Revision

Past houses where spouses are spitting at children
and satellite dishes are marks of distinction;
where villainous vermin shadow-box curtains
and takeaway cartons bespatter the gardens;
where nobody bothers to pick up the dog shit
while stood on the pavement twittering gossip
and stubbing their ciggies on steps without polish,
deploring the darkies and ordering curries
and voting for parties that all sound like Tories
then falling asleep to the new bedtime stories.

Past bungalows where 999 has been rang
for Cornelius Hawkins has let himself hang;
the neighbours come round to hush the dog’s yap
at the rope in the loft from which Con was attached.
The TV left on but nothing worth watching.
I wonder what dogs make of men hung like washing.

Past knickers and needles and knives in the back
down the alley that leads to the railway track
where Harry the Alky in a flash of insight
had laid himself down between the train lines.
The train passed straight over and Harry survived,
some people just cannot do anything right.
Now they've got a new plan for stopping a topping:
the drivers sound horns when approaching the crossing
as a warning of sorts to those bent on dying
and a curse to all others attempting a lie-in.

Past the park that the council desire for allotments;
the football pitch now has but one set of goalposts.
Bureaucracy’s moved them to state its position:
the residents draw up another petition.
A perennial game of attack and defence
over cabbages, peas and a faded green bench
by the burial grounds where the dead cannot rest
but be shuffled around to make room for who’s next;
before the barb-wire surrounding the wood
that’s a small tuft of hair on a balding man’s head,
that is soon to be shaven, the signs indicate,
for my local estate is a cancerous pate.

Oh, I do it disservice, I’m all bile and jaundice,
tomorrow the snow will have smoothed every surface.
The earth will resemble a different planet;
one I’m able to visit, if not quite inhabit.


Original


Past houses where spouses are spitting at children
and satellite dishes are marks of distinction;
where villainous vermin shadow-box curtains
and takeaway cartons bespatter the gardens;
where nobody bothers to pick up the dog shit
while stood on the pavement twittering gossip
and stubbing their ciggies on steps without polish,
deporting the darkies and ordering curries
and voting for parties that all sound like Tories
while falling asleep to the new bedtime stories.

Past bungalows greying, decaying and sagging
where Cornelius Hawkins left himself hanging;
the neighbours come round ‘cos the dog kept on yapping
at the rope in the loft from which he was dangling.
The TV left on but nothing worth watching.
I wonder what dogs make of men hung like washing?

Past knickers and needles and knives in the back
down the alley that leads to the railway track
where Harry the Alky in a flash of insight
had laid himself down between the train lines:
the train passed straight over and Harry survived,
some people just cannot do anything right.
Of course, Harry eventually choked on his vomit,
now drivers sound horns when approaching the crossing
as a warning of sorts to those bent on dying
and a curse to all others attempting a lie-in.

Past the park that the council desire for allotments,
the football pitch now has but one set of goalposts.
Bureaucracy’s moved them to state its position:
the residents draw up another petition.
A perennial game of attack and defence
on cabbages, peas and a faded green bench
by the burial grounds where the dead cannot rest
but be shuffled around to make room for who’s next,
before the barb-wire surrounding the wood
that’s a small tuft of hair on a balding man’s head
that is soon to be shaven the signs indicate
for my local estate is a cancerous pate.

Oh, I do it disservice, I’m all bile and jaundice,
tomorrow the snow will have smoothed every surface:
the earth will resemble a different planet;
one I’m able to visit, if not quite inhabit.

Wow, I can really relate to this. The ending line is so good. I can't even describe how much I like this. The only line that threw me off was

'while falling asleep to the new bedtime stories.'

I'm not sure what it is trying to convey but regardless I think the "to the" doesn't sound right.

(08-13-2012, 07:46 PM)penguin Wrote:  Past houses where spouses are spitting at children
and satellite dishes are marks of distinction;
where villainous vermin shadow-box curtains
and takeaway cartons bespatter the gardens;
where nobody bothers to pick up the dog shit
while stood on the pavement twittering gossip
and stubbing their ciggies on steps without polish,
deporting the darkies and ordering curries
and voting for parties that all sound like Tories
while falling asleep to the new bedtime stories. It would be churlish to pick away at the rhythm and matching content of this piece so I won't. It is just fine. What I am unhappy about is the the little gravelly bits that get in my shoe....I can bear them but soon the irritation will become too much. A little gravelly bit like " deporting the darkies". I know what it means but is that what we do? And do spouses (or mothers) spit at children....even metaphorically (or is it an obscure word use?)

Past bungalows greying, decaying and saggingCool image.....broken ridge truss.Very good!
where Cornelius Hawkins left himself hanging; ...but here we go again. I know of Cornelius Hawkins....has he hung himself?
the neighbours come round ‘cos the dog kept on yapping
at the rope in the loft from which he was dangling.
The TV left on but nothing worth watching.
I wonder what dogs make of men hung like washing?I have a real aversion to this stanza...I will meet you in Gerund Avenue and explain

Past knickers and needles and knives in the back
down the alley that leads to the railway track
where Harry the Alky in a flash of insight
had laid himself down between the train lines:
the train passed straight over and Harry survived,
some people just cannot do anything right.
Of course, Harry eventually choked on his vomit,
now drivers sound horns when approaching the crossing
as a warning of sorts to those bent on dying
and a curse to all others attempting a lie-in. This stanza reads as if once upon a time...there was a rhyme scheme. The End

Past the park that the council desire for allotments,
the football pitch now has but one set of goalposts.
Bureaucracy’s moved them to state its position:
the residents draw up another petition.
A perennial game of attack and defence
on cabbages, peas and a faded green bench
by the burial grounds where the dead cannot rest
but be shuffled around to make room for who’s next,
before the barb-wire surrounding the wood
that’s a small tuft of hair on a balding man’s head
that is soon to be shaven the signs indicate
for my local estate is a cancerous pate. A truly wonderful stanza.....this is just great. Imagery is high-res.

Oh, I do it disservice, I’m all bile and jaundice,
tomorrow the snow will have smoothed every surface: This makes the piece a little seasonal and I don't think you meant it to be so chronologically specific....the wide picture is a permanent one that snow would only serve to contrast. This fails for me. I would have thought that night time darkness would achieve the same effect as a cloaking device
the earth will resemble a different planet;
one I’m able to visit, if not quite inhabit.

Overall, too much to like and not enough to dislike BUT therein lies the danger. There is nothing I can tell you about the tidying up procedure because I would probably chuck out something that I needed the next day. As you can tell I liked it but....

Best,
tectak

i've read it a few times and like it, will leave some constructive feedback tomorrow

it's bedtime and i'm whacked

Thanks, Phaedra. "falling asleep to the new bedtime stories" - I'm mostly thinking anything in the Daily Mail.

Thanks, Tectak. Parents spit at children, in the metaphorical sense, that's what I mean. Deporting the darkies - well, we do, though not in the numbers some people would like. What I intended was for the phrase to run on from twittering gossip, as in talking about deporting the darkies. It's a fair point you make. I don't want it in quotes or italics so I think I'll change it - deploring the darkies, abhorring the darkies. Whaddya think?
I see what you mean about the gerunds. I'll be, er, rethinking.

"This stanza reads as if once upon a time...there was a rhyme scheme. The End" - I don't understand the comment.

I got the germ of the poem while walking the dog in the snow. Originally, the snow was more conspicuous in the poem but the dog shit was less conspicuous in the snow.It's the little things that start me off.

(08-13-2012, 07:46 PM)penguin Wrote:  Past houses where spouses are spitting at children strong opening, though past houses gives the impression you're apart from or above those people
and satellite dishes are marks of distinction; even the poorest have a dish now, i suppose the size of the dish could be but that's not what's being said
where villainous vermin shadow-box curtains curtains don't box, not even metaphorically, you could shadow box on curtains etc
and takeaway cartons bespatter the gardens; strong line
where nobody bothers to pick up the dog shit
while stood on the pavement twittering gossip getting a real good rhythm going
and stubbing their ciggies on steps without polish, not like back in the day when they were all cardinal red
deporting the darkies and ordering curries i'm not so sure this stereotype works now, as they deport all races equally. if you're black and European, you're in
and voting for parties that all sound like Tories
while falling asleep to the new bedtime stories. a bit vague

Past bungalows greying, decaying and sagging
where Cornelius Hawkins left himself hanging; i googled as one does and found this is an American happen-stance (i thought i was in the UK, mainly because you used the word pavement earlier as well as the word tories, neither of which connects the reader to the USA)
the neighbours come round ‘cos the dog kept on yapping
at the rope in the loft from which he was dangling.
The TV left on but nothing worth watching.
I wonder what dogs make of men hung like washing? i like the idea that dogs think

Past knickers and needles and knives in the back
down the alley that leads to the railway track
where Harry the Alky in a flash of insight
had laid himself down between the train lines:
the train passed straight over and Harry survived,
some people just cannot do anything right.
Of course, Harry eventually choked on his vomit,
now drivers sound horns when approaching the crossing
as a warning of sorts to those bent on dying
and a curse to all others attempting a lie-in. no nits here, funny, sad, and witty,

Past the park that the council desire for allotments,
the football pitch now has but one set of goalposts.
Bureaucracy’s moved them to state its position:
the residents draw up another petition.
A perennial game of attack and defence
on cabbages, peas and a faded green bench
by the burial grounds where the dead cannot rest
but be shuffled around to make room for who’s next,
before the barb-wire surrounding the wood
that’s a small tuft of hair on a balding man’s head
that is soon to be shaven the signs indicate
for my local estate is a cancerous pate. another good stanza with no nits.

Oh, I do it disservice, I’m all bile and jaundice,
tomorrow the snow will have smoothed every surface:
the earth will resemble a different planet;
one I’m able to visit, if not quite inhabit. i like the end

an slice of urbania. well told though a few things could do with an edit. i liked the voice of the poem and the rhythm was good though it felt off in an odd place or two. i know you're mic poet so i'm putting it down to it being read aloud as a little different to it being read off the page. the ing thing is a bit jarr-----ing
some good images, and some good original lines of poetry.

thanks for the read ray, (sorry if i got the name wrong )

(08-14-2012, 11:36 PM)penguin Wrote:  Thanks, Phaedra. "falling asleep to the new bedtime stories" - I'm mostly thinking anything in the Daily Mail.

Thanks, Tectak. Parents spit at children, in the metaphorical sense, that's what I mean. Deporting the darkies - well, we do, though not in the numbers some people would like. What I intended was for the phrase to run on from twittering gossip, as in talking about deporting the darkies. It's a fair point you make. I don't want it in quotes or italics so I think I'll change it - deploring the darkies, abhorring the darkies. Whaddya think?
I see what you mean about the gerunds. I'll be, er, rethinking.

"This stanza reads as if once upon a time...there was a rhyme scheme. The End" - I don't understand the comment. First two lines rhyme....then no more....the end

I got the germ of the poem while walking the dog in the snow. Originally, the snow was more conspicuous in the poem but the dog shit was less conspicuous in the snow.It's the little things that start me off.

Tectak - It all rhymes, near enough. Flexible rhymes.

Billy - you're the first to remark the ambiguity of "Past" and it's been read by many.
shadow-box curtains - you can take it literally or metaphorically. It means there is violence beneath a veneer.
Curry is virtually the national dish now, complaining about foreigners has been a national pastime for years.
You mean you googled Cornelius Hawkins!I don't understand "American happen-stance".There was a guy up the road in a bungalow who hung himself in the loft. My first words on being told were "I didn't know bungalows had lofts".Cornelius Hawkins wasn't his real name.The story about the train track is true also.
Yeah, the -ings bother me now. I'd not really noticed them before. I guess that's what workshopping is for. Thanks.

Ray

hi ray

that i googled it is my fault in retrospect. i should have put two and two together and took it at face value. in a way it shows that it's up to the reader to play his role by not jumpimg to conclusions

I've revised it a bit. So what did you mean by American happenstance, Billy?

I prefer the comma in the last line, I tried speaking the poem out loud and I think the pause works well here.

An excellent social commentary. I love the vein of dark humour running through it, and aside from L6 - 7 of verse three, which goes too long without a proper rhyme I think, there's no let up in the rhythm. I also really liked the "washing" simile in L6 of verse two. Your evocation of place is brilliant, creating a nightmarish satirical vision of modern England. Thanks for the read.

Quite right about the comma, Phaedra. Thanks.
Thanks, Jack. I wonder if those lines you mention weren't better in the original.Mind you, crossing and vomit is a fair enough rhyme for me.

(08-16-2012, 04:54 PM)penguin Wrote:  I've revised it a bit. So what did you mean by American happenstance, Billy?

i hinged everything on a google and in doing so proved that googling is sometimes the wrong thing to do. the happen-stance being an american death which it wasn't. don't rub it in please

now for a new read

---

(08-13-2012, 07:46 PM)penguin Wrote:  Revision

Past houses where spouses are spitting at children
and satellite dishes are marks of distinction;
where villainous vermin shadow-box curtains
and takeaway cartons bespatter the gardens;
where nobody bothers to pick up the dog shit
while stood on the pavement twittering gossip
and stubbing their ciggies on steps without polish,
deploring the darkies and ordering curries much much better version of the line.
and voting for parties that all sound like Tories
then falling asleep to the new bedtime stories.

Past bungalows where 999 has been rang doesn't have the same rang as the original, but deals well with two of the ings
for Cornelius Hawkins has let himself hang;
the neighbours come round to hush the dog’s yap
at the rope in the loft from which Con was attached. con really made me stretch but again you remove two ings
The TV left on but nothing worth watching.
I wonder what dogs make of men hung like washing.

Past knickers and needles and knives in the back
down the alley that leads to the railway track
where Harry the Alky in a flash of insight
had laid himself down between the train lines.
The train passed straight over and Harry survived,
so he celebrated in style that night i prefer the humour of the original line which was also more profound
and in the wee hours choked on his vomit. i think this and the line above could be improved if they rhymed.
Now drivers sound horns when approaching the crossing
as a warning of sorts to those bent on dying would dyin' work better?
and a curse to all others attempting a lie-in.

Past the park that the council desire for allotments;
the football pitch now has but one set of goalposts.
Bureaucracy’s moved them to state its position:
the residents draw up another petition.
A perennial game of attack and defence
over cabbages, peas and a faded green bench
by the burial grounds where the dead cannot rest
but be shuffled around to make room for who’s next;
before the barb-wire surrounding the wood
that’s a small tuft of hair on a balding man’s head,
that is soon to be shaven, the signs indicate,
for my local estate is a cancerous pate.

Oh, I do it disservice, I’m all bile and jaundice,
tomorrow the snow will have smoothed every surface.
The earth will resemble a different planet;
one I’m able to visit, if not quite inhabit. a better end

i prefer some of the original lines mainly because they felt stronger and had more depth, i did enjoy the read and offer my head for the axe concerning the whole americana debacle


Original


Past houses where spouses are spitting at children
and satellite dishes are marks of distinction;
where villainous vermin shadow-box curtains
and takeaway cartons bespatter the gardens;
where nobody bothers to pick up the dog shit
while stood on the pavement twittering gossip
and stubbing their ciggies on steps without polish,
deporting the darkies and ordering curries
and voting for parties that all sound like Tories
while falling asleep to the new bedtime stories.

Past bungalows greying, decaying and sagging
where Cornelius Hawkins left himself hanging;
the neighbours come round ‘cos the dog kept on yapping
at the rope in the loft from which he was dangling.
The TV left on but nothing worth watching.
I wonder what dogs make of men hung like washing?

Past knickers and needles and knives in the back
down the alley that leads to the railway track
where Harry the Alky in a flash of insight
had laid himself down between the train lines:
the train passed straight over and Harry survived,
some people just cannot do anything right.
Of course, Harry eventually choked on his vomit,
now drivers sound horns when approaching the crossing
as a warning of sorts to those bent on dying
and a curse to all others attempting a lie-in.

Past the park that the council desire for allotments,
the football pitch now has but one set of goalposts.
Bureaucracy’s moved them to state its position:
the residents draw up another petition.
A perennial game of attack and defence
on cabbages, peas and a faded green bench
by the burial grounds where the dead cannot rest
but be shuffled around to make room for who’s next,
before the barb-wire surrounding the wood
that’s a small tuft of hair on a balding man’s head
that is soon to be shaven the signs indicate
for my local estate is a cancerous pate.

Oh, I do it disservice, I’m all bile and jaundice,
tomorrow the snow will have smoothed every surface:
the earth will resemble a different planet;
one I’m able to visit, if not quite inhabit.

Thanks again, Billy. I've changed those 2 offending lines to make the rhyme more approximate.

it works

you need to turn it over for a good strong hook opening and a better ending with the dogs. this is a killer opening line that will pull the eye of any, if not all editors



Original

Past knickers and needles and knives in the back
down the alley that leads to the railway track
where Harry the Alky in a flash of insight
had laid himself down between the train lines:
the train passed straight over and Harry survived,
some people just cannot do anything right.
Of course, Harry eventually choked on his vomit,
now drivers sound horns when approaching the crossing
as a warning of sorts to those bent on dying
and a curse to all others attempting a lie-in.

Past the park that the council desire for allotments,
the football pitch now has but one set of goalposts.
Bureaucracy’s moved them to state its position:
the residents draw up another petition.
A perennial game of attack and defence
on cabbages, peas and a faded green bench
by the burial grounds where the dead cannot rest
but be shuffled around to make room for who’s next,
before the barb-wire surrounding the wood
that’s a small tuft of hair on a balding man’s head
that is soon to be shaven the signs indicate
for my local estate is a cancerous pate.

Oh, I do it disservice, I’m all bile and jaundice,
tomorrow the snow will have smoothed every surface:
the earth will resemble a different planet;
one I’m able to visit, if not quite inhabit.


Past houses where spouses are spitting at children
and satellite dishes are marks of distinction;
where villainous vermin shadow-box curtains
and takeaway cartons bespatter the gardens;
where nobody bothers to pick up the dog shit
while stood on the pavement twittering gossip
and stubbing their ciggies on steps without polish,
deporting the darkies and ordering curries
and voting for parties that all sound like Tories
while falling asleep to the new bedtime stories.

Past bungalows greying, decaying and sagging
where Cornelius Hawkins left himself hanging;
the neighbours come round ‘cos the dog kept on yapping
at the rope in the loft from which he was dangling.
The TV left on but nothing worth watching.
I wonder what dogs make of men hung like washing?

Thanks, Bronte. (Which one are you?)
I can see the attraction of the dogs line as an ending but the current 4 lines that close can only work as an ending and I don't really want to lose them.
I'll think on the other suggestion, though I'm not out to attract the eyes of editors. I'm just trying to write better poetry and I'm also of the "I wouldn't join any club that would have me as a member " persuasion.

Ray

ah but it is aiming at their eyes that will make you write better.

---

PS

I'm the good looking one with a ponytail on my head and a pointy tail on my bum and flames where my wings should be.

(08-18-2012, 09:14 PM)Bronte Wrote:  ah but it is aiming at their eyes that will make you write better.

---

PS

I'm the good looking one with a ponytail on my head and a pointy tail on my bum and flames where my wings should be.

Emily it is then. I've only a limited knowledge of the "poetry mag scene", but I get the impression that poetry editors are interested in what is fashionable, what they invariably refer to as cutting edge poetry, rather than something to be enjoyed. They've also the nerve to disbar anything "published" elsewhere. I just can't be bothered.

Ray