Bob,
I enjoyed the way you interlace the Romantic Movement lyrical subject matter
(moon, autumn, water, mist, romantic couple) with the ancient agro-impulse
and an embodiment of evil (with a kind side?) Dante would have smiled, even
approved.
The single sentence form of the piece works to weave the strands together
seamlessly.
'ears bristling' is good, and the overall music is gentle so that the
dissonant notes really ring out well - what's that, spat blood, cursing,
fuck.....fuck....fuck (the magic of three?)
Maybe consider omitting 'as their legs tremble'?
Who is the 'they' in 'when they reach the Tuxedo Royale'?
Well done, Bob, I found this memorable(my test of a good poem). Philip
>From: Bob Cooper <[log in to unmask]>
>Reply-To: The Pennine Poetry Works <[log in to unmask]>
>To: [log in to unmask]
>Subject: The Return Of The Teesmonster
>Date: Mon, 21 Oct 2002 21:00:36 +0000
>
>Something for C & C:
>(with words in italics *shown by asterics*)
>
>
>The Return Of The Teesmonster
>
>On November nights of mist, even when it’s April,
>when you walk past Blaises, you can hear it moaning -
>that low thin sound that makes kissing couples pause,
>look sideways, move slightly apart, whisper *What’s that,*
>and a police van clatters on - its dogs’ ears bristling
>as their legs tremble, they know they don’t want to get out -
>and if the grey moon gets released from cloud
>as light slants in slow waves across the estuary
>then ripples made by its body, its rising neck, lap
>quietly when they reach the Tuxedo Royale
>while it pauses, head high beneath the Transporter Bridge,
>where it moans again as a fight breaks out near the taxis
>and in the bruised words, the gleam of spat blood,
>the grazed knuckles and elbows and knees,
>it’s heard, the low moaning of cruelty, the cursing
>that’s centuries old, as old as the first ones
>who told of its presence, and we hear it now
>but haven’t the phrases, the magical words
>to say what it means, of how its sound reaches
>deep in our silence, and after it’s shadow has passed
>and all we hear is the shouting - *Fuck you, Fuck me, Fuck that* -
>as we walk below streetlights, one moment clear faced,
>the next in darkness, we know of its kindness,
>the size of its violence, and we know we have little to say.
>
>
>Bob Cooper
>
>
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