© William Suttle

HUGH SEIDMAN

Essentially, I’ve spent two summers on the East End. In 1977 I shared a house in Amagansett near the ocean. In 1985 I was in the woodsy Springs by the bay with two writer friends, although the rural illusion got ruined some mornings by the bulldozer and the banging, as the third of three brand new houses went up across the road.

And how interesting that nature and man should coexist so forcefully, since whether one works out in the ocean or the bay, it is hard to forget the Hamptons’ other major exercise—social swimming.

Thus, for instance, aside from catching the light in the late afternoon at Georgica Beach after a day at the typewriter, one of my favorite pastimes was a ride into town followed by a coffee and muffin at a nice white table in front of the Hackings Buttery on Newtown Lane. My theory was that I was bound to meet someone from past or present, since undoubtedly everyone passes down Route 27 sooner or later.

In fact, during that summer eight years ago, in a similar frame of mind, I ran into the person who is the subject of “Eurydice.” I didn’t have a car and a walk down the main street of Amagansett was grand adventure.

This year, however, I scooted around in a little yellow rented Datsun. Yet, too, what could compare to a quiet afternoon at home sitting out on the deck under a bright sky and the trees, listening to the wind rattling the leaves. Nice to keep in touch with all that, as another poem, “O Tree,” might make clear.

So, I don’t know if I qualify as a true poet of the region, but I have, as they say, been inspired by the place.