things felt, not known; things dreamed
and starkly realized, not reasoned but thrust upon the soul. It is
descriptive moments realized, quietly and beautifully, and cast
into rich words. just you and the a poetry talker, reliving the
past of family members made real, through how the poet engaged the
colorful world of Florida and puts the reader there, experiencing
through the poet's eyes: the rich panoply of life, the
give-and-take of the personal, amid the weighty news of the world,
as filtered in a readable and widely accessible exploration.
Beachcomber focuses Florida as it is away from the maddening crowd,
as seen through the mind over time: as the poet wrote, "When I was
a kid in St. Pete, barely a year old, my mother's friend Joe
LaRocca took the picture on the cover of this book of me with the
million dollar pier in the background and published it on the front
page of the St. Pete Times. I was the "beachcomber." Finding poems
in your mind is like finding shells on a beach. My father always
told me there was nothing to find in our past, as his father's
father ran away with a lady of the night and left my
great-grandmother Ella with a slew of kids and he was forever the
black sheep of the family. All he knew was that renegade had
ferried people back-and-forth between St. Pete and Bradenton, back
before bridges. So: I set off in search of the renegade skeletons
in my own mental closets. My mother was an Irish O'Neill and
Portuguese Tarvis, from the north, and had met my father on a beach
at spring break way back before the second world war and the rest
is history. Then I found out I was a six month premie baby, and my
father had to marry my mother. God, the poetic shells I found on my
beach "
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