Hi Larry and Luce,

"since" doesn't really work because it is all one sentence.

The Brits do not wear gloves when they prepare A meal for customers, who when they're fed, Sense grimy little germs are everywhere.

I don't see the issue with "sense" I'm afraid. The customers see the food being prepared with the owners bare hands, it causes the customers to sense there may be germs associated with the meal. Just like animals sense danger, or rain, it's a feeling based on the environment. No?

Hi Luce,

Thank you for reading it and your critique. I liked your suggestion about the last line. I just finished working on it...I think.
Cheers!

K

Hi Larry,

As far as changing the wording a little in each line, I'm okay with that. I understand that you are not, and I respect your dedication. Feel free to mention things that don't look as if they are written properly. I may not always agree, but it certainly doesn't upset me. There is one glaring error I discovered that has been bugging me all day. I'll post a correction possibly tomorrow and see if it looks better. I suggest the two asterisks were code for using the word "spread" twice!

Hi Zoe,

It's good to have a place to hang out. I'm probably going to be in the rhyming section.
Hope you see you post something now and then!

Karen (KD)

revision~


When British folks get sick they just don’t care.
You won’t see them with Vicks or Sudafed,
They cough and sneeze while germs fly everywhere.

They stroll with t-shirts on, in chilly air.
They kiss “hello” “goodbye.” That’s how things spread!
When British folks get sick they just don’t care.

The Brits do not wear gloves when they prepare
A meal for customers, who when they're fed,
Sense grimy little germs are everywhere.

They’re paid a handsome sick-leave, but declare:
I’m almost better, I can’t lie in bed.
When British folks get sick, they just don’t care.

The Yanks scream: I’m contagious, so beware!
Then hole up in their rooms with broth and bread,
To keep their germs from going everywhere.

The Brits are tough, they suck it up. It’s fair
To say they’ll carry on until half-dead.
When British folks get sick they just don’t care.
They cough and sneeze while germs fly everywhere.









My light verse is pretty hit and miss. I hesitate to even put this up, but I can use help on it for sure.
Forgive me British friends, after spending 2 months in England I came up with this while I sneezed in my room.


When British folks get sick they just don’t care.
You won’t see them with Vicks or Sudafed,
They let their germy kids go everywhere.

They stroll with t-shirts on, in chilly air.
They kiss “hello” “goodbye” that’s how things spread—
When British folks get sick they just don’t care.

The Brits do not wear gloves when they prepare
A meal for customers, who when they're fed,
Sense grimy little germs are everywhere.

They’re paid a handsome sick-leave, but declare:
I’m almost better, I can’t lie in bed.
When British folks get sick, they just don’t care.

The Yanks scream: I’m contagious, so beware!
Then hole up in their rooms so it won’t spread,
And keep their germs from going everywhere.

The Brits are tough, they suck it up. It’s fair
To say they’ll carry on until half-dead.
When British folks get sick they just don’t care.
They cough and sneeze while germs fly everywhere.

Hi Maureen,

I really loved this, it's a beautiful poem. I sort of floated away while reading it.
The only thing I could see that was slightly off, was that I think this line below needs shifting a few words, slightly.
I gave an example below just to throw out an idea.
Anyway thank you for posting this enchanting piece!Either way it is lovely.


a glazed pearlescent subtle sheen,

like fused enamel, morning light,


She held the shell up to her ear
and heard the spirit of the sea
‘cross oceans broad around the world
from waters shallow, waters deep.
Its columellar folds displayed
soft pastel pink and shimmery white,
a glazed pearlescent subtle sheen
like enamel in morning light,
sweetly tinged rose – the folded lips
were touched with sable, subtle, deep
and in its depths were purple hues
like skies at dusk – dark moody blues.

Hi Richard,

I like the essence of the poem, but the downside is the meter isn't steady, that's my concern.
Sorry I don't anything else to add to Eria's comments and I'm not sure how helpful my critique is at this point.
Perhaps strive for an equal amount of hard stresses per line and see what happens, if it is smoother. That would mean making some lines
longer and some shorter.



Children tucked all under down, there to dream awhile,
you on an errant night’s errand in full chantilly’d style.
Dreams, as oft before I did in passing mention,
are the darker, more solitary side of invention,

but, given your thought’s residence now in turmoil,
they won’t alter matters in which you’re embroiled.
A man surveilling me abroad will report no infidelity;
my penance past due with these amends I bow to thee.

Oh lasting love I swear these flirtation are done,
my penance, should thee allow, has swiftly begun.
The Lord, in the past, guided me through these troubles,
but without your sweet smile I am all befuddled.

Sophie’s anon to a new house, therewith the full affair.
If forgiveness there be not, my life will be I know not where.
Far above trifling dalliances, whose allure I do abhor,
you a tumble in my arms is all I crave forevermore.

Not a jot more wenching, nor visits to make up backstage,
I’ll gaze on thy form alone, gentle as a pup in a cage.
This I do heartily swear by my knight’s honor and kin,
relegate me to cellardom if again I should so sin.

Hi Eira,

Thank you, nice to see you here. I hope I can keep writing a little, it's been a long dry spell.
I appreciate your time and comments.

KD

Hi Larry,

Thank you for the critique. It's iambic pentameter for the most part. I think if I keep it at least 85 % true it works fine for me.
I'm aware of issues concerning Caps at the start of the lines, and I use them 50% of the time. A few editors of formalist journals I know still prefer them, believe it or not... So I go with whatever I think helps it get printed at the time. Here is one example in a fairly exclusive women's journal. Notice 2 of the three poems use caps in the beginning and the third one does not:

http://www.mezzocammin.com/iambic.php?vol=...amp;page=garcia

I'll get the revision up in a few days. It's nice to be here and I appreciate your thoughts and comments.

KD

Thanks RC! I have to rearrange the second line so I can pull "extending" out of there.
KD

Hi Richard... I've been here before but recently came back with the rest of the TCP group. Good to see you.

Karen Davies

Hi Posty,

Really helpful advice and comments. I look forward to working on those areas.

Karen

Hi Posty,

I read it and thought you were talking about your ex mother-in-law. Your wife's mother...
Now I'm intrigued. I put together the ringmaster as your ex wife,
calling the shots. Nice poem, interesting images.

KD

Hi Weaver,

(it's KD from TCP) Hey I like this. I read it a few times and then it dawned on me
the second strophe was more of a metaphor (at least that's how I see it).
As if calamity or something unusual might awaken us from the mundane, to urge us
to set our lives on fire with meaning and passion. Loved reading this. One suggestion
is to slightly change these two lines. Either way, I enjoyed reading your poem.

clapping out thunder at midnight
to wake us from our small lives.


As storm skies blow in
calmer seas begins to churn
to toss and turn, whirl
in spiral pools, drill
to excavate some ancient site
buried in its sandy bed.

And so we search
to find mystery lost
only revealed when wild skies
flash strobes of lightning
clap out thunder at midnight
wake us from our small lives.

Set the every day on fire!
Quiet endless tick of wall clocks.
Dig - blow the ghosts away.

Report Post

I tweaked it in a few places, hopefully for the better. I actually like some "ing" words so I left a few.
Thanks everyone for the feedback and help with this.

Pastoral for the Midlands

The heart-shaped linden leaves have netted veins,
That web into a rib along the center;
Their blades are broad with scalloped edges, catching
October’s sun, as filmy light rays enter

Between long layered branches. By the Severn,
We walk the well-worn, narrow bridleways.
Our trail is trimmed in sedges, maples drop
Their dappled leaves in paper-thin arrays,

To fan the feet of ancient brambles. Roots
Rise from a hidden ditch; the sun burns off
Earth’s rim of mist; a patch of peacock blue
Appears above a whitewashed mill. Clouds doff

In salutation to the sky. The bleats
Of farmland sheep float through the country air.
A passing steam train lets its whistle out
As we rest by the waters of the weir.

This place is far from what I’m used to. Thick
With large leaved limes and sycamores . . . My home
Is desert mounds and dull mesquite; stretched suns
Lay ribbons dipped in scarlet strands that comb

Through warm horizons. But lush emerald hues,
Medieval bridges, plenitudes of calm—
No sand dune is superior to these.
The blends of meadow-breeze, the water’s balm,

Brushstrokes of nature, delicate as sorrel,
Create a mental mural for my mind.
And there I find the time to pause, reflect,
When harshness of the desert seems unkind.













Pastoral for the Midlands

The heart-shaped linden leaves have netted veins,
Extending from their midrib in the center;
Their blades are broad with scalloped edges, catching
October’s sun, as filmy light rays enter

Between long layered branches. By the Severn,
We walk the well-worn, narrow bridleways.
Our trail is trimmed in sedges, maples drop
Their dappled leaves in paper-thin arrays,

To fan the feet of ancient brambles. Roots
Rise from a hidden ditch; the sun burns off
Earth’s rim of mist; a patch of peacock blue
Appears above a whitewashed mill. Clouds doff

Their salutations to the sky. The bleats
Of farmland sheep float through the country air.
A passing steam train lets its whistle out
As we rest by the waters of the weir.

This place is far from what I’m used to. Thick
With large leaved limes and sycamores . . . My home
Is scorching desert and mesquite; stretched suns
Lay ribbons dipped in scarlet strands that comb

Through warm horizons. But lush emerald hues,
Medieval bridges, plenitudes of calm—
No sand dune is superior to these.
The blends of meadow-breeze, the water’s balm,

Brushstrokes of nature, delicate as sorrel,
Create a mental mural for my mind.
And there I find the time to pause, reflect,
When harshness of the desert seems unkind.

Hi Snow,

Perfect poem for this time of year! I didn't see anything to critique but a possible
line change if you see fit...it would match up shakes with aches (tiny detail I know)
but that's all I have- Nice to read your work again!

it could be an alternate line:

through your body, bending as it shakes



Awakening, Chimera's madness surges
through your blood and hands begin to shake
with rage. Unleashed, your tongue succumbs to urges
bludgeoning your prey until he aches.

Sounds good enough to me. I can appreciate your explanation :)

Hi Larry,

Nice to read your poetry again. This is a calm and beautiful picture you have captured in your words.
I just have one suggestion, that would be to possibly change the first word to "restrain"
Restrain that chilling breath which augurs change. To me, restrain sounds nice with the
last word "change" and forestall sounds a little dated. That's all (take it or leave it!)love the poem!



Forestall that chilling breath which augurs change
and pirouettes the leaves in slow ballets
on air. Your choreographies arrange

Hi Everyone~

a new book contest:

http://kelsaybooks.com/poetry_book_contest

Deadline May 31, 2013. The winner will be announced on October 1st 2013.

Winner receives a print publication, 12% royalties off Amazon sales, $200.00 and 50 free books (a retail value of $700.00).

Finalists will also be considered for publication.

Final judge: Marly Youmans

Initial screening by Aldrich Press editor, Karen Kelsay.

free verse and formal poetry welcome

Thank you Jerry. I'm so pleased you had a look at it. I appreciate the comments~

http://victorianvioletpress.com/issue_10

please come by and read the new issue ~ thanks!

Issue 7 is up!

http://www.victorianvioletpress.com/issue_7

Hi Jerry,

I just ate some cottage cheese, then 30 mins later read this...
it must be a sign! Ha Ha...cute poem.

K

Thanks snow!

I appreciate that.

K

Hi Jerry,

This is so touching and beautifully written,
nice ending, too. Wow, made me sort of sad...
thanks for this one.

K