alternatively, I could gut a poem and claim some kind of superiority - which I should have written originally rather attempt to be generous to the critique.

And the word is 'cliché' by the way, not 'clique.' A clique is a small group who see themselves as superior in some way - how appropriate.

I'm out of here.

No Room at the Inn

He read the Waste Land,
searching for the fine print
and making of it
a guide for life. He enjoyed
stories of wise men,
and he looked out for them
on every street corners
He thought he might find
meanings in the conversations
of the temple women who
seemed to have replaced
the three kings, but he heard
mere confusions and riot,
obscene and dark as the shadows
thrown by the nightlights.

Once, he followed a star
for as long as he could,
but it sped out of sight, disappeared
over the rim of buildings
and he never found a mythic inn,
just a room of drunkards
and moneylenders.
There followed a year of bitter wangles
with the Inland Revenue,
which he lost.

Later he heard of satellites
that raced the sun around the earth,
and he figured the reality
of his star.

One evening as he walked home,
the rain dripping from his hair,
and the end of his nose, he stepped over
the stream that ran down the gutter.
Beneath the arch of his legs,
a card floated towards the drain.
Finally, he saw a star, saw
wise men and sheep - too late,
his faith had dwindled
and now he wallowed
in the stink of the Black Friday,
all his presents bought and wrapped
without thought or feeling.

Thanks guys

Critter, thank you for your time and consideration. I appreciate anyone spending time on an extended piece like this and I'm pleased you found something in this.

Luce, the piece is not about space and time. Were it, your critique would be invaluable. However, its about the separate dimension of Space/time and Quantum Mechanics, which originates with an imaginary experiment in which an observer plays a critical part. Of course, no reading of a poem is ever wrong as we all bring our separate experiences to a work. Clearly, I failed to make my intent clear enough.

Mike

Recent years - last twenty or so - I've lived with tinnitus as a permanent associate, never switches off though sometimes - the blessed times - the noise diminishes and is filtered through down.

Gives me a physical relationship with this piece, and that final sentence is a crushing moment however it was intended. Tomorrow will indeed be another day of damaged relationships and incomplete thought, and all down to the noise that accompanies life.

Lovely writing though.

Mike

Only one small nit - only 'is working', I'd prefer 'works'

A small detail and probably ruins the scansion, I just prefer the way it lies on the tongue.

Otherwise, very rich and thoughtful.

Mike

Space/Time as an Opera

A time-shift and the chasm opens -
we might slide through the universes
without touching the fabric
of multiple creations.

This strange glide, part hover
part desperation, against
the backcloth of brilliant stars,
the vacuum misplaced.

**************************************

Dawn bloomed flesh pale
imagined by a white man
thinking of some vaguely Western God,
sombre pose, almost joyless
except in faith. The sharp act
may be to crawl across the moor
into the face of the rising sun,
into the east, into tomorrow.

He laces his boots, black threaded through
black and tight enough that he can feel
the flow of blood around his ankles.
This, a morning delight of anticipation.
and he savours every movement
as he sits on the side of the bed, each curl
of his fingers accompanied by a pause,
this early rests beyond thought
and he runs in automatic until his first coffee
which is some minutes away.

So now, his moments are pauses between
bursts of activity that pass un-noticed,
unremarked, until, boots laced,
he stomps down stairs to sample
his first drink of the day.

**************************************

Space has no soundtrack
beyond the imagination.

**************************************

Breakfast is mechanical,
the spoon rises and falls,
now steepled with oats and milk
now empty of everything but intent.
Eyes stare, fixed and blank,
without recognition, and he gives thanks
for the solitude he carries on his slumped shoulders –
this is too early for social alertness.
The spoon rises, the mouth opens, closes.
He chews – life runs in perpetual motion,
Unthinking.


Ambition lies on the far side
of the black hole that rests
beyond the now of it,
as if space has no dimension.
Insentient, he completes his tasks –
the play of his fingers, the dance
of hammer and spark
his only real delight,
skill and design rich in experience.
Blow by blow, he beats out
the pattern in the red heat of metal,
hammerfall deliberate and thoughtless.

He is content.

***********************************

Stars are blind in a blind sky,
having stared into the heart
of too many suns. Now
they drift aimlessly, desperate
to fill the space around themselves
with the force of their shining.

The magnetic field, weak
as starshine, limps from one body
to the next. In space

no-one can hear you scream.

***************************************

He rests for a moment after lunch,
heavy bottomed, contemplates
the grime of the plate as if the whole
of his life lies within the smears
of grease and sauce. Beyond,
the fires burn, draw his legs under him
and he settles back into the rhythm
of the forge. The anvil of space,
the starfire furnace –
even the Gods demand such tools,
this he knows with every blow,
every spark. He knows that he is the blow,
he is the spark.

I'll be back for a proper comment later, I hope - but

This is sheer brilliance...

Mike

Behind the scent of orange peel,
a sickness masked
as if we can hide illness behind the gift
of citrus or grape.

Fixed underneath fingernails,
where we hang on too grimly
to the pain, scrubbed clean
with carbolic and failure.

The white of calcium deficiency
and ridges down the hardness of it,
Brittle, it cracks, breaks
against the flex of guitar strings

to the rasp of a wrong note.
He was not quite broken,
not quite frayed -
not quite...

and we remember the oranges,
their scent heavy through the window
that opened on his final room,
and the butterflies beyond

Hi Daniel

great that you made it here - I remember you as a skilled poet and an insightful critic. Always a pleasure to read.

Mike

Hi Larry

The whole point of 'down' and 'soft' is the repetition albeit presented differently - 'down soft' versus 'down, soft.' At one point I considered using them a third time, but eventually settled on a construct that used the word 'wipes' which met with almost universal disapproval. first stanza would have read -

that smile again, lands
soft as down, soft as sunlight
on the hillside
at midnight.

I discarded that because of the clichéd phrase 'soft as down.' Inverting the wording helps to break that cliché a little, though on reflection the original might have worked because of the self-referencing.

I will give your ideas some thought though. I feel that I'm being over-defensive of the work, and need to reflect on both my 'defence' and the piece.

Mike

I trace some of my poetic roots through the lyric works of Dylan Thomas to the traditional British/old Welsh poems such as the Mabinogion. One of the lyric devises often used by the poets and bards is that of repetition - groups of three being the most common form. So, from Lady Charlotte Guest's translation comes the following paragraph

Then he betook himself to his arts, and began to work a charm. And he caused twelve chargers to appear, and twelve black greyhounds, each of them white-breasted, and having upon them twelve collars and twelve leashes, such as no one that saw them could know to be other than gold. And upon the horses twelve saddles, and every part which should have been of iron was entirely of gold, and the bridles were of the same workmanship. And with the horses and the dogs he came to Pryderi.

Now in the original I maintain that this would have taken a traditional poetic form of some sort, and the repetitions of 'twelve' would have sounded the beat of the piece.

Other places one might come across a knight called (I extemporise) 'Finger, son of Knuckle, son of Hand.' It's again a technique based upon repetition of a sort.

Another technique is the self reference, where the poet ties the piece together with a repetition; of form, of word, of image, it matters not.

Eventually, these ideas were taken up wholesale by the bards and became the refrains to their songs, another device designed to hold a piece in memory for both bard and audience.

So here. The revision. I've tried to tidy up a couple of ideas so as to make my thoughts clearer.

I'll be back to offer thoughts on your thoughts, comments on your comments but my time is light tonight.

Mike

A third technique is the boast - how a day becomes a decade, a lifetime, with repetition...

Hi Psyche - perhaps the real cost of the Covent Garden Ladies and Diabetes are alike in that they both eat away at the healthy a bit at a time - at least the illnesses that the ladies oft-times carried which I think were described as eating away the bones. And at the end of the road with diabetes is the needle - well at least for now, until we can ingest insulin in pill form. Thanks for the read and comments - means a lot.

RC thanks. There has to be humour of a sorts - or tears - and I'm not strong on tears. I cry too easily, I think.

Hi posthumous - I've always said that there is never a wrong interpretation of a poem. The reader brings a whole bundle of memory, a skein of competence, a flotilla of argument, to any poem and they are as valid as the poet's jumble of ideas. And the move from garden to hospital may not have been deliberate in the design - but it works for me too. Glad this worked.

Mike

Hi

I keep reading this aloud and somehow the opening stanzas don't quite work for me. As a narrative, they are fine which is part of the issue. They read like prose to me.

It's only in the final two stanzas that the poetry kicks in though the final line isn't really required. (I have to admit that there are some words that I think should be avoided in poetry - soul, heart, shard, amongst others. I avoid them because they are overused in my view.)

Sorry I can't be more positive.

Mike

Thanks people

This is a wild and exhausting interlude.

John Carpenter's film on the tv (forget which, but that doesn't really matter. Point about Carpenter is that he does everything - writes, directs, edits, music everything in most of his music.)

Key to the piece is the pancreas, that creator (or otherwise) of insulin.

Sometimes, my diabetes becomes all encompassing - the only thing that I can consider, the limit of my world in that it is the limit to my energy, the limit to my ambitions. I have yet to need insulin, though it was a close run thing on my last visit to the doctors, a few days ago.

Hi Krista - The ladies of Covent Garden used to carry diseases that corrupted the body of time, and I'm feeling the same about my diabetes at times. That's where the title comes from, and in some respects is the originator of the piece as I read about the book the same day that I wrote the piece. The tattoo is more a reflection on my thoughts about needles - a future certainty, almost. Thanks for reading and I hope the explanation adds rather than ruins.

Hi Eira - thanks for commenting and spending time with the piece. I'm hoping that my comments above will resolve any lingering questions you have about the piece.

I'd probably settle on 'calls' or 'calling' rather than 'quacks.' And some ducks use 'whistle' sounds for some of their calls, but I doubt if this would be an acceptable alternative for most readers. (try listening to teal, for example. RSPB have a wide collection of bird calls. Their teals whistle - so much so that it's a challenge to hear it as a 'quack' at all. Unlike the ubiquitous mallard - probably the originator of the 'quack.')

Mike

rev 1

that smile again
swipes the hillside with sunlight
at midnight

she is wanton
in her innocence, the brightness
in which she rests

I like to look at her
and listen to her voice

her scent is purity
her taste is cleanliness

but it's the touch of her skin
that brings me to her side
this night

light down, soft
morning mist over water
and easy as laughter
in the mouths of children

after all the years,
the decades,
the lifetimes,
we hold hands
in the image of our youth

a kiss to down soft lips
is a whispered 'goodnight'
as the chill of evening
closes in



original

that smile again
wipes the hillside with sunlight
at midnight

she is wanton
her innocence the brightness
in which she rests

I like to look at her
and listen to her voice

her scent is purity
her taste is cleanliness

but it's the touch of her skin
that brings me to her side
this night

light down, soft
morning mist over water
and easy as laughter
in the mouths of children

after all the years
the decades
we hold hands
in the image of our youth

a kiss to down soft lips
is a whispered 'goodnight'
as the chill of evening
closes in

Hi

I'm thinking that 'winkled' in the revision should be 'wrinkled?'

There's a couple of words I find a tad archaic - missive, disavowal - yet somehow they are in keeping with the whole which is dense and thoughtful and provocative.

Certainly, I don't understand the full complexity of it - suspect that I've barely indented the core - yet Sean O'Brien says that poetry is to be experienced rather than understood. I like this experience.

Mike

Very little to add

I love the simplicity of the language and the openness of some of the images. Goldfish snacks works as well for crackers as it does for fish, both being appropriate for birds whose sole purpose other than breeding seems to be feeding.

My only worry is the word 'quacks' which feels childish in what is, for me, a relatively sophisticated comment about the relationship of human with duck. Otherwise, why not just say 'poops?' (Don't, because 'stained with their arrogance' is such a complete phrase, so perfectly tuned to the duck's stare.)

Super piece.

Mike

Okay - posted a revision. The Heston image is revised and I hope I've clarified the issues about whose voice is talking.

M

She comes on like one of the ladies
from Covent Garden, knows the price
she can charge for everything.

The flesh pours from bones
at the thought of every vice,
every sick, sardonic smile

and now Carpenter plays
on the TV and I'm thinking of tattoos
as if inking in a cross or crescent
will prevent the worst of my disease.

But they've hollowed me out
with their mania, condemned me
to an alternate fiction where
the pancreas doesn't dominate.

I'm a golden carp
in an ornamental pond
swimming my circles
and looking for friends
beyond the thought of the needle.

But this is no longer Harris'
Covent Garden. Today's corruptions
hold different dimensions
and the ladies have more sullen smiles.

Hi Adhamh

This just kinda blew me away its so tight and complete. Seems so simply and yet you've spooled in such complexity, such depth of purpose . Simple in language and structure but it says so much.

I used to know where the sun goes. Now I just have the knowledge that I used to know, though that bit of knowledge has been lost to me. But then, at six, I knew far more about how it all works than I do now.

Brilliant, I'm thinking.

Mike

Hi Guys and Gals

First off a big thanks for the welcome. Second off a big thanks for the comments.

I had a line - they asked Moses for proof - and everything else spins off from there, though the original span in another direction
which changed substantially as I typed the piece up. This is not my normal method of working - I work from inspiration straight into these little windows using the keyboard to slow my thoughts down enough to lend a structure and a sense to the piece. Thus, a substantial amendment occurred which I liked, though I struggled for the longest time about the Charlton Heston section as I was aware that the image is clichéd in my head, and probably/possibly the minds of others.

Hi Eira - and you are not alone in wanting me to distinguish more clearly the voice of God from the voice of Moses. I'm thinking that moving that section of the line to the next line would allow that space to develop in the reader's mind. For me, poetry exists in the detail, the specificity where appropriate, so your comments about descriptions working are most welcome. Thanks.

Hi Posthumous - and me, cynical about Bible Stories. (Why is it so hard to do 'sardonic' in print?) Moses is one of the stranger heroes in the Bible, I'm thinking - control freak, visionary. I can' break free from the thought that he'd have been another James Warren Jones if he'd been born 20th century. The Heston reference seems to have intruded more than I wanted. Thanks

HI Psyche - I have, like other poets, a very individual understanding of poetry, purpose or value or design. For me, there should always be space within the poem for the reader to intrude, to develop their own set of meanings. Thus, your comment about 'always going beyond the poet's intentions' is an absolute delight and pleasure as I want my readers to do just that, to find their own meanings and purpose. Thanks for the read and the comment.

Hi Heather - you aren't alone in not picking up the voice of God as distinct from Moses. This definitely needs addressing. As to the grammar - sorry but it has been beaten into me from a very early age and for the rest of my life that I mustn't end a sentence with a participle, and 'to which I cling' it just has to be. As to spaces in poems - please read my comment to Psyche... Thanks, it has been a big help as I have come to expect of your comments.

Hi Richard - I guess we've indulged in our own exodus have we not and that was certainly in there somewhere when I sat down to write. People we miss that we can't bring with us -always a sadness, yet such a vital part of the process. So yes, it's hope and faith and freewill constrained. Thanks.

Hi Adhamh - pleased you made it. Your work has been so strong over recent months, it has been hugely inspirational. I had second thoughts and third thoughts about the image of Heston as it is such a strong image in my head that I worried about it dominating and bring a different reality to the piece. I will have to think about this again and again until I resolve it, I'm thinking. Thanks.

Mike

Hi Weaver

interesting format certainly works in the first couple of stanzas.

Hated S3 - too clichéd in word and deed for my liking though I kinda like the intent as it's drawing us in a little closer again.

Liked the sense of point/counterpoint and the tension/poise that it brings to the piece.

Mike

Hi Richard

You've captured a loud, busy scene admirably. There's considerable movement here, a support to all the sounds you've used -
even the silence attributed to some elements (Cathedral, National Palace, bells) shouts through. The shortness, almost breathlessness,
of the lines builds the tempo and contrives to add to this activity. (Read aloud, this is particularly noticeable.) Two final stanzas challenge
this though because of their length.

Last line of stanza 3 is redundant, to my ears at least.

I love the riff on the cd booth - brilliant cacophony.

Mike