05-18-2016, 01:20 AM
The Poet in Retirement
Death, doom and waste. Those are the things I understand.
There is no simplicity in me,
No cheerfulness – for cheer I watch TV,
Though the commercials make me mad.
The world, the world, the world; the paper has arrived.
The President does one thing right, two wrong.
They kill each other in the Middle East;
War is now the normal thing, the permanent divide.
I read that my religion is all wrong:
I must give thanks, must get on my knees; I must be re-re-re-reborn.
One birth is never enough for our greedy God.
I step into the sun; I worry that my skin will burn.
The grass is high, my gutters filled with leaves.
The children don't just play, they shriek.
I bark at them to settle down.
I back into the street; the engine knocks. I see my neighbors' trash;
They won't recycle.
I've hinted and cajoled; I've given them brochures.
Like a thief in the night I've pulled out bottles, cardboard, cans.
Why don't they care?
Their trees are over-mulched, they'll die;
Fat chance they'll listen when I tell them that.
The restaurant is empty – is the food not good?
The food is good, but expensive.
The food is tasty, but not nutritious.
The fork's too heavy, the spoon is dirty.
Is that a fly?
The restaurant chair is much too tight; this isn't an airplane.
Perhaps I've gotten fat.
That was what my mother said: "Fat! Fat! Fat!" she sneered
At our final Thanksgiving dinner in front of family.
That was when dementia took her kindness.
She was right, I am grotesque.
I think I'll have dessert.
Is this whipped cream or whipped shortening?
I'm at the store; the prices are so high.
So many lights are burning; global warming is apace.
The proprietor doesn't care;
Selling lamps is more important than the planet.
This lamp is cheap; that lamp is grand; this lamp wobbles and leans.
Modern or faux antique; plastic crystal, plated bronze; L.E.D.'s are now the thing.
Nothing quite fits my eclectic taste, so I settle.
My card is declined; I am over-limit.
The engine knocks; the car must be left; the bill will be high; my savings will shrink.
The bus is full of tired workers going home;
At least they have a purpose.
Panhandlers on the bus; I feel threatened.
Suddenly I am tired too.
I rush home to Mary Tyler Moore.
The Big Bang Theory makes me laugh – so smart and yet so dumb.
Lionel and Jean are still in love. Only TV doesn't change.
My neighbors' chimes interrupt my trance;
I slam the window down, though the night is hot.
Moving again is not an option.
I stare at a twenty-year-old unfinished poem.
I go to bed.
===============
I'm posting this on the Mild Critique board because I don't want everyone to feel that they have to do a line-by-line analysis. However, line-by-line analyses are welcome.
I initially tried to hammer the poem into meter, but the subject didn't lend itself to my florid metrical style, so I let it be what it wanted to be. And then I realized that if the poem is about an older poet who has lost his or her inspiration, prosaic free verse is the proper medium.
With this line -- "The children don't just play, they shriek" -- I wonder if it is clear that I am referring to children in the neighborhood and not my own. Putting "neighborhood" before "children" made the line flow more poorly.
I don't know where this forum is located -- U.S., England? The time stamp suggests Hong Kong, which seems a little odd. I'm mentioning this because the poem mentions two American TV shows and one English TV show, and I don't know if everyone will be familar with them.
Death, doom and waste. Those are the things I understand.
There is no simplicity in me,
No cheerfulness – for cheer I watch TV,
Though the commercials make me mad.
The world, the world, the world; the paper has arrived.
The President does one thing right, two wrong.
They kill each other in the Middle East;
War is now the normal thing, the permanent divide.
I read that my religion is all wrong:
I must give thanks, must get on my knees; I must be re-re-re-reborn.
One birth is never enough for our greedy God.
I step into the sun; I worry that my skin will burn.
The grass is high, my gutters filled with leaves.
The children don't just play, they shriek.
I bark at them to settle down.
I back into the street; the engine knocks. I see my neighbors' trash;
They won't recycle.
I've hinted and cajoled; I've given them brochures.
Like a thief in the night I've pulled out bottles, cardboard, cans.
Why don't they care?
Their trees are over-mulched, they'll die;
Fat chance they'll listen when I tell them that.
The restaurant is empty – is the food not good?
The food is good, but expensive.
The food is tasty, but not nutritious.
The fork's too heavy, the spoon is dirty.
Is that a fly?
The restaurant chair is much too tight; this isn't an airplane.
Perhaps I've gotten fat.
That was what my mother said: "Fat! Fat! Fat!" she sneered
At our final Thanksgiving dinner in front of family.
That was when dementia took her kindness.
She was right, I am grotesque.
I think I'll have dessert.
Is this whipped cream or whipped shortening?
I'm at the store; the prices are so high.
So many lights are burning; global warming is apace.
The proprietor doesn't care;
Selling lamps is more important than the planet.
This lamp is cheap; that lamp is grand; this lamp wobbles and leans.
Modern or faux antique; plastic crystal, plated bronze; L.E.D.'s are now the thing.
Nothing quite fits my eclectic taste, so I settle.
My card is declined; I am over-limit.
The engine knocks; the car must be left; the bill will be high; my savings will shrink.
The bus is full of tired workers going home;
At least they have a purpose.
Panhandlers on the bus; I feel threatened.
Suddenly I am tired too.
I rush home to Mary Tyler Moore.
The Big Bang Theory makes me laugh – so smart and yet so dumb.
Lionel and Jean are still in love. Only TV doesn't change.
My neighbors' chimes interrupt my trance;
I slam the window down, though the night is hot.
Moving again is not an option.
I stare at a twenty-year-old unfinished poem.
I go to bed.
===============
I'm posting this on the Mild Critique board because I don't want everyone to feel that they have to do a line-by-line analysis. However, line-by-line analyses are welcome.
I initially tried to hammer the poem into meter, but the subject didn't lend itself to my florid metrical style, so I let it be what it wanted to be. And then I realized that if the poem is about an older poet who has lost his or her inspiration, prosaic free verse is the proper medium.
With this line -- "The children don't just play, they shriek" -- I wonder if it is clear that I am referring to children in the neighborhood and not my own. Putting "neighborhood" before "children" made the line flow more poorly.
I don't know where this forum is located -- U.S., England? The time stamp suggests Hong Kong, which seems a little odd. I'm mentioning this because the poem mentions two American TV shows and one English TV show, and I don't know if everyone will be familar with them.