Post From The New Yorker, Saturday, October 20, 2012.
(Accessed 30 Dec. 2019.)
Interesting Emendations: James Merrill's "Palm Beach with Portuguese Man-Of-War"
Loving a poem only for its opening lines is a bit like loving a woman only for her gorgeous eyes. The focus is narrow but very intense. This describes my relationship with James Merrill’s extraordinary “Palm Beach with Portuguese Man-Of-War,” which I first encountered in the January 17, 1977 issue of The New Yorker. Its opening stanza is, for me, narcotic:
A mile-long vertebrate picked clean
To the palms’ tall seableached incurving ribs
No more vivid word picture of a beach has ever been written, at least not in such concentrated, evocative form. The image of the beach as a “vertebrate picked clean” is inspired, and the description of the palms’ “tall seableached incurving ribs” is ravishing.
Interestingly, when Merrill included this poem in his 1985 collection Late Settings, he changed it. The opening lines read:
A mile-long vertebrate picked clean
To lofty-plumed seableached incurving ribs
The second line has been revised - “lofty-plumed” replaces “the palms’ tall.” Is the change an improvement? I’m not certain. “Lofty-plumed” strikes me as a shade decorative. What comes to mind when I read it are hats, not palms. I like the simpler “the palms’ tall seableached incurving ribs” – its plainness is consistent with the “picked clean” beach of the first line. And the rhythm of “ To the palms’ tall seableached incurving ribs” is smoother than “To lofty-plumed seableached incurving ribs.” The hyphenated “lofty-plumed” introduces a couple of extra beats that jars the line’s music – to my ear, anyway.
I’m not sure what “Palm Beach with Portuguese Man-of-War” is about. Helen Vendler, in her review of Late Settings, calls it “an elegy of sorts for Merrill’s wealthy thrice-married father” (“James Merrill,” The Music of What Happens, 1988). She refers to its “anatomy of tycoons, their female hangers-on, their sexual forays, their eventual tombs.” This interpretation seems reasonable. It certainly helps make sense of words such as “razor labia of hangers-on” and “tiny hideous tycoon.” It’s not a joyful poem. Vendler says, “Hatred and pity coexist in this impersonal elegy.” But its description – particularly those concise, consummate opening lines in the New Yorker version - is exquisite.