 |
 |
Glad to be of help, Andrew! I don't recall the poem you mention about the old man, but do think some Neighbourhood poems would be terrific. A major reason, for me anyway, that the poem is frightening is that it forces me to see how I and others revert to habit, to avoid seeing the people or problems facing us. Your poem confronts us with our habits, makes us deal with their causes. Best with this and your other projects, Judy 2009/1/13 andrew burke <[log in to unmask]> > Judy - I am very happy you perceived the fun surface and the frightening > (threatening?) subtext. If I can jazz up the poem and retain that element, > I'll be a happy camper. > > 'Take yourself out of the poem' is certainly worth looking at - but this > poem may end up a companion piece, or even one of several, about this > neighbourhood. (Do you remember some weeks ago a poem about an old man in a > gopher outside the chemist's and a schoolboy who fell over and hurt > himself? > "I" sat in the car and waited for my wife who was shopping.) This then > would > need a figure throughout ... but certainly worth looking at. Could shake > the > whole project up at this embryonic stage. > > Andrew > > 2009/1/14 Judy Prince <[log in to unmask]> > > > Andrew, your theme's hilarious and then frightening---and needs more > power; > > that is, an intensification, single focus that might come from severe > > compression. Just a suggestion: Take yourself out of the poem, and take > > out the descriptions unless [very cryptic] of the speakers. My guess is > > that along the way you'll recall new descriptors, as well [whether of > folks > > from that experience or others]. Have fun, Andrew; it's well worth the > > play. > > Best, > > > > Judy > > > > 2009/1/13 andrew burke <[log in to unmask]> > > > > > I proffer this one up for discussionm - a second draft, so not even set > > in > > > wet cement yet. > > > > > > *Coffee at Gloria Jean's* > > > > > > > > > > > > 'Keith the Butcher is better suited > > > > > > to conduct my funeral than > > > > > > Father Fahey,' Frank said in Gloria Jean's, > > > > > > the shopping centre café, coffee tasting > > > > > > of burnt tar, chocolate chip muffin > > > > > > crumbling on his off-white face. > > > > > > Mock-colonial windows framed smiling > > > > > > consumers sitting down to relieve aching backs > > > > > > and knotted varicose veins. 'None > > > > > > of that God stuff as they send me off, > > > > > > mate. Dead's dead, that's it.' > > > > > > I fore went a second cup, threaded > > > > > > my fingers through > > > > > > plastic hoops of supermarket > > > > > > bags, and stood to go. 'See ya, mate,' > > > > > > I said. 'Not if I see you first,' Frank retorted > > > > > > in place of wit. I waved > > > > > > a loose finger and headed for the car park, > > > > > > mentally ticking off the list as I went. Fingertips > > > > > > reddened and white welts pulsed as I > > > > > > propped the shopping against the back bumper, > > > > > > clicked unlock on the key and threw open > > > > > > the boot, thinking of the metaphors > > > > > > of everyday, the cryptic lyricism of > > > > > > an ancient tongue wriggling in the minds > > > > > > of late capitalist man. 'Hot enough > > > > > > for you?' said the woman from > > > > > > next door with Magic Happens on her back window. > > > > > > 'Sure is,' I smiled, surfacing > > > > > > from my reverie and dropping the boot. > > > > > > > > > -- > > > Andrew > > > http://hispirits.blogspot.com/ > > > > > > > > > -- > Andrew > http://hispirits.blogspot.com/ >