Jerusalem

[Ca ne fait rien]

Bottom the Weaver
Rides the tram,
an illuminated shuttle
thrown across the warp
of commercial provincialism;
climbs the purple moors and hills
until the chimney line recedes
into a dim memory of leather-patched pipepuffs
And red-faced overseers.

He breathes coldblast of Pennine air
above boxed Sunday claustrophobia
of Dark Satanic Mills and Chapels 
and smoke-stained Bradford thoroughfares
with shuttered shops and mufflered men
loitering on street corners
waiting for the pubs to open.

Deaf from clanking looms
and jangling cashboxes
of Methody elders who preach
the creed of worsted charity
in booming voices
from plain-speaking lecterns
to a free -market world,
he offers his song softly
to the larks and red kites,
who cut the air with sarcastic wings,
and mock his asses' ears.

He fantasizes endless roles
that he could play;
the lover, nay, the tyrant,
or the lion that roars sweet
as the trilling nightingale;
any part that suits his diffident
and courteous woolly wit
and frightens not the ladies
(who have no reason to love
him, except reason and love
keep little company nowadays)
or the horses. Bottom the Weaver
lies on earthy heather beds
‘neath scudding
mucky skies and dreams.

[billy]

william blake revisited

Bottom the Weaver quaint opener
Rides the tram,
an illuminated shuttle
thrown across the warp and a great metaphor
of commercial provincialism;
climbs the purple moors and hills is 'the' needed?
until the chimney line recedes
into a dim memory of leather-patched pipepuffs simply beautiful image
And red-faced overseers.

He breathes coldblast of Pennine air i faltered with coldblast
above boxed Sunday claustrophobia
of Dark Satanic Mills and Chapels  hello blake
and smoke-stained Bradford thoroughfares
with shuttered shops and mufflered men love mufflered men
loitering on street corners
waiting for the pubs to open. this stanza is just one great big image

Deaf from clanking looms
and jangling cashboxes
of Methody elders who preach
the creed of worsted charity good strong metaphor from the industry
in booming voices
from plain-speaking lecterns
to a free -market world,
he offers his song softly
to the larks and red kites, is 'the' needed?
who cut the air with sarcastic wings,
and mock his asses' ears.

He fantasizes endless roles
that he could play;
the lover, nay, the tyrant, good internal with play and nay.
or the lion that roars sweet
as the trilling nightingale;
any part that suits his diffident
and courteous woolly wit
and frightens not the ladies
(who have no reason to love
him, except reason and love
keep little company nowadays)
or the horses. Bottom the Weaver
lies on earthy heather beds
‘neath scudding
mucky skies and dreams.

i could have written on most lines how much i like it but it was becoming tedious (the last stanza was great )
if this were in a book of similar poetry. i would spend money on it. apart from a couple of here nor there nits, i thought it bloody well excellent.
at the end i saw the use of 'neath and after reading the piece again, i would have loved to see more dialect in the piece. that said, i think it excels as is. the alliteration is used to good effect and some of the internal rhythm rocks the baby. jmo
thanks you for the read

[addy]

This was a difficult one to critique. I really liked it, and enjambment-wise i can see little fault. But not being familiar with the place and the situations you described here, a lot of the context escaped me. There were lines that provoked such rich memories from someone like Billy, who is familiar with the area (one image brought a whole array of other associated images to the fore: sights, sound, texture, mood, etc); but that I wasn't able to truly grasp the full significance of. When it was explained to me, they worked even better than I originally thought, so i confess I am not able to critique this well from that angle. This is not a fault in the poem, not at all. It is a very strong piece, with earthy beauty, depth, and emotion. But perhaps it would have more meaning for people who have really seen what you are talking about.

Bottom the Weaver
Rides the tram,
an illuminated shuttle
thrown across the warp
of commercial provincialism;
climbs the purple moors and hills
until the chimney line recedes
into a dim memory of leather-patched pipepuffs
And red-faced overseers. Very evocative lines... strong storytelling here

He breathes coldblast of Pennine air
above boxed Sunday claustrophobia
of Dark Satanic Mills and Chapels 
and smoke-stained Bradford thoroughfares
with shuttered shops and mufflered men
loitering on street corners
waiting for the pubs to open.

Deaf from clanking looms
and jangling cashboxes
of Methody elders who preach
the creed of worsted charity
in booming voices
from plain-speaking lecterns
to a free -market world,
he offers his song softly
to the larks and red kites,
who cut the air with sarcastic wings,
and mock his asses' ears. Very poignant. i am loving your POV character

He fantasizes endless roles
that he could play;
the lover, nay, the tyrant,
or the lion that roars sweet
as the trilling nightingale; nice lines
any part that suits his diffident
and courteous woolly wit
and frightens not the ladies
(who have no reason to love
him, except reason and love
keep little company nowadays) fantastic quip
or the horses. Bottom the Weaver
lies on earthy heather beds
‘neath scudding
mucky skies and dreams. I like that you can read this more than one way

[Aish]

How very interesting. I have an older poem about Jerusalem, although the tone is completely different.

I really liked this. Your writing in general is quite smooth and seems to be a throwback to another era. I have no nits with the poem whatsoever. Thank you for sharing with us.

[Ca ne fait rien]

Thanks everyone for the kind comments and feedback-
Billy- yes the bits of 'the' you suggest shall be removed, fewer words that don't count the better.

Aish- thanks-my day jobs are concerned with poking about in the past, so I write about it quite a lot.
In case you are unfamiliar with it- the allusion to Jerusalem here is from the anthem , these days sung mainly by the Women's Institute and held in contrast to the realities of Industrial Revolution England.

Addy- If you haven't been, make him bring you- it is the land of Ted Hughes as well