Half-way Holiday Blues

[tectak]

edit 0.001 brownlie catches

Ennui, my fallen friend, I look on you as culture stares at clowns.
Plangent, hollow, bereaved by loss of any interest in life,
I plough the hot and leaden air to flip the sod, to plant the seeds,
but even as I breathe I sigh to watch the withered walk on by.
I'm bored.

This is the condemnation of the very soul I vouched safe mine;
no longer can I see the stars, nor reach up to the highest shelf
where only yesterday ( it seems) I placed my, oh what was it now,
and do I really give a damn?
I'm tired.

This state of things, this endless chasing of myself,
this terse foreshortened voice within no longer spins the golden flax,
no longer trans-mutates the words into a precious metal melt,
to pour into bejeweled moulds and by some alchemy succeed.
I'm lost.

So congregate around my pyre and light the only fuse still dry
that sputtering in sparking hope the last words left in this dank keg
will burst like sunfire into thunderheaded sky; thence to brand
inflamed, the granite stone above my happy head.
I'm born again.
tectak2013

[Brownlie]

Ennui, my fallen friend, I look on you as culture stares at clowns.
Plangent, hollow, bereaved by loss of any interest in life,
I plough the hot and leaden air to flip the sod, to plant the seeds,
but even as I breathe I sigh to watch the withered walk on by.
I'm bored.

This is the condemnation of the very soul I vouchedsafe mine;
no longer can I see the stars, nor reach up to the highest shelf
where only yesterday ( it seems) I placed my, oh what was it now,
and do I really give a damn?
I'm tired.

This state of things, this endless chasing of myself,
this terse forshortened voice within no longer spins the golden flax,
no longer trans-mutates the words into a precious metal melt,
to pour into bejeweled moulds and by some alchemy succeed.
I'm lost.

So congregate around my pyre and light the only fuse still dry
that sputtering in sparking hope the last words left in this dank keg
will burst like sunfire into thunderheaded sky; thence to brand
inflamed, the granite stone above my happy head.
I'm born again.
tectak2013

Ok my reading was cursory and when. I get to my computer I will come back to it but I liked it. This poem has some voice in it too that gives a stream of consciousness feel.

[R.C. KITCHENS]

Ennui, my fallen friend, I look on you as culture stares at clowns.
Plangent, hollow, bereaved by loss of any interest in life,
bereaved means to lose someone to death. "bereaved by loss"?
and then "of any interest in life" It seems a little awkward to me.
stating loss in definition of a love one and further a loss of interest in life
I plough the hot and leaden air to flip the sod, to plant the seeds,
but even as I breathe I sigh to watch the withered walk on by.
I'm bored.

This is the condemnation of the very soul I vouchedsafe mine;
no longer can I see the stars, nor reach up to the highest shelf
where only yesterday ( it seems) I placed my, oh what was it now,
and do I really give a damn?
I'm tired.

This state of things, this endless chasing of myself,
this terse forshortened voice within no longer spins the golden flax,
no longer trans-mutates the words into a precious metal melt,
to pour into bejeweled moulds and by some alchemy succeed.
I'm lost.

So congregate around my pyre and light the only fuse still dry
that sputtering in sparking hope the last words left in this dank keg
will burst like sunfire into thunderheaded sky; thence to brand
inflamed, the granite stone above my happy head.
I'm born again.
tectak2013

I liked the poem. It give me a sense of a man who Has seen time do its work. A man who is uninterested with the world around him because age has come and he has done all that he has and things seem to be now at a loss and repetitive. Now awaiting death.

[tectak]

Ennui, my fallen friend, I look on you as culture stares at clowns.
Plangent, hollow, bereaved by loss of any interest in life,
bereaved means to lose someone to death. "bereaved by loss"?[b] No. Bereaved by loss of any interest in life. See end. Thanks
and then "of any interest in life" It seems a little awkward to me.
stating loss in definition of a love one and further a loss of interest in life[/b]
I plough the hot and leaden air to flip the sod, to plant the seeds,
but even as I breathe I sigh to watch the withered walk on by.
I'm bored.

This is the condemnation of the very soul I vouchedsafe mine;
no longer can I see the stars, nor reach up to the highest shelf
where only yesterday ( it seems) I placed my, oh what was it now,
and do I really give a damn?
I'm tired.

This state of things, this endless chasing of myself,
this terse forshortened voice within no longer spins the golden flax,
no longer trans-mutates the words into a precious metal melt,
to pour into bejeweled moulds and by some alchemy succeed.
I'm lost.

So congregate around my pyre and light the only fuse still dry
that sputtering in sparking hope the last words left in this dank keg
will burst like sunfire into thunderheaded sky; thence to brand
inflamed, the granite stone above my happy head.
I'm born again.
tectak2013

I liked the poem. It give me a sense of a man who Has seen time do its work. A man who is uninterested with the world around him because age has come and he has done all that he has and things seem to be now at a loss and repetitive. Now awaiting death.

Actually, I feel this way half way through EVERY holiday
Adj. 1. bereaved - sorrowful through loss or deprivation; "bereft of hope". Collins.
Thanks for commenting,
Best,
tectak

[milo]

Ennui, my fallen friend, I look on you as culture stares at clowns.
Plangent, hollow, bereaved by loss of any interest in life,
I plough the hot and leaden air to flip the sod, to plant the seeds,
but even as I breathe I sigh to watch the withered walk on by.
I'm bored.

This is the condemnation of the very soul I vouchedsafe mine;
no longer can I see the stars, nor reach up to the highest shelf
where only yesterday ( it seems) I placed my, oh what was it now,
and do I really give a damn?
I'm tired.

This state of things, this endless chasing of myself,
this terse forshortened voice within no longer spins the golden flax,
no longer trans-mutates the words into a precious metal melt,
to pour into bejeweled moulds and by some alchemy succeed.
I'm lost.

So congregate around my pyre and light the only fuse still dry
that sputtering in sparking hope the last words left in this dank keg
will burst like sunfire into thunderheaded sky; thence to brand
inflamed, the granite stone above my happy head.
I'm born again.
tectak2013

yes, Tom, my old friend, you nailed it. The sonics are almost perfect and you capture nicely the boredom and the frustrating need to pack our hours full lest we lose them.

just a thought:




I can delete it later.

[tectak]

Ennui, my fallen friend, I look on you as culture stares at clowns.
Plangent, hollow, bereaved by loss of any interest in life,
I plough the hot and leaden air to flip the sod, to plant the seeds,
but even as I breathe I sigh to watch the withered walk on by.
I'm bored.

This is the condemnation of the very soul I vouchedsafe mine;
no longer can I see the stars, nor reach up to the highest shelf
where only yesterday ( it seems) I placed my, oh what was it now,
and do I really give a damn?
I'm tired.

This state of things, this endless chasing of myself,
this terse forshortened voice within no longer spins the golden flax,
no longer trans-mutates the words into a precious metal melt,
to pour into bejeweled moulds and by some alchemy succeed.
I'm lost.

So congregate around my pyre and light the only fuse still dry
that sputtering in sparking hope the last words left in this dank keg
will burst like sunfire into thunderheaded sky; thence to brand
inflamed, the granite stone above my happy head.
I'm born again.
tectak2013

yes, Tom, my old friend, you nailed it. The sonics are almost perfect and you capture nicely the boredom and the frustrating need to pack our hours full lest we lose them.

just a thought:




I can delete it later.

Hi milo,
Thanks for this but you have hoist on your own petard I suggest you give up writing poetry all together and just concentrate on reading my shite!
Seriously, though, a good reading.
Best,
Tom

[milo]

Ennui, my fallen friend, I look on you as culture stares at clowns.
Plangent, hollow, bereaved by loss of any interest in life,
I plough the hot and leaden air to flip the sod, to plant the seeds,
but even as I breathe I sigh to watch the withered walk on by.
I'm bored.

This is the condemnation of the very soul I vouchedsafe mine;
no longer can I see the stars, nor reach up to the highest shelf
where only yesterday ( it seems) I placed my, oh what was it now,
and do I really give a damn?
I'm tired.

This state of things, this endless chasing of myself,
this terse forshortened voice within no longer spins the golden flax,
no longer trans-mutates the words into a precious metal melt,
to pour into bejeweled moulds and by some alchemy succeed.
I'm lost.

So congregate around my pyre and light the only fuse still dry
that sputtering in sparking hope the last words left in this dank keg
will burst like sunfire into thunderheaded sky; thence to brand
inflamed, the granite stone above my happy head.
I'm born again.
tectak2013

yes, Tom, my old friend, you nailed it. The sonics are almost perfect and you capture nicely the boredom and the frustrating need to pack our hours full lest we lose them.

just a thought:




I can delete it later.

Hi milo,
Thanks for this but you have hoist on your own petard I suggest you give up writing poetry all together and just concentrate on reading my shite!
Seriously, though, a good reading.
Best,
Tom

with the amount of time I spend on my petard, it is a marvel I don't need a hoist!!

[TRLustig]

great poem, the potency of imagery was magnificent. I felt the diction lost focus or friction between the first and last paragraph, but the first and last were so perfect and grandiose and rich as to be like miraculous birth and magnificent death, book-ending the mundane though no less poignant and powerful life in between.

[tectak]

great poem, the potency of imagery was magnificent. I felt the diction lost focus or friction between the first and last paragraph, but the first and last were so perfect and grandiose and rich as to be like miraculous birth and magnificent death, book-ending the mundane though no less poignant and powerful life in between.

Thanks TLR,
Due to your self confessed dyslexia, which I can imagine prevents you from noticing spelling errors prior to correcting, I am unsure what lost friction could mean...
Best,
tectak

[Brownlie]

There appears to be some consideration of line length. What were you going for?

Ennui, my fallen friend, I look on you as culture stares at clowns.
Plangent, hollow, bereaved by loss of any interest in life,
I plough the hot and leaden air to flip the sod, to plant the seeds,
but even as I breathe I sigh to watch the withered walk on by. -- This is very good writing, the internal rhyme between sigh and by work well and the physical descriptions are great.
I'm bored.

This is the condemnation of the very soul I vouchedsafe mine; -I don't think Vouchedsafe is a word, did you mean vouchsafed?
no longer can I see the stars, nor reach up to the highest shelf
where only yesterday ( it seems) I placed my, oh what was it now,
and do I really give a damn? -- I like the voice here it shows a fading memory, well done.
I'm tired.

This state of things, this endless chasing of myself,
this terse forshortened voice within no longer spins the golden flax, -- Did you mean foreshortened?
no longer trans-mutates the words into a precious metal melt,
to pour into bejeweled moulds and by some alchemy succeed. -- This is cool man it sounds like a very intelligent man musing.
I'm lost.

So congregate around my pyre and light the only fuse still dry
that sputtering in sparking hope the last words left in this dank keg
will burst like sunfire into thunderheaded sky; thence to brand
inflamed, the granite stone above my happy head.
I'm born again. -- Born again in the flames of your funeral pyre as you sit stiff beneath your grave?
tectak2013

I'd like to hear what you were getting at with the poem, because that would make me enjoy the work more and may allow me to provide some constructive criticism. I really can't give you much critique, because I just don't know how you would edit this, but this is one of your better works. I genuinely enjoyed reading this one, but that doesn't mean its perfect and you should become complacently pleased.

[tectak]

There appears to be some consideration of line length. What were you going for?

Ennui, my fallen friend, I look on you as culture stares at clowns.
Plangent, hollow, bereaved by loss of any interest in life,
I plough the hot and leaden air to flip the sod, to plant the seeds,
but even as I breathe I sigh to watch the withered walk on by. -- This is very good writing, the internal rhyme between sigh and by work well and the physical descriptions are great.
I'm bored.

This is the condemnation of the very soul I vouchedsafe mine; -I don't think Vouchedsafe is a word, did you mean vouchsafed?
no longer can I see the stars, nor reach up to the highest shelf
where only yesterday ( it seems) I placed my, oh what was it now,
and do I really give a damn? -- I like the voice here it shows a fading memory, well done.
I'm tired.

This state of things, this endless chasing of myself,
this terse forshortened voice within no longer spins the golden flax, -- Did you mean foreshortened?
no longer trans-mutates the words into a precious metal melt,
to pour into bejeweled moulds and by some alchemy succeed. -- This is cool man it sounds like a very intelligent man musing.
I'm lost.

So congregate around my pyre and light the only fuse still dry
that sputtering in sparking hope the last words left in this dank keg
will burst like sunfire into thunderheaded sky; thence to brand
inflamed, the granite stone above my happy head.
I'm born again. -- Born again in the flames of your funeral pyre as you sit stiff beneath your grave?
tectak2013

I'd like to hear what you were getting at with the poem, because that would make me enjoy the work more and may allow me to provide some constructive criticism. I really can't give you much critique, because I just don't know how you would edit this, but this is one of your better works. I genuinely enjoyed reading this one, but that doesn't mean its perfect and you should become complacently pleased.

Thanks brownlie,
two good catches. Foreshortened was a spelling error but vouched safe seems to need a hyphen. I did a rain check on it.
You are better at this kind of crit than the analytical kind....I never know what I am writing about....or never admit to it
Best,
tectak