The Poet in Retirement

[Caleb Murdock]

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.

[Todd]

Hi Caleb,

I'll start with the note on the bottom. Outside of the first part where you say that you don't mind a more expansive critique, I tend to dislike all the added information. I don't think it matters if people get the As Time Goes By reference, or that you started with trying meter and settled on free verse. Let the poem stand or fall on its own. A few comments below:

The Poet in Retirement--I like the title, and it's a nice idea to explore. I felt though that the execution was a bit of a let down. I didn't get the sense of a poet in retirement just a speaker frustrated and tired of living. The poetry aspect of someone writing for a lifetime didn't convey.

Death, doom and waste.  Those are the things I understand.--Odd punctuation in your first clause. Also a pretty flat opening line. 
There is no simplicity in me,--This might be a cleaner opening line.
No cheerfulness – for cheer I watch TV,
Though the commercials make me mad.--As an opening strophe it feels disconnected.

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.--As I read through these last three strophes, there is usually one or two lines that have potential crowded by flat reportage. It could be a style difference but I would consider cutting quite a bit of this and seeing what you can do with only the most interesting lines. It feels like a lot of noise in the poem.

I back into the street; the engine knocks.  I see my neighbors' trash;
They won't recycle.--All of this is pretty funny but you could condense this lead up to make it less rambling.
I've hinted and cajoled; I've given them brochures.
Like a thief in the night I've pulled out bottles, cardboard, cans.--Like a thief in the night is cliche.
Why don't they care?
Their trees are over-mulched, they'll die;
Fat chance they'll listen when I tell them that.--Fat chance is also cliche.

The restaurant is empty – is the food not good?
The food is good, but expensive.
The food is tasty, but not nutritious.--Again look to condense a lot of this.
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.--I like the transition you made from the question to here and then the next line.

Perhaps I've gotten fat.
That was what my mother said: "Fat! Fat! Fat!" she sneered--The "Fat Fat Fat she sneered could be cut.
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.--Again less is probably more in this instance.

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.--lines like this just read as reportage and filler.
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.--Too telling
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.

Just some thoughts. I think there's too much filler in this one, though there is a good idea to be explored. I mostly have trouble seeing the speaker as poet as opposed to cranky disillusioned old man. I hope some of it helps.

Best,

Todd

[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.


===============

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.

[Caleb Murdock]

Todd, thank you for your comments.

Dukealien, I think you get some of the irony of the poem.  This is a person who has grown angry and petty with time; who has allowed the burdens of the world to overwhelm him or her; and who longs for a more care-free time when the creative juices were flowing.  But this person also has some self-awareness.  (Basically I am describing myself.)

I want to say that I tried very hard to write all the lines in iambic rhythm (without rhythm, free verse is just prose), but I couldn't hammer all the lines into rhythm and still make the language coarse and colloquial.  I'm intending to submit this poem to a contest, one which favors free-verse poetry.  You should see some of the contest-winners -- the writers don't even try to write in any kind of rhythm.

You suggested that this line would be better if it were iambic -- "War is now the normal thing, the permanent divide."  I am curious why you said that because it is iambic:

x WAR / is NOW / the NOR / mal THING / the PER / ma NENT / di VIDE

You do know what iambic meter is, don't you?  (I suppose you could call the line trochaic because it begins on a stressed syllable.)

THANK YOU for giving me the word "looms" -- that was just what I needed.  I wasn't happy with "apace".  You made other suggestions which were helpful too.  It does seem that you understand the poem, which I greatly appreciate.  Your comments were very helpful.

Oh, do you have any more thoughts on the "dementia" line? I was satisfied with it until I read your comment.

I should have known that the site is based in Austrailia.  I know some English-speaking people in Hong Kong, so Hong Kong popped into my mind first.

[dukealien]

You suggested that this line would be better if it were iambic -- "War is now the normal thing, the permanent divide."  I am curious why you said that because it is iambic:

x WAR / is NOW / the NOR / mal THING / the PER / ma NENT / di VIDE

You do know what iambic meter is, don't you?  (I suppose you could call the line trochaic because it begins on a stressed syllable.)

I was looking at the "x" there - if the previous line had ended with an unstressed syllable it wouldn't have made me stumble in the reading.

Oh, do you have any more thoughts on the "dementia" line?  I was satisfied with it until I read your comment.

Sorry, I don't at the moment.  Thinking of my own mother who suffers from the same condition, those rages... a profoundly unsatisfying thing, it is.  You're as likely to have the winning inspiration as I, and it's your poem.*

I should have known that the site is based in Austrailia.  I know some English-speaking people in Hong Kong, so Hong Kong popped into my mind first.

@billy's in the Philippines, the server might be there.

*Check the contest terms carefully - some demand that you swear the poem has never been visible online!

[Caleb Murdock]

Dukealien, I didn't mean to insult you when I asked if you knew what iambic meter was. Since the line was just missing an unstressed syllable at the start, but the rest of it was regular, it seemed obvious to me that it was iambic.

But truly, the amount of rhythm in this poem is pretty high judging from what I am seeing these days.

By the way, what was "gross" about the whipped cream/whipped shortening line? In that line, the speaker is simply going back to being picky (he/she wants real whipped cream, not the cheap substitute).

Thank you again for your feedback.

[dukealien]

Dukealien, I didn't mean to insult you when I asked if you knew what iambic meter was.  Since the line was just missing an unstressed syllable at the start, but the rest of it was regular, it seemed obvious to me that it was iambic.

But truly, the amount of rhythm in this poem is pretty high judging from what I am seeing these days.

By the way, what was "gross" about the whipped cream/whipped shortening line?  In that line, the speaker is simply going back to being picky (he/she wants real whipped cream, not the cheap substitute).

Thank you again for your feedback.

No problem, feelings not easily hurt.

We may be separated by usage on the toppings issue - the cheap substitute (generic CoolWhip™ ) is, in fact, mostly whipped shortening, but I envisioned actually topping something with pure Crisco™ or the like.  Which would, I think you'lll agree, be gross.

Looking forward to the edit!

[Caleb Murdock]

Let me just quickly reply that very early in my life I figured out that most of the whipped toppings I was eating were not real whipped cream, so the knowledge that I was eating whipped, sweetened shortening has been in my head for 45 to 50 years. I am loath to mention a brand name such as Cool Whip, especially one that I don't eat and wouldn't recommend. (You'll also find a ton of shortening in frostings.)

Regarding iambic meter, it isn't uncommon for a line to start or end with a variant foot (such as a trochee or headless iamb at the start, or an extra-metrical syllable at the end), so I tend to look at the middle of a line to determine whether it is iambic, especially lines of free verse which don't have a standard length.