MAP #1
First Edition

Copyright © 1979 by Harlen Welsh
Cover photo by Steven J. Edson

all rights reserved
Published by Manageable Antlers Press
102 Charles St. Suite 251
Boston, Ma. 02114

This First Edition was printed in a set of 300 Copies, 26 of which are signed and lettered by the Author.

for Edward Batchelder

Contents

I

Gazing Out to See

II

III

IV

Telegony

V

VI

VII

Moon Grazing

VIII

IX

X

White Beard

XI

XII

About the Author

GAZING OUT TO SEE THRU A
KALEIDOSCOPE GOT US LOST

Down beneath the bleachers of Calypso’s isle
Two scissors is the hour of her embrace
Pin down the middle of comfort

you

are

married

in

the

leaves

of

Ithaca

N.Y.

Odysseus on the beach at Lesbos tries to brake into her
Heart with a crowbar Venus * O desert filling station
Oasis, O concession stand * O flower cotilion of bees

you

have

hurt

me

slam

the

suitcase

of

my

heart

on

your

figure

Tan peach on Fire Island, sex last night recycled
Me: pinking shears left in the Victory Garden
Reminded me of the sack of Illium

coaxing

cohogs

peeling

in

the

dark

for

your

fussy

reminded

me

of

the

Trojan

War

TELEGONY

Poem in a bottle his life foyer to Hugh Prather
Lost against the isle of Manhattan vs. the brand
New Jersey...I was shaving off my BVD’s

shore

footed

Achilles

polishing

Hushpuppies

stepped

in

dragon

bloodpuddles

wet

a

hairbrush

in

a

jar

of

turnpike

seams

Panhandle selling earwax for some drachmas
From get*rich*quick to get*laid*by*a*siren
Shakespeare and the Bible are Welbilt yet cheap

knocking

on

your

door

suddenly

had

a

vision

of

Aga*mem*non

’s

tomb

Bunyan felling a tree in Maine buying ocean-front
Puberty in Nevada, his kid Clearasils barnacles off
His face, a Greek wearing lifts to Cornelle U.

christen

the

boat

TELEGONUS

bench

a

manticore

PIGSKIN 2

PARCHMENT 3

by

being

the

most

popular

tree

in

the

playground

MOON GRAZING

Rubbermaid watching the sun go crazy in the West
My lids barely sealed still projected slides of home
Sickness, but who can wash a broken window

typewriter

left

stacks

of

laundry

my

shirts

wept

on

the

line

fresh

ink

drying

on

a

tripwire

Odysseus dreams his porch evening’s colander o’er head
Have heard there are oceans on the moon & solar wind
& starfish clinging to the sky

sails

peignoirs

but

once

my

men

raped

sheep

in

the

pasture

of

a

cyclops

with

a

body

of

stars

that

wore

fenders

by

the

moon

Odysseus gets a job at the pond sailing paper hats
Crows feed under the ice, in the igloo the old
Man’s stories bore holes, anyway

THE

END

of

my

kite

string

baited

with

a

shotglass

dipped

in

Madame

’s

kurari

WHITE BEARD TIED ABOUT MY ANKLES
SO’S NOT TO DRAG IT IN THE DIRT

Homer re-reads Ulysses, sees Calypso rocking
It’s the wheelchair dear to him, an old ladle
No more milk, hand cups full of shrunken pate pâté

sea

of

umbrellas

evaporating

I’ll

grow

boats

together

you

witness

a

stabbing

by

the

sea

Odysseus runs away from home at 85 having known
All along his yacht his ship would come in
Handy some day

overstayed

the

guest

list

nearly

got

mezmerized

by

a

full

refridgerator

Odysseus gets aloft in New York City
O those amyl nights & snowed-in all summer
Likes the way the young live

poet

pierced

by

treetops

drinks

subourbon

unlocked liquor

cabinet

of

his

memory

w*his*key

hunger’s

felt

stomach

reminds

me

of

the

high

seas

sponged

my

two

Manhattans

Harlen Welsh • 1954–2014

A Ship Named Odysseus Floundering in the Everglades, is the first of a series of four chapbooks produced in collaboration with Edward Batchelder and Barbara Jordan (Manageable Antlers Press of San Francisco/Boston), spanning the period of 1979 - 1982. Hauntingly beautiful and enigmatic, the evocative imagery in this cycle of twelve poems gives a sense of wandering through a gallery of paintings depicting various scenes from the life of the protagonist, or as one may imagine, from that of the author himself.

A Baby Boomer, strongly influenced by Beat Generation writers, Harlen’s poetry reflects the many facets of his personality. Born of a generation that never believed it would survive the Cold War, his poetry is by turns darkly brooding, meditative, and hopelessly - or perhaps hopefully - romantic. His words are filled with beautiful imagery and his own brand of quirky, fatalistic humor.

Harlen was heavily involved in the poetry scene in both Boston and San Francisco throughout the ’70s and ’80s, corresponding and associating with a number of leading poets including Barbara Jordan, Andrei Codrescu, Bill Knott, William Corbett and many others who appreciated and encouraged his writing. A long-time resident of Salem, MA, Harlen passed away in May of 2014.