# Writing > Personal Poetry >  DocHeart's poetry corner

## DocHeart

So I thought -- rather than making the place untidy with poems strewn here and there, I'd keep them all in one thread. Ain't I quite the environmentalist?

I always appreciate your feedback, positive and negative. The latter, in fact, helps me improve and stops my head from getting too big - so I won't need a new hat. But please don't forget to mention which poem you are referring too.

Good health to all.

DH

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## DocHeart

*City*

On windy days
Dirty vapours fly 
Across the unmanageable
Rooftops of injustice.

And drowning basements
Churn out deathly concern
Over payments in arrears
When it rains.

And I, who
Yet has to taste real lack,
Yet has to starve,
Shed tears for love
Ache for female flesh.

A time will come
And lessons will be learnt
About important things
About oxygen
And water.

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## Jack of Hearts

This is an exciting new direction for your poetry. Hopefully you pack this thread to the brim.

The first poem, _City_, must be named for Athens. A poignant piece that comes along at a time when the world media is describing Greece as 'lost.' And even in the shadow of the possibility of dire need and ruin, the narrator still feels the need for things perhaps not directly necessary for survival.

It reminds this reader of that old line of thought; food, water, shelter to survive but love to live.





J

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## Delta40

I like the imagery of the rooftops and the financial crisis Doc. Nicely framed. I thought the 3rd stanza unfinished but maybe that was your intention?

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## DocHeart

My dear Jack,

Thank you for your feedback on "City". Some months ago I thought we were doomed, but there was time. Now doom seems ever so much closer. Uncertain times ahead. But you know, uncertainty can be a great muse  :Smile: 

Delta,

Very glad you enjoyed "City". I didn't mean for the third stanza to sound unfinished, but I can see that it does now that you've mentioned it. But such are thoughts regarding this situation -- rough around the edges and ill-defined. These days coherence is attempted, but only introspective mumbling is most likely what comes out.

Good health,
DH

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## DocHeart

*The words I fear most*


The words I fear most
Are not
Cancer
Rejected
Collision
Destitute
Uncovered
Cirrhosis
Cuckold
Famine

The words I fear most
Are
You ran out of time
You couldn't make time count
It raced by you like a mouse
In front of the nose
Of an overweight drowsy cat
And now I don't trust you
And you can't have more time
Not even if you love me
Not even if you deserve it

These words
Told when least expected
Create the loudest of voids
Paint the beer cans on the desk 
With congealing resignation
With smoky whiteness
That blinds.

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## Jack of Hearts

*DocLove*- Physician, heal thyself. If this reader had a gin and tonic on hand he'd be numbing himself in honor of the heartbreak you describe here. At first, it seemed to be an angsty statement about time (that the reader empathizes with), but the truer reading seems to be about squandered time with someone else. About being left because one 'couldn't make time count.'

Cheers, *Doc*... at least she helped you move first.





J

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## DocHeart

> *DocLove*- Physician, heal thyself. If this reader had a gin and tonic on hand he'd be numbing himself in honor of the heartbreak you describe here. At first, it seemed to be an angsty statement about time (that the reader empathizes with), but the truer reading seems to be about squandered time with someone else. About being left because one 'couldn't make time count.'
> 
> Cheers, *Doc*... at least she helped you move first.
> 
> 
> 
> 
> 
> J


Thanks, Jack. If only she could have stuck around a little longer, she might have taken my shirts out of the suitcase and ironed them, too. I guess I'm gonna have to spend the money and get some home help.

Best,
DH

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## DocHeart

*Casus Belli*


Suddenly I was aware
Of the lies you cooked today;
They hit the back of my throat
Like a nosebleed.

And the rules of engagement
Changed; gone were
Patience and cupcakes
Which we recruited once
To plaster up our disputes.

Now frozen stares march
And filthy arguments 
Are thrown from trenches.
Now unwashed dishes
Await hurling.

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## Jack of Hearts

This one was hidden away- for some reason the notification email only showed your first comment and not the poem.

We're seeing a man fall out of love here, aren't we *Doc*? If falling in love keeps us young, the messy second act must age us greatly.

Hopefully there'll be a rebirth poem in you somewhere down the line.






J

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## Hawkman

Hi Doc. Sorry not to have replied before but my brain's been on holiday.

City: This is an interesting poem with it's theme developed nicely as it progresses. however I have a couple of observations you might wish to consider. In S1 you start off talking about wind. Fair enough. In S2 though, you are switching the image to basements and what happens to them when it rains. You need to start this stanza with the last line, otherwise the reader is left wondering why the wind drowns basements. I would also suggest changing *out* for *with* after churn.

"When it rains,
drowning basements
churn with deathly concern
over payments in arrears."

S3 has problems with grammar and syntax.

And I, who
*have yet* to taste real lack,
*have yet* to starve,
shed tears for love
and ache for female flesh."

but I'm not sure about "taste real lack" and "starve," as it reads as borderline tautology. Would:

"have yet to know real want,
have yet to starve,"

be better? 

The last stanza also could do with a tiny tweak.

"A time will come
*when* lessons will be learned
About important things,
like oxygen
and water." 

I think like this it's a winner.

I like the idea behind "The Words I Fear Most"

But I think making the first stanza a list of words you don't fear is a mistake, especially as you include rejected and the rest of the poem from S2 is about rejection. So you have a list vs a diatribe. I'd go straight in at S2 then you've got a winner.

Casus Belli:

Love that opening stanza, really punchy. Great simile and metaphor.

Keep the punch going though. I'd edit S2 by cutting the odd word:

"The rules of engagement Changed. 
Gone were patience and cupcakes,
once recruited 
to plaster our disputes.

"Now frozen stares march
And filthy arguments 
Are thrown from trenches.
Now unwashed dishes
Await hurling."

S3 is a bit tangled from that first line Frozen stares march? how can they march if they're frozen? a diferent metaphor might be more appropriate. You're creating battlefield imagery so perhaps hiding/taking cover behind frozen stares would be more appropriate, and maybe you don't really need the repetition of *now*.

"Now we hide behind frozen stares,
and filthy arguments 
are thrown from trenches,
where unwashed dishes
await hurling."

Great depiction of a failing relationship though.

I enjoyed reading all three and my suggestions are just that.

Live and be well - H

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## Jack of Hearts

Really dig some of *Hawk's* points. But for this reader, what's really making these pieces work is the intimacy in them. At their best moments, they're about what one man's struggling through- it's ironic that its in this way they relate to all of us best.






J

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## DocHeart

Thanks guys, and especially thanks Hawk for your critique. 

I truly do take things on board. Writing is not my main occupation, but it's something I love -- I'd like us to elaborate on one of the points you make, only because I like thinking of myself as a stickler when it comes to grammar.

*S3 has problems with grammar and syntax.

And I, who
have yet to taste real lack,
have yet to starve,
shed tears for love
and ache for female flesh."*

Should "have" be "has" even in within the non-defining relative clause? How did the song go? Was it "I, who have nothing" or "I, who has nothing"? Your input appreciated.

By the way, I'm in Milan on day-job business. The ancient yellow tram that makes an inexplicably tremendous noise as it passes by the street below my hotel room has inspired a short story. Once again, it's been months since the last one. I will sincerely appreciate everyone's feedback on that one too, once it's posted.

Good health,
DH

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## Hawkman

Hi Doc. When in doubt read it without the insurgent *who* and you will clearly see how it should be. eg: "I have yet to taste..." compared with "I has yet to taste..." do you see what I mean? He has, She has, I have, You have, They have, We have etc.

Live and be well - H

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## DocHeart

*Trieste*


Shoes off at last, sprawled next to
Caringly chilled ribolla
I stare at over-inflated hotel pillows
And ponder streets: convoluted,
Narrowing, steep curls of asphalt
That lead to the tear-like lights
Of Via This and Piazza The Other.

In these places, like everywhere,
Boys get lucky and look
For emergency condoms;
Like everywhere, old people die.
Young people die, too.
It's just within different walls
Or under different bridges.

Here kids learn different stories
To mine; I had the Turks
They had the oafs from Hasburg
To give them nightmares of invasion.
They and I were equally scared
Of mothers raped; fathers decapitated.

Sure, I deem their wine superior. 
In stainless steel caskets it ferments -
It lasts for years, not ever losing crispness
Or acidity appropriateness! It gives them
Liver cancer just the same
As if they had been guzzling cheap retsina.

And if the milk is frothier on their cappuccinos,
They won't look any smarter for it
When a loose chip of plaque blocks
Their coronary artery
Producing a grotesque ultimate gasp.

Life didn't use to be like this;
I thought new places could beget
Different perspectives, fresh approaches.
But now they have become desperate proof
That different lives exist nowhere
Only in thought bubbles over our heads
As frozen breezes hit us
Wherever we happen
To still be standing.

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## Jack of Hearts

Well, *Doc*, what we have here is a tough one.

It's a very articulate account, on all accounts. It discusses your travelling, how travelling has lost its shine because of the overwhelming similarities throughout human nature. It seems a bit lonely and disillusioned. It is a highly interesting read and by no means is it poorly done.

But it's time to be mean. This reader is going to accuse you of not going the distance. Your poem here exists on a very literal level and shows admirable ability in language to express your thoughts. It seems to refuse to jump to the next level and exist emotionally. It's keeping the readers from the intimacy of your perspective by hiding behind language, almost. Language seems to be like that when we use it in articulate ways. This poem expresses such good ideas that it deserves to make that leap of faith- because putting your experience with direct, literal language isn't always an efficient tool. It isn't always the most honest way of sharing that experience. This reader thinks you know this. In a lot of ways, intelligence is a double edged sword when it comes to these kinds of things.

But this reader still liked reading this, so maybe that's less of a critique and more of a challenge.






J

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## DocHeart

> Well, *Doc*, what we have here is a tough one.
> 
> It's a very articulate account, on all accounts. It discusses your travelling, how travelling has lost its shine because of the overwhelming similarities throughout human nature. It seems a bit lonely and disillusioned. It is a highly interesting read and by no means is it poorly done.
> 
> But it's time to be mean. This reader is going to accuse you of not going the distance. Your poem here exists on a very literal level and shows admirable ability in language to express your thoughts. It seems to refuse to jump to the next level and exist emotionally. It's keeping the readers from the intimacy of your perspective by hiding behind language, almost. Language seems to be like that when we use it in articulate ways. This poem expresses such good ideas that it deserves to make that leap of faith- because putting your experience with direct, literal language isn't always an efficient tool. It isn't always the most honest way of sharing that experience. This reader thinks you know this. In a lot of ways, intelligence is a double edged sword when it comes to these kinds of things.
> 
> But this reader still liked reading this, so maybe that's less of a critique and more of a challenge.
> 
> 
> ...



Dear Jack,

*THAT'S* how you're mean? Boy, you've got a lot to learn on the way to meanness. 

Seriously now, your words touch me, and they make me think about what I wrote in a different light. Emotional distancing? I wonder how that came about. 

Perhaps I will take time to re-read all poems in this thread -- all put together within the last ten days or so. And if I find similar detachment in all of them, well. It would definitely mean it's time to snap out of it.

And I will take the challenge head-on.  :Smile: 

Many thanks for your input, and best regards.

DH

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## Jack of Hearts

Your reader is all for self assessment. But at the same time don't stop. This thread is going in the right direction, this reader thinks, and your offerings have always been good and never in vain.









J

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## DocHeart

*Knickers*


O! Triangular cotton of adoration!
How you caress strawberry labia majora
And how you soak moisture
And sweat
And make of them holy incense
To smell and - Amen! - 
Erect monuments to Dionysus.
Indeed, his wine was made 
Of your harvest.

And how you peek and wink
Between the shapely Symplegades
Of smooth, clean-shaven thighs
Or through tight Alitalia uniforms.

'Tis you we men dream of removing
But you are no less dreamy
While in place.

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## Jack of Hearts

Haha, an ode to panties! *Doc*, you sexhound.







J

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## Delta40

> *Casus Belli*
> 
> 
> Suddenly I was aware
> Of the lies you cooked today;
> They hit the back of my throat
> Like a nosebleed.
> 
> And the rules of engagement
> ...


Excellent! I love the combination of domesticity and the strains of relationship in this one Doc

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## Bar22do

Doc, tell Casus Belli's N to divorce at once!
As for the previous, Knickers', to go on forever...

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## Jack of Hearts

Bar is right. No need to hurl the dirty dishes!








J

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## DocHeart

*Sweetheart's Birthday* 


Trapped in the jaws of a prepackaged smile
As major disagreements hang on the Christmas tree
You whisper thanks. I hear Buddy Collette's flute
In my intestines. Shut it.

My fingers keep polite distance from your decolte.
I'll never share again what's in my ears.
You may then think birthdays still worthwhile
And go all coy as I toast your passing years.

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## Jack of Hearts

Hi Doc! Where've you been hiding?

There's a few things to nitpick here:

Stanza one, line two:"diagreements"- is this a typo? This reader doesn't understand. Maybe you meant to squeeze an 's' in there?

Stanza two, line one: "decolte"- what does this word mean? This reader's guess: there's a French word "décolleté" that means cleavage. Is this what this word was meant to be? It's a little far off, and in french "e" with accent aigu ("é") is not interchangeable with the letter "e." You can get lower case e with an acute accent ("é") on a standard keyboard by holding the alt key and typing 0233 on the numberpad and then releasing alt (this reader thinks you knew, but just in case).

Also, regarding the title, there are presently two: "Sweetheart's Birthday" and "Sweethart's Birthday" (the latter missing an 'e', perhaps intentionally?).

So there may be some wrong guesses, but it's the best interpretation this reader has of your poem at the moment. Here we go:

This reader picks up on overtones of disdain; it's as though the narrator has given a gift (perhaps a CD of Buddy Collette) and the recipient doesn't appreciate the gift in the way the narrator would like as he seems to value this music greatly. In fact, the narrator seems to be toasting the 'passing years' of 'Sweetheart' or 'Sweethart' as he or she takes one more step toward the grave.

Again, that may be a bad reading of this one! Sorry Doc, this reader is no professional!






J

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## Bar22do

> *Sweethart's Birthday* 
> 
> 
> Trapped in the jaws of a prepackaged smile
> As major diagreements hang on the Christmas tree
> You whisper thanks. I hear Buddy Collette's flute
> In my intestines. Shut it.
> 
> My fingers keep polite distance from your decolte.
> ...


This has certainly gone to a back page too soon! I liked the cold blooded, very mean "I toast your passing years." !!!! 

Cheers, Doc

Bar

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## DocHeart

*Wedding*


It was sunny
And ravens dressed in white
Like babies

Evil thorns were scattered
And bleeding feet
Burned red.

Ears admired the silence
Of fake flowers
And eyes upon the couple
Said 

'Look, he is being
Chased by wild roses
And her hair will be
Tragically fragrant
If she sleeps.'


October 2008

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## Jack of Hearts

This has some great imagery, DocLove, but its meaning is elusive. This reader has settled upon this:

The bride and groom are at the alter, the bride has roses in her hair that seem to chase the groom as they kiss/embrace, and when the bride sleeps she'll take the roses out- the day will be gone, but her hair will tragically still smell like roses.

Probably not even close, but this reader likes this version anyways.





J

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## Bar22do

Your imagery here is both vivid and subtle, you are "sowing" doubts and gloomy indications through it. It is as if N were able to see, at that wedding, what others could not: under beauty and solemnity of the event, thorns, fake flowers, probably violence. The quiet description is almost disconcerting in this context and invites the reader into an altogether different scene, one of imminent tragedy.
Very well achieved, DocHeart, kudos!

My only reservation is regarding your use of "tragically" towards the end of the poem, too obvious for me. If you agree, think of something more allusive instead.

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## DocHeart

*Hospitals*



Named after saints and well-off citizens,
Blindingly white in the pouring rain
Smelling like sweaty blankets
Hospitals bide their time: they're in no rush.
They'll get you in the end.

This time you only need to lie there silent
And gratefully accept the disrobing
And the poking, and the "how are we this morning".
Blood? Urine? No big deal.
Probes up your behind? Sure. 
You'd let them cut off your dick
For a return to normality.
Your reward is a temporary rewind
To not hurting. Perhaps even not fearing.

And in the smiling relative's car
(Who deep down couldn't really give a fcuk)
You leave it all behind and set your thoughts
On brighter minutes of your perceived tomorrows.

The building smiles at you as you drive off,
And you can now kid yourself all you like
That it's a benign smile. A "live and be well" wish;
But it's a knowing smile. A nasty grin
With pointy teeth and solid black eyeballs.
There will be a next time. And then another.
And one of them will be the last.

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## Jack of Hearts

There's a playfulness behind the sinister wit of this one, Doc. Really hope you're not experiencing this first hand at the moment. They _will_ get you, eventually. Maybe not a hospital, itself, but the thing living behind the hospital anyways.







J

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## Hawkman

Other than for a lay which should be a lie, and a query over how an unaccustomed state of dicklessness might be considered "normalilty", I rather enjoyed this Doc. 

Live long and prosper - H

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## Jack of Hearts

> ... dicklessness...


Something about the piecing together of this horrible, horrible concept in such a melodical word has ascended you to the next level, you god among men.





J

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## DocHeart

> There's a playfulness behind the sinister wit of this one, Doc. Really hope you're not experiencing this first hand at the moment. They _will_ get you, eventually. Maybe not a hospital, itself, but the thing living behind the hospital anyways.
> 
> J



Thank you, *Jack*. I've escaped its jaws so far. But I was the smiling relative driving the car quite recently.






> Other than for a lay which should be a lie, and a query over how an unaccustomed state of dicklessness might be considered "normalilty", I rather enjoyed this Doc.



Lay - lie. I _keep_ getting these wrong. Oh well - editing has now been applied.

Re: dicklessness -- I guess I was using it as a metaphor, and explained my idea of "normality" in the following couple of lines. But, really, when you come out with such an OUTRAGEOUS noun, who cares about the poem anymore!  :Smile: 

Many thanks for reading, both.

Regards,
DH

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## Jack of Hearts

Where on earth have you gone? Hopefully not to the hospital.






J

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## Bar22do

I've "discovered" your last thanks to Jack's note - *excellent*!!! and of much actuality to me for it almost "got me " a few days ago; though, wounded as I was I ran away, rather to die in the streets than to be part of the emergency ward's quirks... 

Best to you two! 

Bar

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## Jack of Hearts

> I've "discovered" your last thanks to Jack's note - *excellent*!!! and of much actuality to me for it almost "got me " a few days ago; though, wounded as I was I ran away, rather to die in the streets than to be part of the emergency ward's quirks... 
> 
> Best to you two! 
> 
> Bar


Poor Bar. Hang in there.






J

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## BookBeauty

What a beautiful series of poems. Some of them gritty and so real, yet still managing to be eloquent, with words placed with such care.

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## Jack of Hearts

An oversexed Greek guy writes in english better than most Americans. Go figure. Read this one (first an original posting and then in the Favorite poems thread):




> *'Beyond the falling comets and persistent stars' by DocHeart*
> 
> Beyond the falling comets and persistent stars
> Lies loneliness. A city sky's seen
> Differently from there; stupidly courageous,
> Mocking black nights with neon falsehoods.
> 
> A blueness, on the other hand, emerges
> When one observes such skylines from the ground:
> ...






J

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## BookBeauty

> An oversexed Greek guy writes in english better than most Americans. Go figure. Read this one (first an original posting and then in the Favorite poems thread):
> 
> 
> J


I'm not surprised. 

Knowing many from another mother tongue, the words chosen are often given more thought, even with pronunciation.  :Biggrin: 

It also usually means much more work is put into it.

In a poem such as this, there is also a unique perspective and a play on words that is decadent.

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## AuntShecky

Of these, "Hospitals" (#30) is my favorite. I also admire the diction and rhythm (as well as the imagery) in the your earlier verse about the comet which Jack copied and posted a couple of replies above.

In all of your poems, however, I absolutely love the blend of the lofty with the profane, especially your facility with colloquial venacular. All of your speakers (narrators) sound "real," like regular down-to-earth guys. You've got a well-tuned "ear."

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## DocHeart

I'm flattered to see folk still reading and commenting on these, especially since I haven't contributed anything new for a while. I guess I'm going through a slightly dry period, but there's no doubt I'll be back with more.

Thank you all for your input, and good health.

DH

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## PrinceMyshkin

> Well, *Doc*, what we have here is a tough one.
> 
> It's a very articulate account, on all accounts. It discusses your travelling, how travelling has lost its shine because of the overwhelming similarities throughout human nature. It seems a bit lonely and disillusioned. It is a highly interesting read and by no means is it poorly done.
> 
> But it's time to be mean. This reader is going to accuse you of not going the distance. Your poem here exists on a very literal level and shows admirable ability in language to express your thoughts. It seems to refuse to jump to the next level and exist emotionally. It's keeping the readers from the intimacy of your perspective by hiding behind language, almost. Language seems to be like that when we use it in articulate ways. This poem expresses such good ideas that it deserves to make that leap of faith- because putting your experience with direct, literal language isn't always an efficient tool. It isn't always the most honest way of sharing that experience. This reader thinks you know this. In a lot of ways, intelligence is a double edged sword when it comes to these kinds of things.
> 
> But this reader still liked reading this, so maybe that's less of a critique and more of a challenge.
> 
> 
> ...


I don't altogether agree with the above: I think we all measure "the distance" of any poem or poet by our inner, idiosyncratic notion of how distant any distance is, *BUT*

I commend JofH & envy DH for the impassioned reading of these poems that JofH undertook. Clearly he cares and cares very deeply for poetry in general and DH's poetry in particular.

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## Jack of Hearts

That seems exactly right, Prince.

Maybe that's feedback that this poster wouldn't have given DocHeart or anybody today. At the time it was honest but maybe a little ignorant. All the feedback, all of his own poems and stories is really just this poster trying to come to grips with something. Theorizing or saying what there 'should be' in others' work is probably just that struggle manifested.

This poster is an imperfect writer, poet and giver of critique- and the more ge practices these things, the more he becomes aware of the imperfection. Or maybe it's just understanding better what perfection is and realizing how far you are away from it.






J

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## DocHeart

*Raping Athena*


These streets we walked,
Winding and falling
Into the ashes of the lives
Of skinny immigrants
And the whirlwinds
Of unemployed youths -

Their shattered neon lights
Are less and less a memory
Of time wasted over pool tables
And beer stains on school uniforms

And more and more

Of an uncertain monologue
Spoken by a senile Ulysses
Who somehow strayed
Into a cinema
Engulfed in dirty flames
Delivered with voicelessness.

The city says farewell, little by little;
Fewer and fewer familiar facades 
To hang your once-upon-a-times on.

Perhaps you could make do 
With that freshly amputated statue
Or that burned bus.

That corpse.

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## Delta40

Wow. That was a gripping poem Doc. Absolutely lyrical, musical and vivid to the max. Had me thinking of Rodriguez for some reason!

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## Bar22do

I'm totally caught in and deeply affected by your poem, Doc. It reads so nakedly sincere, in addition to being simply beautiful, sheer poetry. I've copy/pasted it to a screen page on my computer to read and reread it for at least the next few days. Great work, Doc, thank you. I was especially moved by -

_The city says farewell, little by little;
Fewer and fewer familiar facades 
To hang your once-upon-a-times on._

I'm not sure you need the last line, though. Perhaps it's a bit too much (well, for me at least). Bar

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## Hawkman

Deleted double post.

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## Hawkman

I nearly missed this poem as it seemed to be lost in all the replies to this thread, one of the reasons I prefer individual threads for poems. It makes them easier to find in the back catalogue too. Anyway, what I was saying was that it is an exceptional poem, employing powerful and elegent imagery to convey its message. It communicates very well, the frustration of a society in crisis.

There is a problem in S4 though:

"Of an uncertain monologue
Spoken by a senile Ulysses
Who somehow strayed
Into a cinema
Engulfed in dirty flames
Delivered with voicelessness."

It is in the way the opening statement is split around an extended subordinate clause before concluding in the last line of the stanza. 

It would read more coherently as:

Of an uncertain monologue
Delivered almost voicelessly,
Spoken by a senile Ulysses
Who somehow strayed
Into a cinema
Engulfed in dirty flames.

It's always a pleasure to read you Doc.

Live and be well - H

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## WolfLarsen

I like this poetry. There's strong artsy-fartsy imagery one moment, (I mean that in a good way!), and the next moment a bunch of harsh realities are being thrown at us. Good!

And the language of the poetry feels contemporary. I like that too.

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## Jack of Hearts

Yep, it's arresting. It's not the first time you've written of this city, but it's definitely the most poignant and powerful incarnation yet. 









J

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## DieterM

I agree with Hawk about the Ulysses-stanza but, to be honest, I was so drawn into your images that I only realized it when I read Hawk's comment... Every line spoke out right to my heart; maybe (certainly) because you seem to weep a city extremely dear to me (I'm almost sur that, if there's something like reincarnation, I have been Greek long ago).

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## DocHeart

I am humbled by everyone's kind words, and very grateful for the constructive feedback on my last poem. I take the point about the Ulysses stanza fully on-board, and have edited accordingly in my own copy.

The city in which you've lived most of your life in tatters. I guess anyone can write good poetry when the subject matter is so... rich.



Dear moderators: Please do not consider this a political post. It's just an emotional post.

Dear commentators: Please refrain from making any comment of a political nature, lest the moderators consider this a political post. It's just an emotional post.

Good health to all,
DH

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## DocHeart

*Tonight we speak in tongues*

Tonight we speak in tongues.
Words of understanding are lost
Beneath ego tombstones.
Skies have clouds, yes, 
The streets have dirt. But

We speak in languages
Known only to us. 
Only our own
Dismemberment makes this legible.
Only you and I sense
Minotaurs giving birth
To unforgiving clocks
Ringing unspeakable alarms.

Words of understanding are lost
In the same place
Where unfelt tears (genuine or not)
Form labyrinths with thorny paths.

Look, rats are trespassing 
Over the driveway 
To our house. See? A purple
Stain is seeping
Through your silken thorax.

----------


## Hawkman

Outstanding poem, Doc. It flows so well and paints such tragic pictures.

Live and be well - H

----------


## Bar22do

This seems to continue your previous poem and gets even more tragic. You really are concerned with the terrible decadence of the place and your personal voice is powerful... 
To think it was a place of glory... 
Shaking, excellent poem, Doc. I never tire of reading you. Bar

----------


## DocHeart

*Rear Window*



As the asphalt goes black after sunset,
Some buildings out beyond
Have lights that blink
Like irregular heartbeats.

A church bell rings. A dog responds,
Howling. A slice of moon
Is smudged by shifting clouds.
The neighbours' canaries are silenced.

Within short minutes, darkness
Tucks the mountains in, and they're gone.
Street lights fade in; doors are locked.

Now things best done in darkness will be done.
Now thoughts that cannot thrive in daytime
Will be thought.

----------


## ShadowsCool

> *Rear Window*
> Now things best done in darkness will be done.
> Now thoughts that cannot thrive in daytime
> Will be thought.


Excellent poetry Doc. You really hit home with me on the last stanza.
I thoroughly enjoyed it.

Shadows

----------


## cafolini

Very good, Doc. Thanks. I enjoyed it.

----------


## Delta40

I like Rear Window Doc. Especially S4 although I'd remove in from 

Street lights fade in; doors are locked

as it detracts from: 

Tucks the mountains in, and they're gone.

What lovely imagery and great closing lines!

----------


## Jack of Hearts

Ah, Doc. Doc, Doc, Doc.








J

----------


## AuntShecky

The last two offerings both look and "sound" good, but far be it from the likes of me to speculate on their meaning. I do think you're attempting to say something quite profound, though, and significant.

The questions you bring up in the language poem (#54) are important ones--
sometimes we have to grapple with words, try to bend them into shape to express exactly what we want to express. Eliot calls it "a raid upon the inarticulate." Your piece acknowledges the limits of language --"words of understanding are lost," but at the same time realizes that language at times is the only way to embody thoughts and ideas, emotions as well. And, as far as we know, human beings are the only creatures capable of speech. We're not perfect, but at least we have language--unlike the "rats" alluded to in your concluding lines.

The latest piece is strong as well. My only comment is that the lines which
use active verbs are far more rigorous and powerful as the passive verbs, such as the construction in the closing line.

----------


## Hawkman

A very atmospheric Poem, Doc. I particularly liked:

"Within short minutes, darkness
Tucks the mountains in, and they're gone.
Street lights fade in; doors are locked."

Although I agree with Delta that *in* might not be the best word here, "up" might be better, but dispensing with a word here would make the line mean the opposite of what you were saying.

I'm not keen on the howling. It comes over as a tad too gothic and putting one word at the beginning of a line immediately followed by a full stop stalls the line. I'd be inclined to drop it completely. "silenced" for the canaries kind of implies that they are being rubbed out! Silent would be my choice.

A good poem though Doc, great images.

Live and be well - H

----------


## DocHeart

Dear all,

Thank you for commenting. I really do appreciate it. 

I am delighted with your generous praise, and I try to study and learn from your critique.

Health to all.

DH

----------


## DocHeart

*Title*


I'm like a title, bold and profound.
I'm like a fishing net:
I shatter your liquid tranquility
And pull you up where you can't breathe.

Just like a title, I promise you
What you want to be promised.
Like babies attracted to colourful plastic
You follow my lead; you walk my way.

I'm like an overture; my violins
Thoroughly prepare you for harmony 
So that you disregard cacophony
Each one of you for different lengths of time.

When spider shapes
And roofs of old women's gaping mouths
Start populating your skies
When you see me standing on the watefront
Reticent like a scarecrow 
It is too late to blame me.
"I should have known," you mutter,
"I should have foreseen this."

----------


## miyako73

> *Casus Belli*
> 
> 
> Suddenly I was aware
> Of the lies you cooked today;
> They hit the back of my throat
> Like a nosebleed.
> 
> And the rules of engagement
> ...


Sounded like my parents when I was a kid. Very visual and cerebral as poetry should be.

----------


## AuntShecky

Somehow I missed "Casus Belli." The "homely" images resonate without slipping down the clichéd slope.

The latest:
There are lots of connotations to the word "title," not only of a work of art or poem, but also designations of nobility, as well as the descriptions with which we identify ourselves-- "your husband," "my mother," "his girlfriend," etc. That's why this one has multiple meanings and possible interpretations. Not clear with what the closing lines of dialogue "I should have known," etc. exactly mean in the context, BUT they surely sound good, and look good.

As far as producing verse, you've been really active and prolific lately, Doc.

----------


## Hawkman

The Title poem works for me as the song of a politician who has failed to deliver, but there is an irony within, as if the politician knew he never could, and is berating the electorate for being so gullible. There is some powerful imagery, the fishing net and the gaping roofs.

as far as the structure goes I would query the boldness of the opening line and the immediate switch to the different image of the fishing net shattering the liquid tranquility, before returning to and expanding upon the title theme in the next verse.

S3, I think, could use a comma after cocophany, and the last line of the stanza:

"Each one of you for different lengths of time."

could be tidied just a little. I'd drop the *one* it would read better as, "each of you for different lengths of tiime." If you want to keep it, it would be better worded as, "each one of you for *a* different *length* of time."

In the last verse I wasn't quite sure what you maent by:

"When spider shapes
And roofs of old women's gaping mouths
Start populating your skies"

If worded thus:

"When the spider shapes
of roofs gaping like old women's mouths
start populating our skies"

"(which is what I thought you meant) this stark image would have been a little clearer.

However, the power of this poem comes through forecfully and gives the reader something to think about. A good read - Thanks for posting.

Live and be well - H

----------


## DocHeart

Humble thanks to all who are reading, and double thanks for criticism offered.

I do apologize for the slightly incomprehensible elements here and there. I've recently become fascinated with surrealism in cinema after watching Buñuel and Dalí's "An Andalusian Dog". I thought I'd experiment with the style a little bit in these recent poems - and a couple of the ones that will follow.

Good health,
DH

----------


## DocHeart

*Ex*


A slaughtered horse
Is blinding her heartbeat.
She's got used to it;
All she asks for
Is a drive up to the forest
A good glass of wine
A decent shag.

Even now

That roses smell bitter
Like rotten liver
And wooden mosquitoes
Dance above her head - 
She's so used to it,
That all she dreams of
Is a plate of salmon
And some Moet
And a kiss in the dark.

And the remaining ash,
And all the snow she feels,
Her frozen smile in the mirror,
And the burning forrests
Are her dreams
And a slaughtered horse
Is blinding her heartbeat.

----------


## Delta40

Mmm. I'm interested in Ex. Trying to contextualize the slaughtered horse is a bit tricky for me though. I imagined a few ways a horse might competitively be beaten and hence 'slaughtered', right down to the horse that pulls her carriage of dreams but anyhow, I enjoyed the poem for all that.

----------


## Jack of Hearts

Fine work, Doc. In the context of the title, it's a big old 'told ya so.'







J

----------


## DocHeart

*To L*



I promise you there is a future;
Not evident behind my smoke, perhaps,
But every bit as real as fragrant skin
Which patiently awaits undressing.

Inside its veins flows a magic fluid
Which can light up your cities
If you drink it; And if you bathe in it,
The itching of a hundred yesterdays dies.

It's all in white now; look, it has wings.
A far cry from the devil you imagined.
Why don't we take it to bed with us
I can kiss it. You can drink it.

----------


## PrinceMyshkin

By the time I got to line 3 


> *To L*
> 
> 
> 
> I promise you there is a future;
> Not evident behind my smoke, perhaps,
> But every bit as real as fragrant skin


 I was struggling a bit to see how both the future and (your cigarette?) smoke could be reconciled with "fragrant skin." Unless, of course, the smoke is meant to undercut the promise of the future.

----------


## miyako73

> *To L*
> 
> 
> 
> I promise you there is a future;
> Not evident behind my smoke, perhaps,
> But every bit as real as fragrant skin
> Which patiently awaits undressing.
> 
> ...


Just elegant. An honest poetic detailing of a man who wants to be understood. This one left me with fragments I tried piecing together to come up with a beautiful picture, and the picture was beautiful, very beautiful.

----------


## MorpheusSandman

I feel I've missed out on too much of your work, Doc. I must read through this thread and catch up, but in the meantime I'll comment on your latest: 




> *To L*
> 
> I promise you there is a future;
> Not evident behind my smoke, perhaps,
> But every bit as real as fragrant skin
> Which patiently awaits undressing.
> 
> Inside its veins flows a magic fluid
> Which can light up your cities
> ...


A very subtle and effectively ambiguous poem. It's one of those that cries out for interpretation, but I'm not sure I'm feeling up to it just yet. I love the concept of the future as like trying to see through (what I presume is cigarette) smoke, but I'm not sure about the double metaphor with the future being like seeing through cigarette smoke, which is like skin behind dresses. It seems to muddle the elegance of both--unless I'm reading it wrong (also like Prince, I'm not sure why "fragrant" is the right adjective here, given the context). 

What I really like, though, is how you seem to synthesize the idea of that future with veins inside of skin in S2. In fact, retroactively, it's almost as if you're continuing to peel back layers of the metaphor (future through smoke, skin through clothing, veins through skin, magic fluid inside the future). The "it has wings" reminds me of Dickinson's "Hope is a thing with feathers," actually, although I'm not quite sure about the idea of it being white... unless maybe I'm missing something obvious. The end does seem to tie all of the metaphors together, but in a vaguely imperceptible way... I'd love to hear your own thoughts about it, as I could be completely wrong.

----------


## Hawkman

Hi Doc: Lots to like in this one. Definitely a lot to think about, as Morpheus says. Not 100% sure what you are actually referring to, Oil? Nuclear Power? or not, as the case may be. It has sinister undercurrents of despair, perhaps. The biggest problem I have with this poem is here:

"...And if you bathe in it,
The itching of a hundred yesterdays dies."

Not sure that "and" is the right conjunction here, as "but" would seem to make more sense in context. The other niggle is the successive sibillants in yesterday*s* die*s*. Not a good combination. Perhaps:

"but to bathe in it
kills the itching of a hundred yesterdays."

Just a suggestion.

Live and be well - H

----------


## PrinceMyshkin

I'm posting just to disagree with Hawkman re your use of "and" where he and the norm would call for "but". I think there are circumstances where the 2nd condition is (virtually?) simultaneous with rather than in opposition to the first.

And the energy in this! - as in all your poems!

----------


## Alexander III

> *To L*
> 
> 
> 
> I promise you there is a future;
> Not evident behind my smoke, perhaps,
> But every bit as real as fragrant skin
> Which patiently awaits undressing.
> 
> ...



I love this, Its a shame I did not come across your poetry before, this is poetry which is a pleasure to read, which I genuinely enjoy as poetry. Especialy the first stanza it is a great opening stanza. Very exited to have found another solid talent on this poetry forums.

 :Smile:

----------


## cogs

i understood it to be the subject, a future. at first, i considered the cities, with smog, to be the smoke, which, if lifted (undressing), could reveal something positive (fragrant).
then, the veins could be the cities' electricity, which is a metaphor for the future hope.
i'm not sure about what the itching means, apart from an expectation that meets hope.
finally, since the yesterdays died, the future is reached, which then dies, and is an angel. then, perhaps the future is a conceived child?

----------


## DocHeart

Thanks very much everyone, for your kind responses and critique. It's very enjoyable to share these fora with you all, and in fact you've helped me improve a lot since I started here.

I'm particularly pleased you all enjoyed "To L"! There were some very interesting attempts at interpretation which I didn't expect. I don't really intend to be obscure, I don't want to set riddles. Sometimes I enjoy surprising myself with words that are unexpected, with notions that don't go well together -- as long as "the whole" has a taste, and leaves me with a definite sense of something when I reread it.

(I'd be interested to hear your views on whether the above is a healthy attitude to writing poetry, by the way!)






> By the time I got to line 3 
> 
> I was struggling a bit to see how both the future and (your cigarette?) smoke could be reconciled with "fragrant skin." Unless, of course, the smoke is meant to undercut the promise of the future.


Yes! The smoke is what blurs the vision and spoils the fragrance of the future. The speaker's respondent is invited to look behind it. 






> Just elegant. An honest poetic detailing of a man who wants to be understood. This one left me with fragments I tried piecing together to come up with a beautiful picture, and the picture was beautiful, very beautiful.


Thank you so much, Miyako. 

You hit the nail on the head. "To L" is indeed the effort of a guy to be understood by a woman.

(I feel a sexist joke coming up, so I'll move right along.)






> I feel I've missed out on too much of your work, Doc. I must read through this thread and catch up, but in the meantime I'll comment on your latest: 
> 
> A very subtle and effectively ambiguous poem. It's one of those that cries out for interpretation, but I'm not sure I'm feeling up to it just yet. I love the concept of the future as like trying to see through (what I presume is cigarette) smoke, but I'm not sure about the double metaphor with the future being like seeing through cigarette smoke, which is like skin behind dresses. It seems to muddle the elegance of both--unless I'm reading it wrong (also like Prince, I'm not sure why "fragrant" is the right adjective here, given the context). 
> 
> What I really like, though, is how you seem to synthesize the idea of that future with veins inside of skin in S2. In fact, retroactively, it's almost as if you're continuing to peel back layers of the metaphor (future through smoke, skin through clothing, veins through skin, magic fluid inside the future). The "it has wings" reminds me of Dickinson's "Hope is a thing with feathers," actually, although I'm not quite sure about the idea of it being white... unless maybe I'm missing something obvious. The end does seem to tie all of the metaphors together, but in a vaguely imperceptible way... I'd love to hear your own thoughts about it, as I could be completely wrong.


Thank you, Morpheus! I am inclined to agree with you that the double metaphor in the first stanza is a bit too much. One too many layers to remove before one sees the pieces of the puzzle -- and even then they're hard to put together. 

(I only do this when I've had a few drinks, I think. I must stop. Stop doing it, not stop drinking.)

With regards to the white thing with wings: it's meant to create the image of an angel, which (to my drunken mind) worked well with the devil of the next line.

As for the imperceptibility, I'll just let you enjoy it rather than explain it away. I hope you don't mind  :Smile: 







> Hi Doc: Lots to like in this one. Definitely a lot to think about, as Morpheus says. Not 100% sure what you are actually referring to, Oil? Nuclear Power? or not, as the case may be. It has sinister undercurrents of despair, perhaps. The biggest problem I have with this poem is here:
> 
> "...And if you bathe in it,
> The itching of a hundred yesterdays dies."
> 
> Not sure that "and" is the right conjunction here, as "but" would seem to make more sense in context. The other niggle is the successive sibillants in yesterday*s* die*s*. Not a good combination. Perhaps:
> 
> "but to bathe in it
> kills the itching of a hundred yesterdays."
> ...



Thanks so much, Hawk! 

The poem addresses a woman. I won't go into it much more, otherwise I'd be like the guy who tells a joke and then has to explain it.  :Smile: 

You are absolutely right, however, about "yesterdays dies" -- it just doesn't roll of the tongue. This is a top priority for when revision time comes.






> I love this, Its a shame I did not come across your poetry before, this is poetry which is a pleasure to read, which I genuinely enjoy as poetry. Especialy the first stanza it is a great opening stanza. Very exited to have found another solid talent on this poetry forums.


Thank you so much, Alexander! Great to meet you.






> i understood it to be the subject, a future. at first, i considered the cities, with smog, to be the smoke, which, if lifted (undressing), could reveal something positive (fragrant).
> then, the veins could be the cities' electricity, which is a metaphor for the future hope.
> i'm not sure about what the itching means, apart from an expectation that meets hope.
> finally, since the yesterdays died, the future is reached, which then dies, and is an angel. then, perhaps the future is a conceived child?



Thanks for your input, cogs! I don't mean to be enigmatic. I blame my recent wanderings into the realm of surrealism in cinema and poetry. It'll pass, I promise  :Smile: 

As I said before, the poem is about a woman.


Best health to all!

DH

----------


## MorpheusSandman

> With regards to the white thing with wings: it's meant to create the image of an angel, which (to my drunken mind) worked well with the devil of the next line.


Ah! An angel makes perfect sense and I feel a bit of a dope for not latching onto the clue about the devil! Thanks for the response, and I certainly don't mind you keeping it somewhat of a mystery. Mysteries are what makes a Lazarus of a poem (I guess that makes readers Jesuses!).

----------


## DocHeart

*An evening with Miles*


You push air through that trumpet
Forcing red shadows out of your lungs
And setting them against backgrounds
Of kisses wading through scotch --

Ah! You make our hearts vibrate.
Cry now, permit our skins
To sense that syncopated whip
Harder! Attack our hesitations 
Make us snap out of it all!

And let the rain percuss the city's chest
Outside;
Let the cement and the asphalt
Be yours.

----------


## Hawkman

It's all there Doc, the low light, cigarette smoke suspended in the bliss of jazz, late at night, in a bar, in the city... I should have known - jazz is the neon of noire, flickering in the rain, buzzing with the electric pulse of joy and sorrow, a pulse that Doc keeps at his fingertip.

Thanks for this

H

----------


## Jack of Hearts

Monsieur Hawk has a habit of putting it in exactly the right words.






J

----------


## MorpheusSandman

I've never been a huge fan of jazz, but I do love Miles Davis, and that poem is a piece of Round About Midnight, yes it is. I can just see the smokey club full of well-dressed by slightly sleazy patrons with their sweating drinks and sweaty faces foggy through the cigarette smoke whispering sweet nothings in their sweethearts' ears while Miles plays it cool like the music for a mating dance. 

A few quibbles: I'm not quite sold on "kisses wading through scotch," as it seems like an awkward image. Am I supposed to imagine lips literally swimming in a glass of scotch? I like the sexual connotations that begin with S2, and the way that "vibrate" develops to the rain percussing the city's chest. Although, I feel more could be done with it, as if it could be developed into a metaphorical conceit with out the prose-y nature of "cry now, permit our skins", which seems like a lag after that opening line.

----------


## cogs

well, i am a fan of modern jazz. funny how you mimicked the syncopated beat. lol, i wrote a jazz piece a while ago, and determined that only when i improve will i write another. 'attack' is apropos for a trumpet's sforzandos. 'percuss the city's chest' can't get any better (this is not mentioning the 'vibrate', 'skins', and 'snap'). 

i'm not sure how (or what) the red shadows come out of the lungs, and, with ms, didn't see the logic in the kiss/scotch pair (other than embouchure against trumpet and mouth, lol). perhaps, in the obvious pushing of air, the shadows could be that air itself. also, the city's asphalt is obviously outside, so perhaps the last stanza could be shortened to two lines? (also, the hard, gritty, heartless cityscape is excellent against the smooth, flowing, heartfelt jazz.)

your poems usually make me feel that i'm looking at a painting.

----------


## Bar22do

> *An evening with Miles*
> 
> 
> You push air through that trumpet
> Forcing red shadows out of your lungs
> And setting them against backgrounds
> Of kisses wading through scotch --
> 
> Ah! You make our hearts vibrate.
> ...


A gem of a poem and what a tribute to jazz, Doc., I've recently been to a great concert in Paris, rue des Lombards, all dedicated to that art... ah, "permit our skins to sense that syncopated whip harder!"

----------


## Jack of Hearts

Gotta agree with the Bar on that one.






J

----------


## DocHeart

*Weekends of silent phones*


I play squash with bouncing cheques
From nine till six; then I drive home
Among my dopelgangers, wishing no more
Than to taste scotch in twilight silence
Holding a book; a symbol of a bachelor
Who now wishes to become inelligible.

These days, spring Fridays that fade into
Weekends of silent phones
Are just that: a little space to breathe. 
Their early evenings hold no sinful promise
Of booze and girls eager to giggle.
Just a peculiar slowing down of the heart
As literature emerges from the pages
And shields my balcony 
From May's moist breeze.

----------


## Hawkman

Hi Doc, I really loved this, right up to the last two lines. How does literature shield your balcony from May's moist breeze? I hope you keep your books indoors; I'd hate to think of them all turning to paper mache while you squat, incommunicado on your balcony behind their decaying remains, drinking Scotch by the disconnected phone!

You must take better care of your books  :Wink: 

Live and be well - H

----------


## PrinceMyshkin

This skips along nimbly until the ache of those two final lines, which are splendid in saying just enough but no more.

----------


## Jack of Hearts

> I play squash with bouncing cheques
> From nine till six; then I drive home
> Among my dopelgangers, wishing no more
> Than to taste scotch in twilight silence
> Holding a book; a symbol of a bachelor
> Who now wishes to become inelligible.


The word 'dopelgangers' was a really good choice, Doc. One can picture the speaker in traffic, aching to get home to that scotch and forget about mundanity for a while.

Playing 'sqaush with bouncing checks' seems like it could easily make a man feel that way. The meaning of the last two lines seems to be most developed in the coming stanza...




> These days, spring Fridays that fade into
> Weekends of silent phones
> Are just that: a little space to breathe. 
> Their early evenings hold no sinful promise
> Of booze and girls eager to giggle.
> Just a peculiar slowing down of the heart
> As literature emerges from the pages
> And shields my balcony 
> From May's moist breeze.


There's no 'eager promise,' just much deserved relaxation, and perhaps a tinge of resignation. Just a man reading, sipping scotch. And it slows the heart down, and disconnects the reader from the world to someplace that is not mundane...

Usually when you disagree with Hawkman you're wrong. But this reader has got to disagree with Monsieur Hawk and say he quite likes your last two lines. The living literature shields the reader from reality, ie the breeze coming in from the balcony (wonderful imagery), was the interpretation that this reader made.

Thanks for posting, Doc. 




J

----------


## Hawkman

> Usually when you disagree with Hawkman you're wrong. But this reader has got to disagree with Monsieur Hawk and say he quite likes your last two lines. The living literature shields the reader from reality, ie the breeze coming in from the balcony (wonderful imagery), was the interpretation that this reader made.
> 
> Thanks for posting, Doc. 
> 
> 
> 
> 
> J


Sorry chum but the word choices in the last two lines are too specific. Literature shielding the balcony? I just see books stacked on one. To have said "literature shields me from May's moist breath," would have been sufficiently abstract as a metaphor to convey intent without conjouring a bizarre image of literature (as books) stacked on a balcony. It might have been an idea to incorporate a literative allusion to balconies, as in balcony scenes, as per the bard I suppose, but this too would probably be too evocative of one specific play. One wrong word can really throw a reader and derail the carefully established relationship with the text.

True I'm just one reader, so up to a point, this is a subjective opinion, but it doesn't make the assessment untrue.

Live and be well - H

----------


## Jack of Hearts

Ah. Fair enough.

Anyways, a fine poem, Doc. Keep 'em coming!







J

----------


## Bar22do

> from: *Weekends of silent phones*
> ...
> Just a peculiar slowing down of the heart
> As literature emerges from the pages
> And shields my balcony 
> From May's moist breeze.


A fine poem, reflecting so accurately my own spring Fridays that fade into _shabbatot_, quiet --- and only calls of "still little voice"...! Good poetry, Doc.

----------


## qimissung

> *To L*
> 
> 
> 
> I promise you there is a future;
> Not evident behind my smoke, perhaps,
> But every bit as real as fragrant skin
> Which patiently awaits undressing.
> 
> ...



This is quite beautiful. On reading the first line, I was sorta hoping this was a suitor's promise to his lady that they would have a future together. I didn't think there were too many metaphors at all. Sometimes I don't really want to know exactly what something means, I just want the music and the mystery of it to roll across my skin. And this one did.

----------


## Jack of Hearts

Qi, thanks for calling that one up again. It really is something special. Doc, sometimes you out-do yourself.





J



EDIT: The first stanza is impossibly beautiful.

EDIT EDIT: How did this reader miss 'To L' the first time? Somehow this is Doc's fault.

----------


## Jerrybaldy

Just read 'To L' as posted by Jack in the favourites section and want to send you Kudos as I love it. I blame my missing it on this single thread business. mutter mutter  :Wink: 
cheers
JB

----------


## DocHeart

*He kisses his beloved on the morn of her departure*


Night clouds take flight.
Past shimmering waves 
Gradience transforms
Night's blue to white.
Fresh, fresh the breeze,
Warm tears from your eyes.
Stars flicker, glimmer, glow and fall
Measuring summer sighs.

----------


## Jack of Hearts

Doc, this poem has some real elegance in there! But this reader can't help but feel that it needs something of a trimming at parts to bring it out. Of course, the title is the key here and that's a great and interesting choice. It's actually hard to say why this reader feels ambivalence toward this poem. Maybe you could look at it in a few days and see how you feel. This reader certainly will.



J

----------


## Bar22do

I love to hear "summer sighs"... but stars do not fall after dawn, do they? Doc, great is my fault, but I interfered with your verse and left little of it, in the endavour to make it elegantly sparse. Perhaps I only made it poor. Forgive me, but here are the four lines:

_Beneath night's blue, the shimmering waves.
Fresh is the breeze, warm are tears
and stars -
fall into summer sighs._

I always love to discover what's on your mind. This time something light and playful, isn't it.

----------


## DocHeart

> Maybe you could look at it in a few days and see how you feel. This reader certainly will.
> 
> 
> 
> J



God, man, I looked at it this morning and I don't like it one bit. Nasty wee effort, isn't it?

I don't think I'll go back to this one -- but I'll leave it up as a reminder that I should never attempt poetry after my (famous) green pepper and feta cheese omelet.

*Bar*, thanks for your comment, too.  :Smile: 

Best,
DH

----------


## Jack of Hearts

> God, man, I looked at it this morning and I don't like it one bit. Nasty wee effort, isn't it?
> 
> I don't think I'll go back to this one -- but I'll leave it up as a reminder that I should never attempt poetry after my (famous) green pepper and feta cheese omelet.
> 
> *Bar*, thanks for your comment, too. 
> 
> Best,
> DH



Nonononono. It's not nasty. Don't give up on it, Doc. This reader will come back and visit it in the next few days after he's thought a little more about it.






J

----------


## Hawkman

Hello Doc. I'm not too sure about the title as the use of "morn" for morning is kind of self-consciously "poetic" and somewhat at varience with the abbreviated stop-start of the short sentences, unless, of course, you intend it to be satirical. Gradience, although not in any of my dictionaries, is a term used in linguistics and semiotics and I'm not comfortable the way it sits in your verse. I assumed you meant it to indicate the sky's colour gradient (combined with its radience).

The structure seems to be struggling against itself a little. You seem to be grasshoppering around with your images. Starting with night (mentioned twice) then light, breeze, tears, falling stars and sighs. I can't decide if I should suggest you put the images into a more cohernet order, so that they progress better. Take the falling stars; Should they be with the night images or should they be linked to the tears? The trouble is that as an image for tears they really need to be part of the same sentence. You've been a bet profligate with your full stops. Consequently it doesn't read as well as it might. 

Having said all that I don't actually think it's a bad start. you've some nice images here as a framework to hang a really nice poem on.

"Stars glimmer, glow and fall,
night clouds take flight
and radience transforms 
the blue to white.
Fresh, fresh the breeze
cooling tears from your eyes, 
measuring summer sighs."

Might be one way to polish it. Always a pleasure to get a glimps of the Doc's take on things.  :Smile: 

Live and be well - H

----------


## paradoxical

I just read "To L" for the first time and wanted to say that it was superb. Outstanding work.

----------


## Jack of Hearts

> *He kisses his beloved on the morn of her departure*
> 
> Night clouds take flight.
> Past shimmering waves 
> Gradience transforms
> Night's blue to white.
> Fresh, fresh the breeze,
> Warm tears from your eyes.
> Stars flicker, glimmer, glow and fall
> Measuring summer sighs.


Okokok, here goes.


Things that seem to be working. The rhyme scheme is something this reader liked, it seemed to hold the thing together and make it melodical when spoken aloud. The sense of coming to rest is evident in the pacing, almost like a lullaby. There is color in this poem, and there is sensation, like where there's a 'fresh breeze' and 'warm tears' and imagery of the ocean. One feels the ocean is warm in this poem.

It's as though you were too undecided about this poem. At least it feels that way to this reader. This reader accuses you of being indecisive or unsure.


*PRESCRIPTION*: (in this reader's opinion) Go back and meditate on poem. Ask yourself what this mother is really about and what's important to it. Try to remember how you originally wanted to feel about it. Make decisions and let your natural talent guide you and write the thing.

(not that this reader is fit to be giving prescriptions or considers himself a good enough poet to be saying anything about process to you. But he likes you and wants to offer advice, and that's cheap after all. Based on your comment about it being 'nasty', maybe you owe it to yourself to just try to come to grips with the thing anyway).

If you feel like it, Doc. Hopefully you don't take this response as pretentious or mean. Maybe you don't want advice or encouragement or even readership at this point. Maybe you don't even want to talk about the poem. But if you want to talk about the poem, work it out through conversation or something, this reader is open to that. Either right here or through PM. Whatever you want amigo.







J

----------


## DocHeart

*The moon and the tree*


"I'm tired," sighed the moon,
Pale and waning, 
And leant to the right
To rest its back 
On dark branches
That reached up
To receive it.

"Rest here," cooed the tree,
"I've doused my leaves
In the rare moisture
Of eyes that see your golden skin
And cry."

----------


## Hawkman

This is lovely Doc. Dare I suggest that you replace "and leant" with leaning? Not sure about the last line. I feel the ending would be stronger with a consonant. Weep perhaps?

Really like it though.

Live and be well - H

----------


## Bar22do

> *The moon and the tree*
> 
> 
> "I'm tired," sighed the moon,
> Pale and waning, 
> And leant to the right
> To rest its back 
> On dark branches
> That reached up
> ...


I read this a few days ago, but was wandering for a while, so comment only now - It's a subtle example of pathetic fallacy and a beautiful, evocative, touching poem, Doc! I would only suggest to end it at "golden skin", for crying is alluded to in "rare moisture". Enjoyed a lot, thank you!

----------


## AuntShecky

Sorry I missed some of these on the first go around, but I've got a fairly good excuse. 

#100-- I wouldn't change a thing. It is "simple," meaning the kind of simplicity that goes hand in hand with elegance. Just like a batter who doesn't need to swing for the fences but merely bring in a runner from third base, sometimes our most effective poems are the ones in which we don't try to do too much. Therein lies their power.

#108 I agree with Hawkman on "leaning." The other two descriptive words are adjectives, so you need the participle, not the verb, for balance. The only other change I make is in the line breaks of the three concluding lines:




> In the rare moisture
> Of eyes that see your golden skin
> And cry.


In the rare moisture
of eyes that see
your golden skin
and cry.

----------


## Jack of Hearts

> *The moon and the tree*
> 
> 
> "I'm tired," sighed the moon,
> Pale and waning, 
> And leant to the right
> To rest its back 
> On dark branches
> That reached up
> ...


Simply beautiful, Doc. When this reader read it after you first posted it he knew it was special.







J

----------


## Bar22do

Where are you Doc???

----------


## DocHeart

> Where are you Doc???


Right here, my dear, right here.  :Smile: 

A thank-you to all of you who have taken time to read and comment. I appreciate and learn from your input.

Best,
DH

----------


## DocHeart

*Summer in the City*


On frying pavements
You all stand still
Like sweating statues.
Those cracks on the surface
Are big enough to swallow you
But you float above somehow.
This vicious sun
Should shred your skin
Should melt your eyes
But you're intact. Intact!

Are you people?

Look:
Fear has stopped that man's heart.
Worry has whipped that young girl's face.
Despair robbed that old lady of her zimmer frame.
Hunger stole that student's dignity.
Statistics took this baby's mother away.

Why are you all so still?

----------


## Delta40

I particularly like the last line of S1 DocHeart as if to say 'live!' or be grateful. The range of imagery and everyday realities under a hot beating sun is very well blended to culminate in the final question.

----------


## Bar22do

This is deeply humane, moving, denouncing... while the heat continues as does human indifference... well said, Doc. Glad "I" brought you back! Let's pretend it was not a coincidence. Great to read you as always.

----------


## Jack of Hearts

'To L' is really magnificeny. You really out did yourself, you old fart!






J

----------


## Jack of Hearts

> *Summer in the City*
> 
> 
> On frying pavements
> You all stand still
> Like sweating statues.
> Those cracks on the surface
> Are big enough to swallow you
> But you float above somehow.
> ...



Hmmmm...







J

----------


## DocHeart

*Clog*


Water ran; mixed with 
My five-o-clock shadow
And shaving foam
And your long brown strands,
It became a filthy obstruction
The disgusting froth
Of heated arguments
Pointlessly reheated.

Too narrow the drain,
Too feeble the excuses and apologies:
The muck stayed there.
It formed a nasty lake
Infested with insults and indicisiveness.

Couplehood is easy for the young,
The unscarred, the pure of heart.
But for you and me it's a lost cause;
A brief battle to let feelings flow,
To be sincere; to accept intimacy.
When defeat floods the floor
Mould forms over our words;
Slime drowns our hearts.

----------


## Hawkman

Summer in the City:

The first stanza is a brilliant poem in it's own right Doc. I'm afraid I'm not so keen on the rest of it. What comes after is too telling and a bit didactic. I can tell you felt strongly about what you wanted to say but it lacks the poetry of S1.

Clog:

The depressing reality of inevitability? Powerful, if slightly depressing imagery. Sounds like it's time for the narrator to find a new girlfriend - if he thinks it's worth it, that is...

Live and be well - H

----------


## Bar22do

Clog: I love the first stanza. As I do the last L of this poem (very much!). Furthermore, "couplehood is easy for the young" is so very true: couples should form before the age of 20 and last forever... By 30 and/or more, all becomes complicated, flexibility is gone, habits take over... except very rare cases of exceptional encounters...

----------


## Jack of Hearts

*Clog*:





> Water ran; mixed with 
> My five-o-clock shadow
> And shaving foam
> And your long brown strands,
> It became a filthy obstruction
> The disgusting froth
> Of heated arguments
> Pointlessly reheated.


This first stanza sets up the wonderful metaphor/central image/whatever of the poem. This reader questions the way you’ve done the line breaks, though- it’s as though they’re almost halved? What effect were you looking for, Doc? Pending that answer, this reader thinks it would flow better if the linebreaks were more like the second stanza.

Also, the line ‘Of heated arguments’ seems out of its element. Everything else is so understated in the first stanza, so that line seems heavy handed by comparison. We _should_ get to know what your poem is really about, but not like that; being knocked over the head with it.




> Too narrow the drain,
> Too feeble the excuses and apologies:
> The muck stayed there.
> It formed a nasty lake
> Infested with insults and indicisiveness.


Again, to play with the power of the central metaphor you’ve created, probably some of this stanza should go. Line 2 seems really important here. This reader likes the sound of _’Too narrow the drain, too feeble the excuses.’_ The ‘apologies’ part seems a bit extraneous and ruins the rhthym that seems to want to come out here. This reader also recommends you drop the last line entirely.




> Couplehood is easy for the young,
> The unscarred, the pure of heart.
> But for you and me it's a lost cause;
> A brief battle to let feelings flow,
> To be sincere; to accept intimacy.
> When defeat floods the floor
> Mould forms over our words;
> Slime drowns our hearts.


Not sure, Doc. The first two lines denote that this a relationship between two people who are allegedly more emotionally mature or damaged than they used to be. Lines 3, 4, and 5 are said so matter-of-factly that it’s hard to ‘feel’ them. The rest of the poem is building to this, but it seems you just can’t ‘give it’ like that. You have to make us feel it somehow. Finally, this reader doesn’t like ‘defeat’ flooding the floors because it also is outside the imagery. Say what floods the floors and we’ll know it’s defeat. The clog holds. The sink gives its mess everywhere. We can know this.

Your faithful and admiring reader,





J

----------


## AuntShecky

RE: "Summer in the City"-- title of an oldie but goodie by The Lovin' Spoonful. Come to mention it, the back o' my neck is getting dirty and gritty, by the bye.

The opening stanzas, ending with the line "Are you people?" is great. After that, the piece seems somewhat preachy, though I can't say I disagree with the sentiment.

"Clog" has the makings of a really fine piece.

If we accept the notion that a good poem is a marriage between thought and form, "Clog" manages to do this when it sustains the metaphor:



> Too narrow the drain,





> The muck stayed there.





> A brief battle to let feelings flow,


And this is an apt observation, pointing out how the stopped up drain of the
marriage (or relationship) builds up over time



> Couplehood is easy for the young,
> The unscarred, the pure of heart.


A different word choice for "unscarred"? The clearer waters of fresh hearts(?)

The effect slips a little when it ventures away from the central metaphor:





> But for you and me it's a lost cause;





> To be sincere; to accept intimacy.


We've seen phrases such as "lost cause" and words like "sincere" and "intimacy" a bit too much, no?

I would move the last two lines:



> Mould forms over our words;
> Slime drowns our hearts.


Put a comma after "hearts" and close the poem with this one:



> When defeat floods the floor.

----------


## DocHeart

I *think* I'm back. That is, I don't know for sure. It's been quite a summer.

Before posting a fresh one, my sincere thanks to everyone who reads and comments. I use your input to improve, which makes this whole exercise quite meaningful.

Good health to all.

----------


## DocHeart

*Letter to Larkin*


My dear Philip,

Had you spent not six,
But seven days a week
In your Hull library,

And if your Hull library
Hadn't been a place
Where everyone spoke nicely
(For that is how people in libraries speak)
Without ever uttering words
Such as "schedule", "deliverables",
Phrases such as
"Acceptance criteria", "Profit margin", 
"Vis-à-vis our recently published financial results",

And if, rather than just a telephone,
You had emails, faxes and text messages 
Waiting to pounce on you every morning,

And if the leather briefcase that you carried
Contained not just The Times and an apple
But snuggled up between them a computer,
Bright white, powerful and so effective
In enabling you to take the toad work home with you,

Then, only then, would I sit in an armchair
Across from your red eyes and untidy specs
And drink your whisky, and share my thoughts

On why the toad work is indispensible
And why we spend most of our time feeding it
And what remains we drown in scotch and smoke.

And how after all wild oats have been sown,
After all Sidney Bechet records have been played
Friends married off, cars driven --

If you remove it, nothing much remains
Except a person you didn't know was you, who,
In his newly found and unwished for freedom,
Between beasts and gods hovers unstrung.

----------


## Hawkman

Now this was a real treat. You only need one 'had' in the first line though and you need a comma after gods in the last line. S5 L3 you might consider cutting the second and. S6 L3 reads a little awkwardly. Better as: "and drown what remains in scotch and smoke"

I really appreciated this. Great poem.

Live and be well - H

----------


## Jack of Hearts

Doc, your streak is getting more and more bleak. Sometimes you just gotta get wet in the creek if you ever want to escape your 60 hour work week. Go to the mirror and take and peek. Trace the hollow in your cheek and have a good long think. There's someone there you need to meet.







J

----------


## Silas Thorne

Dropping in a the tail end of things, I think this last one is a wonderful poem. The feel is there too, from what I've read of the poems of Phillip Larkin. Excellent! I'll raise a dram to it.  :Smile:  I think if I'd read what he wrote about the Hull library, I would have gotten a lot more out of it though. Thanks for bringing poetry to my morning, DocHeart.

----------


## DocHeart

*The Accident* 


Nothing to write home about.
Bottle of sparkling water exploded
In my real-life freezer
(I only put women in my fantasy one).

Speaking of metaphors, I've tried
To dislodge glass shards from ice before
And I got cut then, too.

Blood dripped on the milk bottle,
On the cream trousers that still fit me
(What other colour could I possibly be wearing?)
On the phone bill
And of course on the floor.

Still haven't cleaned up.

With all lights on, the place looks
As though we've finally had it out, you and I,
As if I've punched you
And you've stabbed me
Before sitting down to a dinner
Of hearts, stomachs and livers.

----------


## Bar22do

Doc, your Letter To Larkin shakes with bleakness, it's great writing. 

Your last brings to my mind set faces and near vacant eyes of couples sitting silent in the beach cafés, as if awaiting a plea for clemency...

----------


## Jack of Hearts

Doc,

Really liked reading 'The Accident.' The conclusion of it was great.







J

----------


## Jack of Hearts

*falls over, breaks vase, bumps thread*


Whoops.








J

----------


## Lykren

Letter to Larkin really impressed me.
You carried a thought through an entire poem, a little story as it were, which I know from experience is very difficult to do.


Also, great last line.

----------


## Jack of Hearts

For 'The Accident':

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7TbmP2vXeQs







J

----------


## DocHeart

I'm so pleased you guys are still reading and commenting! Thank you, all.

I'm kind of caught up in writing this short story at the moment. One of the ones you like, Jack. You know, with rugged cops and fatal females and siht  :Smile:  

But autumn is upon us. Nothing like fresh September rain and falling leaves to inspire more poetry. So. Soon.

Good health to all.

----------


## Jack of Hearts

> I'm kind of caught up in writing this short story at the moment. One of the ones you like, Jack. You know, with rugged cops and fatal females and siht


Et ça, c'est mon genre.

Was just reflecting on how good your output actually is. You're in a class of your own, Doc. And if you want to go Raymond Chandler on our asses, well, we'd give it a try.








J

----------


## DocHeart

*Pig*


Child-like wrists tied to bed posts
Lead to red fingernails digging inside palms
Clenched, sweating.

I let loose my filthy mouth
In your tiny, girlish ear.
Bad, smokey breath
Slaps blushing cheeks.

I tell you what I'll do to you
In blatant detail: the kisses,
The pinches, the rubs;
How I will utilize each orifice.

Earrings vibrate with shame.

This quickened and quivering breath,
Then swaying, kissing. The bed creaks.
Your Master on you, in you. You: immobile,
Undefending, misty-eyed.

Fragrant.

----------


## Hawkman

Both powerful and disturbing. Having watched a documentary on Peter Sutcliffe (The Yorkshire Ripper) yesterday, I'm not sure how I feel about this one. Also makes me think of a scene from the Girl with the Dragon Tattoo.

Certainly very well written.

Live and be well - H

----------


## DocHeart

> Both powerful and disturbing. Having watched a documentary on Peter Sutcliffe (The Yorkshire Ripper) yesterday, I'm not sure how I feel about this one. Also makes me think of a scene from the Girl with the Dragon Tattoo.
> 
> Certainly very well written.
> 
> Live and be well - H



Thanks, Hawk. Don't worry. Consenting adults, and all that jazz.  :Smile: 

Regards

----------


## Jerrybaldy

Firstly I hate single threads. I think lots of stuff gets lost in them and goes unread.

Secondly your writing is simply stunning, challenging and simply stunning. In time I will work through your whole thread.
JB

----------


## Jack of Hearts

> *Pig*
> 
> 
> Child-like wrists tied to bed posts
> Lead to red fingernails digging inside palms
> Clenched, sweating.


You're like that book by Nabokov.




> I let loose my filthy mouth
> In your tiny, girlish ear.
> Bad, smokey breath
> Slaps blushing cheeks.


Giving the stinky breath a verb like 'slaps' was inspired.




> I tell you what I'll do to you
> In blatant detail: the kisses,
> The pinches, the rubs;
> How I will utilize each orifice.
> 
> Earrings vibrate with shame.


Here's what's unsettling about this poem. Clearly there are two entities in it. But the narrative voice is speaking directly to the other entity and using the second person pronoun 'you.' 

Some greek guy on the internet telling 'you' he's going to violate 'your' every orifice? Real original, Doc.

(Last line of this section was pretty original and well done... earrings/shame).




> This quickened and quivering breath,
> Then swaying, kissing. The bed creaks.
> Your Master on you, in you. You: immobile,
> Undefending, misty-eyed.
> 
> Fragrant.


What an interesting word to close with. Given what we've just been through, that word, placed where it is, has shades of sexual deviancy associated with it.

As king of this thread, Jack of Hearts pronounces this poem a success. You may violate the bride.







J

----------


## DocHeart

> Some greek guy on the internet telling 'you' he's going to violate 'your' every orifice? Real original, Doc.


I didn't say "violate". I said "utilize". Violations might be nice, but the novelty wears off. _Utilizing_, however, ...




> What an interesting word to close with. Given what we've just been through, that word, placed where it is, has shades of sexual deviancy associated with it.


You *always* get me. If you were a woman I'd ask you out.





> As king of this thread, Jack of Hearts pronounces this poem a success. You may violate the bride.



Thank you and bless you O faithful reader and commentator  :Smile: 

Cheers Jack!

----------


## Bar22do

Your Pig is incredibly good, Doc; it's blood freezing until one understands or guess (and then is told) they are consenting adults. So bloody well written, Doc.

----------


## DocHeart

*During a Business Trip to London, September 2012*


I

I could have been mature about it
And not defied the rules so stubbornly
Had they not put that tweed armchair in there.
So chintzy that, so touristy. Oh, hell - 
So "welcome to Britain, stranger".

I dragged it by the window, poured a scotch,
And sat. I lit a Camel. I pondered
The sign threatening a forty-pound fine
For getting caught smoking in your room.

Getting caught. Like fukc, I thought,
And flicked my ash down Bayswater Road.




II

Hyde Park ducks don't mind the rain.
They don't seem to notice it at all.

It must be blissful to exist in peace
In crocodile-free man-made ponds;
To never know danger or discomfort.

To never have to jog at 6 a.m.




III


It ain't what it used to be, 
Fish and chips. Back then,
Long library afternoons 
Were followed by eager trips downtown
To sink in the smell of the vinegar
Soaking through the wrapper;
To let salt sizzle on the tongue;
To leave the greasy lips unwiped.

Today's cod was in a squeaky white platter.
Thin, stingy chips tasted vague like memories.
Fellow eaters wore dark-coloured ties,
And as I chewed, my mind was full
Not of Bakhtinian readings of Jane Eyre
But on my unfinalizable powerpoint.

Nothing like age to change the way
Things taste, and look, and feel.
Nowadays, bus posters scroll by like forgotten years;
Napkins are strewn about the table
Like opened cards.




IV

Next time I come here
It's got to be with you.
It's non-negotiable.

You must take the window seat
And examine the Thames from above;
Then, you must apply its squiggle
To a caress of my face.

You must kiss me on the tube
During rush hour.

You must examine everything
In great detail. For through your eyes
Is the only way this city will ever
Let me look at it again.

----------


## Jerrybaldy

Just brilliant.

----------


## Hawkman

Hi Doc. Tweed Armchair - Chintzy? Hmmm. Not sure about that, tweed and chintzy aren't synonymous to me, one says country and the other says boudoir and never the twain shall meet. If you were confronted with this in your hotel, I'm not surprised you rebelled  :Biggrin:  A crafty drag out the window? You should have burnt the place down - lol. Like the poem though.

I'm less keen on the second offering. The implication that ducks lead stress-free lives compared with the trial of a human requirement to jog at 6am feels a bit weak to me. Plenty of urban foxes to sneak a duck or two and a lurking pike can swallow a duckling whole; then there are peregrines that can knock them out of the air and kids to throw stones at them and take pot-shots with air rifles. Nobody _has_ to jog at 6am, unless they're in the army...

The third one is a jewel though, great description, "let salt sizzle on the tongue" brilliant. and "Bakhtinian readings of Jane Ayre" is really evocative. This poem is masterfully crafted.

As is the last one, which communicates so well that need to share the experience of somwhere with someone special, rather than just be there on your own, kind of lonely and preoccupied with work. Another great poem.

Thanks for sharing these Doc.

Live and be well - H

----------


## DocHeart

*Jerry*, thanks for reading, glad you enjoyed!

*Hawk*, there really was a tweed armchair in there. It was nightmarish. I tried to find something on the internet that looked remotely like that abomination, but all I could come up with was this:



Jack Nicholson himself would freak out...

But seriously, thanks for reading and enjoying -- and I appreciate your critique, always.

Best,
DH

----------


## Hawkman

Alas the wing-backed tweedy
In a boudoir full of chintz;
Doc sits near the window
With a pack of fags, and drinks.

And through the open window
He blows smoke and flicks his ash,
Hoping that the concierge
Won’t see and ask for cash.

He longs to burn the tweedy chair
Along with all the drapes,
Because they’re all so fake and waxy
Like the bowl of grapes.

He thinks of where he came from,
Of the things that make him glad,
Neo Noire and movies, titled,
“Dead chairs don’t wear plaid.”

----------


## Bar22do

The four are outstanding, Doc, I read and re-read. But the fourth... Gosh, I wish I were this poem's "you"! Delightful, lovely poetry.

----------


## DocHeart

> Alas the wing-backed tweedy
> In a boudoir full of chintz;
> Doc sits near the window
> With a pack of fags, and drinks.
> 
> And through the open window
> He blows smoke and flicks his ash,
> Hoping that the concierge
> Wont see and ask for cash.
> ...





 :Smilielol5:

----------


## Bar22do

Overlooked my comment re your London poems ? here it's again then:

_The four are outstanding, Doc, I read and re-read. But the fourth... Gosh, I wish I were this poem's "you"! Delightful, lovely poetry._

----------


## DocHeart

> Overlooked my comment re your London poems ? here it's again then:
> 
> _The four are outstanding, Doc, I read and re-read. But the fourth... Gosh, I wish I were this poem's "you"! Delightful, lovely poetry._


Sorry Bar, was busy starting fires  :Smile: 

Your kind words have been read and deeply appreciated!

Best,
DH

----------


## Jack of Hearts

It's all good, with III being knocked out of the park. IV, though it has great elements about it, seems to be the weakest- but only because it is in want of a little more attention.

But that's only relatively speaking, because the entire thing is *good*.






J

----------


## DocHeart

> It's all good, with III being knocked out of the park. IV, though it has great elements about it, seems to be the weakest- but only because it is in want of a little more attention.
> 
> But that's only relatively speaking, because the entire thing is *good*.
> 
> 
> 
> 
> 
> 
> J


So many thanks, Jack. Great to know you're still reading.

In time, IV will undergo extensive editing.

Best,
DH

----------


## zoolane

I have readied all poems, they just fabulous written and with great images to matches. I could not pick favour but all tell story about feelings and with very thing one has different emotions behind.

----------


## DocHeart

> I have readied all poems, they just fabulous written and with great images to matches. I could not pick favour but all tell story about feelings and with very thing one as different emotions behind.


Hey Zoo,

I truly appreciate your readership, and your kind words. 

Hope you're well!

DH

----------


## Delta40

That was a brilliant read Doc. Great ride with just the right amount of salt and vinegar!

----------


## DocHeart

*Frankfurt Blues*


The cloud descends quietly; 
It hovers near the ground
Obscuring tops of glass buildings
Like an old, tattered grey curtain.
Invisible jet engines roar.

I sink in comfortable Mercedes leather
And listen to my taxi driver's music:
_Melancholy_, it must be, by Stan Getz.
A new experience this, to hear jazz
In someone else's car; a nod from fate, perhaps.
We drive fast on smooth and noiseless tarmac,
Past gigantic neon and people
Who are blurry, walking fast, umbrella-covered.

In my hotel, uniformed youngsters sir me,
As if they're certain I'm respectable and nice.
I'm actually a total bastard. This carpet
I'm treading on that muffles footsteps and guilt,
This bottle of Riesling I'm diving in at 3pm,
This Robusto -- they're all the fruit of craftiness,
Of meticulously calculated, skillful steps,
Which made me the successful bidder
And fed a dozen other fukcers nothing but my dust.

Survival of the fittest, and that's just how it is;
That's the way the capitalist cookie crumbles. 
"Poor boy made good." My highschool teachers
Would be proud of me. So would my friends.
The real ones. Wherever they may be.

With evening, the cloud departs, just as
Noiselessly as it arrived. The only thing that
Makes the sky grey now is light pollution.
I desire sleep. Even that comes easily.
Tomorrow, all I must do is be who I need to be.
All I must do is smile, and sign.

----------


## Hawkman

Great narrative, Doc. Pithy, reflective, but it reads like prose. Fluid, rhythmic prose though. It would make a good beginning to a short story, or as it is, a good piece of flash fiction (even if it's true - lol) But is that fair, I ask myself. I've been reading Some of Thurber's "fables" and I keep telling myself I'm reading poetry. You've done the same sort of thing here, writing prose with assonance and rhythm. For this reader it still comes over as prose though. or does it? Jury's out. Damned good read though.


Live and be well - H

----------


## Jack of Hearts

RE yer blues...

Was just reading a book that talks about the uselessness of business school and the MBA. It perched upon one of the central points of your poem, as well:

"Tomorrow, all I must do is be who I need to be.
All I must do is smile, and sign."

In America, we're told of equality at an early age. Everyone is equal. You don't get special privileges just because you're _you_. But the older this reader gets, the more he starts to realize how everything is, in fact, contingent upon who you are (or seem to be?). The complete opposite! and your poem re-invoked that rather amusing and sad train of thought.







J

----------


## Bar22do

Your Frankfurt poem (in addition to who is described in it) is opulent, rich, it moves stately, logically and still sth is disturbing, so sad. 

_"tomorrow (...) I (...) must be who I need to be"_ 

is very poignant. 

A deep frustration transpires through your words. They plunge one into deep thought of some lives' emptiness... 

My favorite:

_"A new experience this, to hear jazz
In someone else's car; a nod from fate, perhaps."
_
but all the poem is a beautiful read. Thanks Doc!

----------


## DocHeart

*Inside A Box Inside A Bigger Box*


Inside a box inside a bigger box
Tightly strapped to my glass desk, I work.
At noon, clocks droop and melt.
My colleagues stiff, as if in rigor mortis -
One more line of code in place,
One email answered. Endless, it feels,
Promethean, our imprisonment.

But evening falls; colours must now be
Strong enough to see, or they just fade.
Clarity rises. On coming home,
Shakespeare and Kipling and that old dog
Kerouac greet me, tails wagging: "Read us."
And then three or four hours are nothing:
They're as sufficient as the short minutes
Of a last good-bye between old friends.

Most people reckon life is short.
It must be, then, that we perceive of it
Not as the sum of countless working days
Or five hundred monthly salaries,
But as time spent in dim, flickering light,
Enjoying words or sounds or images
Or, the more fortunate, another person.

--

----------


## prendrelemick

Ha! I knew that was yours!

There's so much going on, so many images. I loved the way those books greeted you!

----------


## DocHeart

> Ha! I knew that was yours!
> 
> There's so much going on, so many images. I loved the way those books greeted you!


Thanks, Mick!  :Smile:  It's the only thing I've written in the past couple of months which feels worth sharing. Hopefully your kind words and readership will help me back on track.

Best,
DH

----------


## Bar22do

This is fantastic, Doc, I was recently "gossiping" with a pen-friend about how good and sensitive a poet you are.
The "those real hours, (though) as sufficient as the short minutes of a last good buy between old friends" pass like "nothing" - this is so well observed and poignant (poignant because of the proportions...). And how true THEY alone give us the right to say "we have lived"... you were never out of track, I believe.

----------


## YesNo

I enjoyed the poem and especially the last line. It motivated me to re-read the poem. That's what I suspect a good last line should do.

----------


## DocHeart

Thank you, everyone, for reading and commenting.

----------


## DocHeart

*Winter*


Mornings anticipating
Snow that never comes
Can still feel vivid
If you trouble yourself
To guess the sun
Behind the milky sky.

Chilled air disinfects you
Like breathable whisky.

Yes,
This frozen windlessness
Might let the city stand
Another day.

----------


## Hawkman

Hi doc. Some nice expression in this piece. My only quibble is "guess the sun" imagine rather than guess would be my choice. Love:

"Chilled air disinfects you
Like breathable whisky"

Live and be well - H

----------


## DocHeart

> My only quibble is "guess the sun" imagine rather than guess would be my choice.


Hey Hawk, thanks for reading!

You're right about the usage of "guess" -- this is actually DocHeart speaking in Greeklish (Greek + English mixed together). "Guess the sun" is something that would work in my native language, but not here.

"Imagine" is the correct verb, but it spoils (what I perceive as) the rhythm. I'm stumped for a better alternative.

I'm sure I'll come up with one before the end of the world, however.

Good health!

DH

----------


## Bar22do

> *Winter*
> 
> 
> Mornings anticipating
> Snow that never comes
> Can still feel vivid
> If you trouble yourself
> To guess the sun
> Behind the milky sky.
> ...


Another good poem about winter! Elegant, reserved, it concedes some degree of optimism. I absolutely love the whole first stanza and although I'm not a specialist in English, for me "if you trouble yourself/* to guess the sun*/ behind the milky sky" is fascinating and effective! (and indeed, it reads well, as if it were the only option here).

Thanks Doc! I enjoyed it immensely! and will return to it.

----------


## qimissung

I kind of like "guess the sun." It would make a good title for something. Maybe your book of poetry.

----------


## DocHeart

*Solid*


I will play this magic flute.
Empty beer cans will follow me
To the Land of Broken Clocks.

This rainbow has solid grey intestines.

Whisky - yes! Completeness and Fulfillment.
Saint George be with you, child, bless you.
Smoke this and drag the snake-skin carpet
Under time's feet; now rest. Inhale.

You know very well what kind of place this is:
It is Bukowski's Globe Theatre;
It is Kafka's garage full of Christmas trees;
It is the Room of Liars. Get comfy.

For out of here lies only an ocean
Of vague question marks.

----------


## Delta40

Wish I read Bukowski and Kafka (I've been found out!) closing lines very interesting but I'm not sure the imagery sits with me. Anyway, I did enjoy the visions and the almost bawdy tone of the poem Doc.

----------


## DocHeart

*Walking downtown at midnight*


Walking downtown at midnight
Should feel less homely, less safe.
I was duly brought up on
"Trundle in darkness, step on dogsiht".

Why does this squalor seem sweet, then?
The dusty bar stools, the abandoned cars;
The pavements cracking with grief,
The hooker's flabby arm hailing a cab,
The card players coughing downstairs.

This grime has always been here,
Before the Body Shop, before Macdonald's,
Like a bastard child stalking his father
Crouched behind loud, fake neon.

All nonsense gone, all windows smashed,
All pseudo-grandeur flushed down the loo.
But supermarket bags and dust still foxtrot
And question-marked strangers still roam
Around these unlit slippery paths:
They all connect me to a familiar past.

Let me stand here. Business as usual
For the mouldy wall thick with graffiti.
The Africanos argue by the traffic light.
Drunk people walk slowly, losing life.

Yes, when sickened by what was taken away
One needs a steady point to fix his gaze upon.
The city's slimy nights supply it, freely.

----------


## YesNo

This is downtown Athens today? Nice description, but in my mind I keep seeing the ancients roaming it. The word, "sippery" should probably be "slippery".

----------


## DocHeart

Hi YesNo,

Keep the image of the ancients. It's better.  :Smile: 

And thanks for pointing out the typo.

Best,
DH

----------


## Jack of Hearts

Athens must be quite the muse, Doc.







J

----------


## qimissung

This is really good. It is one I would return to, if it was in a book, although I think you could skip lines 3 and 4 and attach the first two lines to the second stanza. Just a thought.

----------


## DocHeart

*Blood on Roses*


Viciously
Thorns dig in palms
That carelessly
Steal summer's beauty.

Life defends itself
No matter
How small or feeble.

But winter falls.
Withering petals float
To distant tarmac.

At last
The hand has healed.

Bare stalks stand rigid
Covered in morning frost.

----------


## AuntShecky

Hi Doc,
#169 Takes the opposite view of wintr from the usual ho-hum disgruntled acceptance of the status quo of the average man on the street. That's some phrase "Breathable whiskey" -- if you could patent and bottle the literal version you could retire in luxury.

#174 The imagery is fanciful-- whimsical, almost. Three--count 'em--three--artistic allusions, Mozart, the boozin' poet, and the nihilistic author. Beyond the strikingly imaginative language, yours fooly can't quite grasp the meaning of this one, though.

#176 This one works well because of its specific imagery. It'slike the speaker is taking a tracking shot with a hand-held camera (one that comes equipped with judgemental opinions!)

#181
Not sure you need the adverbs introducing each strophe ( or stanza.) They seem superfluous, and besides, they "tell" too much. Even so, the first four lines are the best, seem truthful about the self-preservation mechanism imbedded in all life-forms. I'm not a doctor (I don't even play one on TV) but I also believe that it's highly possible for a wound to take two or three seasons to heal (for emotional ones, even longer.)

I read your winning story and will read the expanded version soon as I get a chance.

----------


## DocHeart

Thanks so much for reading, Aunt!

I think you're right about Blood on Roses. I just gave it a haircut.

Best,
DH

----------


## DocHeart

*Nothing*



Nothing has replaced the flame
I used to light my cigarette with.

West-coast jazz tried for a while. 
It couldn't understand
That the very breath its trumpets
Blew all over the sofa
Made me yearn more.

I can't fault whisky; it was there.
"I'm different," it said, "but so what;
It burnt, I burn just as well".
But its burn was inside.
Not on the skin.

Humans haven't tried yet. Good.
Their regular compassionate tricks
Exhaust my patience.

So, here: above an ashtray
Brimming with years of youth
I float.
And nothing
Has replaced the flame
I used to light my cigarette with.

----------


## DocHeart

*Breakfast*


Broke now, broken, 
I wander city streets.
They get soaked patiently
With hesitant rain;
Neon unflinchingly
Continues to flash
To and fro.

Behind me, in the bar, 
The piano still aches
With slow, deliberate stabs.
Whisky keeps burning dry throats.
Jacks and aces and queens 
Still strut their stuff.

The game might change
For someone else this morning
Someone who might have cancer
Like Stevie the dentist
Or someone with an angry wife 
Back home, waiting with darts
Of distance and insults
Like Stevie and all the others.

But not for me. I'm done.
Emptied of cash and thoughts
I wander still-life city streets -
Failure, rather than a burden,
Working instead like angel wings.

The sun will soon break
Through crumbling, weakened cloud. 
An early bus roars by.
I turn my face up
And breakfast on the rain
And on the morning air
And on regrets.

----------


## DocHeart

*Weeks*


Weeks flash by loudly
Like mad ambulances
In the rain.

Approaching
With every breath
A weekend;
A coming of age;
A painful knee.

When will it slow?

Solving that riddle
Conjures a tombstone
And fragrant incense
And glasses raised
To absent friends.

----------


## AuntShecky

Hi Doc,
This reply isn't going to be all kudos, though I won't go so far as drowning puppies, mainly because somebody would write a scathing denunuciation about it in poorly constructed verse full of abstract-ridden lines of broken-up prose.

#184 suffers from an acute case of the pathetic fallacy, namely West Coast jazz (which btw is usually described as "cool" rather than Satchmo-like "hot"),whiskey (the heat analogy's good, but it's way too much to give it the gift of human speech (though I know, that's "the liquor talkin'.") Was all of this a way to tell us that the speaker has quit smoking, or has he merely switched to safety matches? Oh, I kid, I kid.

The personification is more realistic, and takes a less strenuous willful suspension of disbelief in #185: "jacks, aces, and queens/still strut their stuff." Overall this one strikes me as wallowing a bit too much in self-pity, but the three closing lines are pretty dramatic.

Finally, #186 is the best of this trio, resonating with the sensation old(er) folks such as yours fooly have about the swift passage of time. The opening image is very apt. I'd lose the line about "solving the riddle" -- it's somewhat of a hackneyed expression.

Your (not really mean at all) fan,
Auntie

----------


## DocHeart

> Your (not really mean at all) fan,
> Auntie


Thanks, Auntie. Your responses always give me perspective.

Re: meanness, I think I've been watching too many episodes of Dr. House. It'll pass.  :Smile:

----------


## Jerrybaldy

I am not much of a critic Doc, but you have never written anything I have read that I have not admired. I feel at home in the world you write within. 

Weeks flash by loudly
Like mad ambulances
In the rain.

Randomly selected. Would I want to read more by somebody who wrote this? 
Yep.
You are my kind of poet. 

BTW. I just stumbled over the fact that you wrote the winning short story (2012). I voted for it. Well done. Belatedly. Keep writing. One day one of us will go get published.

----------


## DocHeart

Jerry, many thanks for your kind words.

----------


## DocHeart

*Embrace*


I embrace a rock of ice
Tall and immovable like misfortune.
My eyes freeze solid.
Heart crawls to a halt,
Breath growls are quietened.

Soon, very soon now,
Ice will embrace me back.
Corpse-stiff, blurry,
I will vanish
Into the winter's soul.

----------


## qimissung

I really like Embrace, Doc. I like the others, too, but I like this one the best. Am I mistaken, or is alienation a frequent theme of yours?

----------


## Jack of Hearts

It's opposite day! These poems are terrible.






J

----------


## DocHeart

Thanks, *qimi*! I suppose alienation feels right to write about these days. 

*Jack*, so very good to see you, pal.  :Smile:

----------


## qimissung

> It's opposite day! These poems are terrible.
> 
> 
> 
> 
> 
> 
> 
> 
> J


 :FRlol:  :FRlol:  :FRlol:  Wow, does that bring back memories. I used to have a student who would say that-"It's opposite day, I hate you, I hate you!" He was funny.

----------


## DocHeart

Thanks to everyone who is sticking around. Health to you all.  :Smile:

----------


## DocHeart

*Acrophobia*


I climb 40 years
And look down:

My mother, supine,
Screams me out;
I learn to read
Books that scare me;
I ejaculate picturing
Vera's oasis eyes;
I read more 
Books that scare me.
I work days, nights,
I fukc days, nights;
Then I'm here: alone.

It's not the distance to the ground
That pushes a heart up to the throat.
It isn't the height.
It is the horror of what might
Be done by this current self:
One you don't know too well,
And can't foresee what he would do
With such a lovely fall within his grasp.

----------


## Delta40

The power of what is in your hands. Well constructed and I like how climbing and chronology read so well.

----------


## liza

#197 you should climb down and look closer

----------


## DocHeart

*Crete*


Like sizzling eels
Taverna lights flicker
On dark, calm waters.
Gentle waves that know
How to behave at parties
Approach the man-made harbor
Gently, acting all calm and outgoing:
Like friendly looks, like flirting.

The moon detects the old town's shine
And spreads the clouds apart
To gaze at it, to study it.
"Well, I'll be damned," it croons,
"There's people laughing here, still!
Husbands and wives insist on walking
Hand-in-hand. Midnight humidity
Mocks poverty with its diamond droplets."

----------


## Hawkman

Brings back memories. A fine poem, Doc.

Live and be well - H

----------


## AuntShecky

Long time, no see, Doc. #200 is an evocative word picture, an eloquent reference to the theme that nature can often soothe and compensate for the day-to-day troubles human suffer under artificial economic systems.

----------


## DocHeart

Hey, Hawk & Aunt, thanks for saying hi, and for your kind words.

I don't come in that often these days because I finally decided to give a novel a serious try. Unbelievable how much work it involves. I'm sticking with it, though, just so I can say I did it. Even if it never reaches any shelves.

Good health to all,
DH

----------


## Bar22do

Hey Doc, thanks for this touching offering. I sip your English, so beautiful, with thirsty eyes! Thanks for sharing. Good luck with your novel! You'll do it!

Best to you,

Bar

----------


## Jerrybaldy

Good luck with the novel. Hope it makes you as rich as this poem.

----------


## Jack of Hearts

Hey fogey,

this thread contains some of the best poetry ever put on this forum.







J

----------


## Jack of Hearts

DocFart,

Where are you hiding? Put more in this thread.






J

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## Jack of Hearts

*Crete* is pah-tick-yewly a standout. Always wanted to go to Crete. Couldn't figure out how to do it, though. Maybe you have to swim?






J




PS Come back 'ere Dawk.

----------


## DocHeart

Well slap my arse and call me Bethesda, I'm still here? 

================================================== ==========

*Something has to be written*



For feelings feeble and fleeting,
For out-of-the-blue glances,
For out-of-the-blue tears,
For moments that explode into liquid silver
Too soon,
Too soon,
For inaccessible heartbeats and secret breath sounds,
For bunches of tastebuds igniting at the touch of whisky,
For keyboards typing strong words, of love, of hate,
For yellow discs on navy velvet lighting up the basement,
For ice-cream that melts in the hand
Like yesterday's childhood memories:

Something has to be written.

Something inconclusively horny:
A self-fulfilling prophecy hiding in a huge cake
After far too many
Wasted cigarettefuls of time.

----------


## AuntShecky

Great to see you posting poems again, Doc!
Couple of comments re: #209. Ever hear the song "Speak Low" by Kurt Weill)? The song uses the phrase "Too Soon, Too soon" to a similar effect. Because the lyrics are so haunting, I thought Weill's usual partner, B. Brecht wrote them. Good thing I looked it up online--the guy who wrote the words was none other than Ogden Nash!

Also, can you think of some equivalent yet less familiar phrases to substitute for "out of the blue" and "self-fulfilling prophecy"? Dropping "-fuls" from "cigarettefuls" would sound less awkward. Other than that, the meaning in this piece is resoundingly clear.

Now, write and post some more!

----------


## Delta40

I loved it! And yes, it is great to see you posting again. You tapped into the senses beautifully here Doc.

----------


## Jerrybaldy

What Delta said  :Smile:

----------


## Jack of Hearts

Hey! Get back 'ere.




J

----------


## DocHeart

My dear friends,

So nice to see you all still here. I stay away for a long time, then come back to read your kind words. Sorry about that. Don't think I don't think of you all.  :Smile: 

Can someone give me a good old occasional whipping with the cat-o-nine-tails, though? I'm worried my head's getting too big.

DH

----------


## DocHeart

*Envisaged Sunday Night Roleplay*



There is a breath
Going on back there -
Only now did I notice it.

Punctuated by violent heartbeat,
This is an iambic-pentameter breath.

"To God I pray tonight he sees me not,"
It breathes.

There is a breath
Going on back there -
And I can hear it.

I can see it.

----------


## miyako73

I liked it.

----------


## DocHeart

Hey, Miyako, thanks for liking it, *and* for your original message which I *did* have time to read before you deleted it, so niah-niah-niah-niah-niaaaaaahhhhhh.

DH

----------


## DocHeart

*Tuesday Night, Working Late
*

Home.
Office.
Home office.
Homeopathic orifice.
Homophobic oratorio.
Official harrowing.
Officious hoodlum.
Office home.
Office.
Home.

----------


## munkinhead

You're right on rut,
on rut and rote.
I see your rut.
Let's call it wrote.

----------


## Jack of Hearts

No one writes poetry quite like the ancient Greeks.





J

----------


## Jerrybaldy

I see a DocHeart posting as a welcome treat on here.

----------


## AuntShecky

I like the word play and the sonics of "Tuesday Night, Working Late."

----------


## Jack of Hearts

Homophobic oratorio.







J

----------


## DocHeart

*Listening to Herbie Hancock Doing His Thing*


When alone at night, poetry makes sense.
Gone are: the voices, the grins,
The phonecalls, the pens.
Gone
Are the day's fake skins.

This keyboard, darkened, is a female heart.
I lay my fingers on it softly
And feel it pulsate.
It is the space bar pushing my thumb -

Ah!
It is the space bar pushing my thumb.

The words writing me have so much to say
So many letters rain on my face.
I swallow them. They throw me out.
They make me walk naked in the street.

Still here. Still walls around me.
But dear darkness, don't go just yet.
Stay for one more drink of love and wonder.
There is time yet for the sun
To rise on schedule.

----------


## Hawkman

Hi Doc,

I rely liked "Envisaged Sunday Night Roleplay" except for S1 L3 "only now *do* I notice it."

With the latest offering, "Listening to Herbie Hancock Doing His Thing" I'm not sure about the rhyming. In the first stanza it sort of sets one up to expect it, but you abandon rhyme in the subsequent verses. Grins and skins rhyme ok but sense and pens don't quite work as end-rhymes, yet they're close enough to be slant rhymes, as, indeed, is the "ns" ending between grins and pens. For this reason it's not quite working for me. An entire stanza of ins and ens! On the plus side I love the last line, "Gone are the day's fake skins", though I feel the verse should be a quatrain, A more satisfying rhetorical sequence would be to use gone at the beginning of all three lines which would also establish a very strong rhythm, but of course then it would really need to be maintained throughout the poem, so I can see why you haven't done this. Incidentally, you don't need the colon after the first gone.

I'd be inclined to rewrite the first stanza, losing the rhyme, to make it more in keeping with the rest of the poem. I'd also stick with quatrains all through, except for the middle lines. 

In S2, the "darkened," plonked in the middle of the first line, feels unnecessary. What is it supposed to convey? The shadow of your hands hovering over it, perhaps? However, it feels awkward to me and I feel the stanza reads better without it. 

The end of the last stanza, apart from not being a quatrain, is over-extended. You just don't need the "on schedule." I'd leave it as, "There is time, yet, for the sun to rise."

It _is_ an atmospheric piece, though, and definitely takes (or sends) one somewhere  :Wink:  Good to read you Doc, 

Live and be well - H

----------


## Bar22do

Hey Dear Doc, it's been ages...

Love your latest poem very much, its almost kabbalistic way of you being revealed by words (as if) independent of you, though coming from within you, as if an intuitive (female) voice whispering to you about you, sharing with you your life's unfolding (?), as words come, as the night progresses... So subtle.
For me, "darkened" has its place in the line, as it enables the transformation and later provides an address to your call for "dear darkness" to tary...
I'd too lose the final "on schedule", for it'd strengthen even more the ending which, for me at least, is not without reminding Hemingway's "The Sun Also Rises," whether consciously or not...

The poem is restrained (in description), but so generous through its freedom away from schedules and phonecalls!

Thank you, I'll return to this one again.

Bar

----------


## Jack of Hearts

At parts, this poetry is unbearably beautiful, to where your eyes have to peel from the lines as not to take too much in too quickly.

Put the women down, Doc, and put new poems up.

----------


## DocHeart

Do I cry for you,
Or for the Years?

You know the Years I'm talking about.

They danced past us,
Barefoot on the beach
And left us scorching in the sun
Freezing in the snow.

They were funny Years,
Fast like escaping rabbits,
Full of unspoken love
And postponed embraces.
They killed you
And made me 
An attention whore
On the Literature Network.

Mother, I promise you,
I weep not for the Years,
But for me. 
I'm being selfish again,
Just as I was when pestering you
For another coin
For the Space Invaders machine.

Stay, wait for me.
I've booked the first flight home.

You've left now. Goodbye.
We're smithereens in an explosion,
And you went out before me,
As one might have expected.

When my sparkle too is extinguished
I'll look for you in the ash.
Should I find you, be ready:
I'll beg you for your blessing once again.

----------


## Bar22do

You are here, Doc! And with this sublime poem... I dare not ask if it is a recent beverement. Your poetry defies Years, and this poem is a blessing you beg for...

"When my sparkle too is extinguished
I'll look for you in the ash"

Thank you,

Bar

----------


## Jack of Hearts

"When my sparkle too is extinguished
I'll look for you in the ash."

Beautiful. Sorry for your loss, Christos.





J

----------


## YesNo

Beautiful poem, DocHeart.

----------


## August Guelfen

Hello,

would it be possible for me to post one of my poems here again at a
different corner of this forum ? My poem is at least dystopian by it's language 
of mind concept from the final days of WW2 out of the perspective nihilistic 
fatalists had sometimes in their bunkers. It is definitly not my propose to idealize their
politics, or ideology. I am german, but I am not a racist or something else like that. I only
intend to make their kind of symbolism visible by the thoughts and feeling that kind of war is
able to produce in form of metaphores and allegories created with their own inhuman language 
hidden behind their form of paganism and rituals. So it evokes a dark, nearly apocalyptic atmosphere of
fear, madness and their concept of valid sacrefice til death is no longer far away. These words here, can be perhabs 
something like an idea, what my sense is, in terms of a psychological meaning. I think that should be enough for a preface.
I really hope that nobody will blame me for my form of art. It is not political in any way.

Kind regards 
August Guelfen

----------


## YesNo

I would be interested in reading your poems. You might want to start a new thread where you can post your poetry.

----------


## Jack of Hearts

Wake up, old man!






J

----------


## Jack of Hearts

Time to come back!



J

----------


## Silas Thorne

'Years/ Fast like escaping rabbits' 
Wonderful!  :Smile:

----------


## Jack of Hearts

It is a great line.





J

----------

