A Postcard From St. Florent

Beneath a Pernod parasol, chic blonde
in tow, a suave tycoon overtly lingers
over lunch; her slim, exquisite fingers
caress his chubby hand. Now look beyond
the quay-side cafe's pastel-pink facade -
white yachts, blue sea, a sepia-tinted square
dissolved in heat - upon a wicker chair
an old man sits, a picturesque post card,
a snapshot of authentic St. Florent.
Not quite, below has battered black beret
he sports designer shades by St. Laurent.
Each cultivates their sense of how thy seem,
pursues a paltry paradise; today
forever, the axiom of their facile dream. 

When I posted this on the Sonnet Board on 18th October 2001 I attached the following note:

St Florent - a small port in N. Corsica, with pretentions of St. Trop. In August a beautiful place on a beautiful island, crammed with beautiful people.

We' d visited Corsica three years earlier; then I'd been struck by it's wild beauty and the exotic feel of it's beaches where wild cattle roam amongst the bathers. Pausing at an empty crossroads amongst the moutains where all the road signs have been shot-up by FLNC activists you are struck by the island's uniqueness, how it has resisted all attempts by outside authorities from the Romans to the EU to impose an orthodoxy upon it.
 

On returning a second time I realised that this romantic notion, although not entirely without foundation, nevertheless rubs shoulders with a much more glitzy side of the island. It's probably only half a day's sailing for the luxury motor yachts from the Riviera's big marinas at Cannes, Antibes and Nice; so the grey-haired motorhomers and the shoetring campers share the cafes scattered around St. Forent's 'sepia-tinted' square with the stylishly rich; people whose idea of dressing down for the occassion involves donning jeans, tees and sandals, so long as the jeans are Armarni, the T-shirt, Versace and the sandals, Birkenstocks

Looking back it is remarkable how much I'd developed in the five months or so that I'd been a participant on the Sonnet Board, more than in the thirty odd years I'd written poetry on an occassional basis from the age of 14 onwards. I found being able to exchange ideas and receive and give criticism in a supportive and positive on-line community a liberating and life affirming experience. Twelve years on, I can look on this sonnet without the twinge of embarrassment which I feel on re-reading my earlier efforts. Of course it's not a great poem, but it is reasonably accomplished I think, and that's all initially I was interested in, becoming a more accomplished writer