DocHeart's poetry corner

Well, Doc, what we have here is a tough one.

It's a very articulate account, on all accounts. It discusses your travelling, how travelling has lost its shine because of the overwhelming similarities throughout human nature. It seems a bit lonely and disillusioned. It is a highly interesting read and by no means is it poorly done.

But it's time to be mean. This reader is going to accuse you of not going the distance. Your poem here exists on a very literal level and shows admirable ability in language to express your thoughts. It seems to refuse to jump to the next level and exist emotionally. It's keeping the readers from the intimacy of your perspective by hiding behind language, almost. Language seems to be like that when we use it in articulate ways. This poem expresses such good ideas that it deserves to make that leap of faith- because putting your experience with direct, literal language isn't always an efficient tool. It isn't always the most honest way of sharing that experience. This reader thinks you know this. In a lot of ways, intelligence is a double edged sword when it comes to these kinds of things.

But this reader still liked reading this, so maybe that's less of a critique and more of a challenge.






J

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Jack of Hearts

Well, Doc, what we have here is a tough one.

It's a very articulate account, on all accounts. It discusses your travelling, how travelling has lost its shine because of the overwhelming similarities throughout human nature. It seems a bit lonely and disillusioned. It is a highly interesting read and by no means is it poorly done.

But it's time to be mean. This reader is going to accuse you of not going the distance. Your poem here exists on a very literal level and shows admirable ability in language to express your thoughts. It seems to refuse to jump to the next level and exist emotionally. It's keeping the readers from the intimacy of your perspective by hiding behind language, almost. Language seems to be like that when we use it in articulate ways. This poem expresses such good ideas that it deserves to make that leap of faith- because putting your experience with direct, literal language isn't always an efficient tool. It isn't always the most honest way of sharing that experience. This reader thinks you know this. In a lot of ways, intelligence is a double edged sword when it comes to these kinds of things.

But this reader still liked reading this, so maybe that's less of a critique and more of a challenge.






J

---

Dear Jack,

*THAT'S* how you're mean? Boy, you've got a lot to learn on the way to meanness.

Seriously now, your words touch me, and they make me think about what I wrote in a different light. Emotional distancing? I wonder how that came about.

Perhaps I will take time to re-read all poems in this thread -- all put together within the last ten days or so. And if I find similar detachment in all of them, well. It would definitely mean it's time to snap out of it.

And I will take the challenge head-on. :)

Many thanks for your input, and best regards.

DH

Your reader is all for self assessment. But at the same time don't stop. This thread is going in the right direction, this reader thinks, and your offerings have always been good and never in vain.









J

Knickers


O! Triangular cotton of adoration!
How you caress strawberry labia majora
And how you soak moisture
And sweat
And make of them holy incense
To smell and - Amen! -
Erect monuments to Dionysus.
Indeed, his wine was made
Of your harvest.

And how you peek and wink
Between the shapely Symplegades
Of smooth, clean-shaven thighs
Or through tight Alitalia uniforms.

'Tis you we men dream of removing
But you are no less dreamy
While in place.

Haha, an ode to panties! Doc, you sexhound.







J

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by DocHeart

Casus Belli


Suddenly I was aware
Of the lies you cooked today;
They hit the back of my throat
Like a nosebleed.

And the rules of engagement
Changed; gone were
Patience and cupcakes
Which we recruited once
To plaster up our disputes.

Now frozen stares march
And filthy arguments
Are thrown from trenches.
Now unwashed dishes
Await hurling.

---

Excellent! I love the combination of domesticity and the strains of relationship in this one Doc

Doc, tell Casus Belli's N to divorce at once!
As for the previous, Knickers', to go on forever...

Bar is right. No need to hurl the dirty dishes!








J

Sweetheart's Birthday


Trapped in the jaws of a prepackaged smile
As major disagreements hang on the Christmas tree
You whisper thanks. I hear Buddy Collette's flute
In my intestines. Shut it.

My fingers keep polite distance from your decolte.
I'll never share again what's in my ears.
You may then think birthdays still worthwhile
And go all coy as I toast your passing years.

Hi Doc! Where've you been hiding?

There's a few things to nitpick here:

Stanza one, line two:"diagreements"- is this a typo? This reader doesn't understand. Maybe you meant to squeeze an 's' in there?

Stanza two, line one: "decolte"- what does this word mean? This reader's guess: there's a French word "décolleté" that means cleavage. Is this what this word was meant to be? It's a little far off, and in french "e" with accent aigu ("é") is not interchangeable with the letter "e." You can get lower case e with an acute accent ("é") on a standard keyboard by holding the alt key and typing 0233 on the numberpad and then releasing alt (this reader thinks you knew, but just in case).

Also, regarding the title, there are presently two: "Sweetheart's Birthday" and "Sweethart's Birthday" (the latter missing an 'e', perhaps intentionally?).

So there may be some wrong guesses, but it's the best interpretation this reader has of your poem at the moment. Here we go:

This reader picks up on overtones of disdain; it's as though the narrator has given a gift (perhaps a CD of Buddy Collette) and the recipient doesn't appreciate the gift in the way the narrator would like as he seems to value this music greatly. In fact, the narrator seems to be toasting the 'passing years' of 'Sweetheart' or 'Sweethart' as he or she takes one more step toward the grave.

Again, that may be a bad reading of this one! Sorry Doc, this reader is no professional!






J

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by DocHeart

Sweethart's Birthday


Trapped in the jaws of a prepackaged smile
As major diagreements hang on the Christmas tree
You whisper thanks. I hear Buddy Collette's flute
In my intestines. Shut it.

My fingers keep polite distance from your decolte.
I'll never share again what's in my ears.
You may then think birthdays still worthwhile
And go all coy as I toast your passing years.

---

This has certainly gone to a back page too soon! I liked the cold blooded, very mean "I toast your passing years." !!!!

Cheers, Doc

Bar

Wedding


It was sunny
And ravens dressed in white
Like babies

Evil thorns were scattered
And bleeding feet
Burned red.

Ears admired the silence
Of fake flowers
And eyes upon the couple
Said

'Look, he is being
Chased by wild roses
And her hair will be
Tragically fragrant
If she sleeps.'


October 2008

This has some great imagery, DocLove, but its meaning is elusive. This reader has settled upon this:

The bride and groom are at the alter, the bride has roses in her hair that seem to chase the groom as they kiss/embrace, and when the bride sleeps she'll take the roses out- the day will be gone, but her hair will tragically still smell like roses.

Probably not even close, but this reader likes this version anyways.





J

Your imagery here is both vivid and subtle, you are "sowing" doubts and gloomy indications through it. It is as if N were able to see, at that wedding, what others could not: under beauty and solemnity of the event, thorns, fake flowers, probably violence. The quiet description is almost disconcerting in this context and invites the reader into an altogether different scene, one of imminent tragedy.
Very well achieved, DocHeart, kudos!

My only reservation is regarding your use of "tragically" towards the end of the poem, too obvious for me. If you agree, think of something more allusive instead.

Hospitals



Named after saints and well-off citizens,
Blindingly white in the pouring rain
Smelling like sweaty blankets
Hospitals bide their time: they're in no rush.
They'll get you in the end.

This time you only need to lie there silent
And gratefully accept the disrobing
And the poking, and the "how are we this morning".
Blood? Urine? No big deal.
Probes up your behind? Sure.
You'd let them cut off your dick
For a return to normality.
Your reward is a temporary rewind
To not hurting. Perhaps even not fearing.

And in the smiling relative's car
(Who deep down couldn't really give a fcuk)
You leave it all behind and set your thoughts
On brighter minutes of your perceived tomorrows.

The building smiles at you as you drive off,
And you can now kid yourself all you like
That it's a benign smile. A "live and be well" wish;
But it's a knowing smile. A nasty grin
With pointy teeth and solid black eyeballs.
There will be a next time. And then another.
And one of them will be the last.