The Poet in Retirement

[dukealien]

An interesting conundrum:  the (inside the poem) poet lacks inspiration, and the (outside) poet lets him portray the lack with a certain (intentional, on his part) apparent ineptness in the poem itself.  However, being a humorous poem, it *must* be enjoyable, hence easily readable, so an inelegant elegance is required.  My line-by-line is offered in furtherance of that delicate balance.

The Poet in Retirement

Death, doom and waste.  Those are the things I understand.
There is no simplicity in me,  in these first two lines, it might be fun to prune them into a simple meter - perhaps ".. These things I understand/There's no simplicity in me" ...
No cheerfulness – for cheer I watch TV,  so the seriously fooled reader gets hit full-on with the humor hammer this line
Though the commercials make me mad.  stumbling here, but adds to the fun

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.  might be a little overkill on rhythmic pratfalls here - smooth to iambic?

I read that my religion is all wrong:
I must give thanks, must get on my knees; I must be re-re-re-reborn.  I itch to read "get down on" here just for the rhythm, but in a fun piece even cliche has its place
One birth is never enough for our greedy God.  This is serious line which should make the reader pull up short just for an instant (Emmett Kelly burrying the popped balloon in his clown act) - the bitters in the cocktail.  Might try for simple rhythm here again.

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.  This is fine - if they were the author's kids, or even grandkids, they'd have been mentioned again elsewhere.

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;  possible (and funny) equivocation here - are "they" the trees, or the neighbors?  Also in the next line.  A stretch, perhaps.
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.  Again, just a little smoother here - elegance in inelegance.

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.  Work very hard on this line - contrasting pathos again.  Make it count!
She was right, I am grotesque.
I think I'll have dessert.
Is this whipped cream or whipped shortening?  Almost too gross for me.  Maybe not for the inside poet (g).

I'm at the store; the prices are so high.
So many lights are burning; global warming is apace.  Your only wrong word (apace) - it's a tricky adverb.  "[L]ooms" for "is apace?"
The proprietor doesn't care;
Selling lamps is more important than the planet.  Lovely - inner poet comes across as a scold - like the mother?

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.  subtly funny - if inner poet's tastes are broad, something should fit them.  (He's just grumpy, in other words - or vain about false eclecticism.)
My card is declined; I am over-limit.  could be smoother, but again, the inner poet would write that way.

The engine knocks; the car must be left; the bill will be high; my savings will shrink.  I'd remove the second "will," if that doesn't make it too smooth for purpose.

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.  suggest comma after "tired," a little pause so refer back to the workers rather than the beggars.
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.  Not sure how, but this should read smoother, fast action.
Moving again is not an option.  I again itch for smoothness in this verse-ending line... "Moving once again..." is cliche, but that's our inner poet (of this poem) again.

I stare at a twenty-year-old unfinished poem.  Good for being bad here - "never-finished" would be too smooth.
I go to bed.


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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.  All over, I think, but the master clock seems to be in Australia along with quite a few of the central members.

Oh, I can sympathize here, being a recently retired person who's only just taken up poetry on a hobby basis!  And I love the equation,

no inspiration = free verse

which is only sometimes true.  But so is

very exact meter = no inspiration

at times.

Personally, I took up poetry in large part because I can't stand TV   Edits would be interesting, all the above are, of course, mild suggestions only.