Me and the lads were scooping up steak with our hands
while the lass cried outside. We'd hitched her to a porch railing
and stood in line the night before, me at the front,
being everyone's pa. No other human life has set foot here
since the war of times ago. My lads aren't raised on ink and page.
Sun is son and land is sand and would is wood and the lass is game;
"sister/daughter" means nothing; neither does "brother/son".
(sun son sun son sun son sun son)
Images are faggot play. One lad was drawing in the land
so me and the others smashed his head.
Now he staggers everywhere. He's not cried like the lass, though,
who cries so much I wonder if she'll wash herself away,
like Alice, that girl in the hole I heard about as a lad.
Before the lass her ma was hitched to that post,
when the war still lived and arts weren't quite extinct.
A few painters and poets hid underground,
beating out their images. All that's left is literal.

A hugely disturbing piece. i think its pretty effective at what it sets out to do. Makes it a little hard to critique but overall I like what I'm reading (though it is a hard read).

(06-23-2012, 12:08 PM)Heslopian Wrote:  Me and the lads were scooping up steak with our hands
while Sally cried outside. We'd hitched her to a porch railing Up to this point you've kind of lulled us into a false sense of security, like maybe they were just having a barbecue and Sally's a dog. oh how wrong that is....
and stood in line the night before, me at the front,
being everyone's pa. No other human life has set foot here
since the war of times ago. My lads aren't raised on ink and page.
Sun is son and land is sand and would is wood and Sally's game;
"sister/daughter" means nothing; neither does "brother/son".
(sun son sun son sun son sun son)I like how you introduced this idea and built around it; the loss of art/stories as the loss of structures of ideals and meaning
Images are faggot play. One lad was drawing in the land
so me and the others smashed his head.
Now he staggers everywhere. He's not cried like Sally though,
who cries so much I wonder if she'll wash herself away,
like Alice, that girl in the hole I heard about as a lad.
Before Sally her ma was hitched to that post,
when the war still lived and arts weren't quite extinct.
A few painters and poets hid underground,
beating out their images. All that's left is literal. Chilling end. Again, i thought this piece was effective.

Thank you for your very kind feedback addy I'm pleased you got the loss of creativity and thus ideals and meaning angle.

the title gives us a heads up, so that's doing it's job.

(06-23-2012, 12:08 PM)Heslopian Wrote:  Me and the lads were scooping up steak with our hands
while Sally cried outside. We'd hitched her to a porch railing
and stood in line the night before, me at the front,
being everyone's pa. No other human life has set foot here
since the war of times ago. My lads aren't raised on ink and page.
Sun is son and land is sand and would is wood and Sally's game;
"sister/daughter" means nothing; neither does "brother/son".
(sun son sun son sun son sun son)
Images are faggot play. One lad was drawing in the land
so me and the others smashed his head.
Now he staggers everywhere. He's not cried like Sally though,
who cries so much I wonder if she'll wash herself away,
like Alice, that girl in the hole I heard about as a lad.
Before Sally her ma was hitched to that post,
when the war still lived and arts weren't quite extinct.
A few painters and poets hid underground,
beating out their images. All that's left is literal.

an excellent post apocalyptic piece of writing jack. the word play is generous and entertaining. while the poem has lots of taboo circulating within it, it doesn't feel like it's approving of any actions, it just is as it is.
i think it's a solid piece of writing. very prose poetry but i think the narrative lends itself to prose. u haven't done a line by line because i like all of it. some sturdy images without being to crude. it feels like a true crude (if you know what i mean, i do )

thanks for the read.

ops forgot i do have one nit. considering the time framing from mother to sally to when he was (presumably a child) he does feel a little to well educated.

Does he seem too well educated because of the way I've written this poem? I did worry about that, confusing my voice with his, which should be hard and primitive. I sort of imagined him having been born when there was still arts and education, which all began decaying in the wars as he grew up. Then he conceived Sally and the "lads" with "ma". I may write another poem set in this universe, from the perspective of one of the last painters and poets. If I do I'll try cleaning up the time frame. Thanks for the kind feedback Bilbo

P.S: Do you think this poem should have a content warrning? I wrestled with putting one on, but decided not to because it contains no swearing or gore.

i think it does a little. i'm sure growing up in an apocalypse would interfere with a boys education and alter his knowledge foundations. but it's just a thought.

(06-23-2012, 12:08 PM)Heslopian Wrote:  Me and the lads were scooping up steak with our hands
while Sally cried outside. We'd hitched her to a porch railing
and stood in line the night before, me at the front,
being everyone's pa. No other human life has set foot here
since the war of times ago. My lads aren't raised on ink and page.
Sun is son and land is sand and would is wood and Sally's game;
"sister/daughter" means nothing; neither does "brother/son".
(sun son sun son sun son sun son)
Images are faggot play. One lad was drawing in the land
so me and the others smashed his head.
Now he staggers everywhere. He's not cried like Sally though,
who cries so much I wonder if she'll wash herself away,
like Alice, that girl in the hole I heard about as a lad.
Before Sally her ma was hitched to that post,
when the war still lived and arts weren't quite extinct.
A few painters and poets hid underground,
beating out their images. All that's left is literal.

I ought not to like this as it is a genre ( perhaps it is not a genre so much as a category) that I once espoused but no longer do so. There, that's the personal issue out of the way. Now to the crit. First, it is beatifully punctuated and so reads well; well enough, in fact, to obfuscate the literal descriptions of unsavoury intents. The use of real names, however, does cause comfort problems. Once a "real" name is used the implied veracity increases to the point of burning clarity, so much so that this reader feels inadequate in not knowing whether the tale is factual or not.
If Bonnie and Clyde had their story told under the title "Bastards" I feel that something would be lost. Accordingly, and I am struggling to find fault, I would have liked to have read this as "Sally's Story".
I cannot apologise for my lack of in depth knowledge of "what its all about" but do feel that the piece is less informative than it should be considering the familiarity impressed upon me by use of named characters.
Overall, this is a really smooth read: the road has no bumps or potholes. I only wish I knew where it was taking me.
Best,
Tectak

Thank you for your kind and thoughtful critique tectak Which genre are you are you referring to? I sort of imagined this as a dystopian poem, if there is such a thing.
I wondered about the use of names myself, considering that only Sally has one. I may replace it with something like "the filly", which would tie in with what he calls himself and other family members ("pa", "ma", "lads").

(06-25-2012, 06:14 PM)Heslopian Wrote:  Thank you for your kind and thoughtful critique tectak Which genre are you are you referring to? I sort of imagined this as a dystopian poem, if there is such a thing.
I wondered about the use of names myself, considering that only Sally has one. I may replace it with something like "the filly", which would tie in with what he calls himself and other family members ("pa", "ma", "lads").

If you sort of imagined that this is a dystopian poem then it is...or of that genre
Dystopian is generally a global description of human planet-wide suffering and as this piece is relatively home based I can only repeat the point about the use of "real" names. To permit the dystopian description to flourish I think you need to fertilise for growth not fruit. The thing is growing but won't go global if you start to pin it down with the fruit of detail, which is what happens once you start naming chracters. Once you name one character you may as well name them all and you woud be left with a Jack and Jill story..........,which this ain't

(06-23-2012, 12:08 PM)Heslopian Wrote:  Me and the lads were scooping up steak with our hands ...like the colloquial opening. the whole first few lines give a setting that serves your purpose well
while the lass cried outside. We'd hitched her to a porch railing
and stood in line the night before, me at the front,
being everyone's pa. No other human life has set foot here
since the war of times ago. My lads aren't raised on ink and page. .."of times ago" felt a bit too dramatic to me
Sun is son and land is sand and would is wood and the lass' game;
"sister/daughter" means nothing; neither does "brother/son". ...hmm, the line felt disconnected from what preceded it. struck me as extra
(sun son sun son sun son sun son)
Images are faggot play. One lad was drawing in the land
so me and the others smashed his head.
Now he staggers everywhere. He's not cried like the lass though,
who cries so much I wonder if she'll wash herself away,
like Alice, that girl in the hole I heard about as a lad. ...wonderland?
Before the lass her ma was hitched to that post,
when the war still lived and arts weren't quite extinct.
A few painters and poets hid underground,
beating out their images. All that's left is literal....great close

will reiterate what tec said in that I didn't quite feel as close to the characters as I came to expect. I think the opening paints a stronger image of them then the close. I like the attack on art of sorts that the world of the poem presents

Thanks for your great feedback Philatone Yes, the Alice line was a reference to the Lewis Carroll story.

In such poems the "voice" is all important and there's a few occasions that the narrator ventures beyond his remit, notably the reference to Alice and the closing two lines as well.
I think filly would be better than lass. Then "Before the filly the mare was hitched to that post".
I get the point of land is sand and would is wood. Not so sure that Sun is son works in the same way and lines 7 and 8 could easily be omitted altogether, I think.
Yes, a disturbing poem, most effective when most disturbing. I'd have liked some hint as to why conceptualisation deserved a smashed head.
I liked 2My lads aren't raised on ink and page"

I decided against filly because I didn't want people thinking I meant an actual horse.
Good point about L7 and 8. I did put them in more for effect than anything else.
Thank you for your great feedback penguin