05-03-2014, 03:45 PM
[quote='tectak' pid='163053' dateline='1398949505']
I work here and I smile at you, or anyone that needs the cure. <"The cure", generally refers to alcohol treatment>
Open the door, come blubbering, and I will share your pain.
Gush crazily around my ears -- you start off insecure -- <"Gush crazily around my ears" seems a bit awkward>
but trust in me, I who am wise, will stop you going insane.
(I know, I know, of course, I know, and what do you believe?
How do you see this ending? How do you see reprieve?)
I work here; paid to listen to your pointless, pathomanic views.<"pathomanic" I assume this is a made up word?>
We could just scream, together rage against unknown conjoining foes;
Here, lie down on my parquet floor, let others form long queues
whilst we find calm on smooth, cool wood; maple, walnut, rose.
(I know, I know, of course, I know, and what would make you smile?
If I could tell you life is good would you believe me...for a while?)
I work here but you think of me as someone special, friend for life;
who listens to you, nods, approves, agrees, permits and ratifies. [b]
How fine this wood, yes, rose I think, but maple, too. You miss your wife?
How long ago? A year? Oh, two? We have our time, but we all die.
(I know, I know, of course I know. We each grieve on our own
and nothing I can say will make it easy when you live alone.)
I work here but sometimes it seems that this is where I should not be.
A thanks is all my life is worth and more than that I don’t deserve.
Ah, look, that swirling, smoky grain…a sure sign that a walnut tree
was sacrificed for parquet floor, and so in death a purpose serves.
(I know, I know, of course I know. Don’t tell me any more.
Come back next week and we’ll discuss. Just go, and close the door)
I work here but I need someone to talk me out of other’s ways.
I must write down my inner thoughts and try to make some sense of me.
This wood is cedar, how its scent reminds me of my schoolroom days;
the shavings in the sharpeners. I’ll buy more pencils. Not 2B.
Seems to be trying to describe a therapist with burnout, or the writer is simply not familiar with the subject matter. Energetically, the poem does not move along, more like trudges. I cannot decide if the writer is being purposefully obscure, or just doesn't know the topic, either way the portrayal does not seem reality based. Being generous one could allow that maybe this is a metaphor for something, but I have no clue as to what that is. Maybe "the cure" hints at another malady, but again there is nothing in the poem that supports that. Obviously "wood" plays a prominent part in this, but I can no understanding from the poem what that might be.
Personally I think my first comment on this has about as much value as this longer one one.
Dale
I work here and I smile at you, or anyone that needs the cure. <"The cure", generally refers to alcohol treatment>
Open the door, come blubbering, and I will share your pain.
Gush crazily around my ears -- you start off insecure -- <"Gush crazily around my ears" seems a bit awkward>
but trust in me, I who am wise, will stop you going insane.
(I know, I know, of course, I know, and what do you believe?
How do you see this ending? How do you see reprieve?)
I work here; paid to listen to your pointless, pathomanic views.<"pathomanic" I assume this is a made up word?>
We could just scream, together rage against unknown conjoining foes;
Here, lie down on my parquet floor, let others form long queues
whilst we find calm on smooth, cool wood; maple, walnut, rose.
(I know, I know, of course, I know, and what would make you smile?
If I could tell you life is good would you believe me...for a while?)
I work here but you think of me as someone special, friend for life;
who listens to you, nods, approves, agrees, permits and ratifies. [b]
How fine this wood, yes, rose I think, but maple, too. You miss your wife?
How long ago? A year? Oh, two? We have our time, but we all die.
(I know, I know, of course I know. We each grieve on our own
and nothing I can say will make it easy when you live alone.)
I work here but sometimes it seems that this is where I should not be.
A thanks is all my life is worth and more than that I don’t deserve.
Ah, look, that swirling, smoky grain…a sure sign that a walnut tree
was sacrificed for parquet floor, and so in death a purpose serves.
(I know, I know, of course I know. Don’t tell me any more.
Come back next week and we’ll discuss. Just go, and close the door)
I work here but I need someone to talk me out of other’s ways.
I must write down my inner thoughts and try to make some sense of me.
This wood is cedar, how its scent reminds me of my schoolroom days;
the shavings in the sharpeners. I’ll buy more pencils. Not 2B.
Seems to be trying to describe a therapist with burnout, or the writer is simply not familiar with the subject matter. Energetically, the poem does not move along, more like trudges. I cannot decide if the writer is being purposefully obscure, or just doesn't know the topic, either way the portrayal does not seem reality based. Being generous one could allow that maybe this is a metaphor for something, but I have no clue as to what that is. Maybe "the cure" hints at another malady, but again there is nothing in the poem that supports that. Obviously "wood" plays a prominent part in this, but I can no understanding from the poem what that might be.
Personally I think my first comment on this has about as much value as this longer one one.
Dale
How long after picking up the brush, the first masterpiece?
The goal is not to obfuscate that which is clear, but make clear that which isn't.
The goal is not to obfuscate that which is clear, but make clear that which isn't.