DocHeart's poetry corner

Thanks very much everyone, for your kind responses and critique. It's very enjoyable to share these fora with you all, and in fact you've helped me improve a lot since I started here.

I'm particularly pleased you all enjoyed "To L"! There were some very interesting attempts at interpretation which I didn't expect. I don't really intend to be obscure, I don't want to set riddles. Sometimes I enjoy surprising myself with words that are unexpected, with notions that don't go well together -- as long as "the whole" has a taste, and leaves me with a definite sense of something when I reread it.

(I'd be interested to hear your views on whether the above is a healthy attitude to writing poetry, by the way!)

Quote:

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Originally Posted by PrinceMyshkin

By the time I got to line 3

I was struggling a bit to see how both the future and (your cigarette?) smoke could be reconciled with "fragrant skin." Unless, of course, the smoke is meant to undercut the promise of the future.

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Yes! The smoke is what blurs the vision and spoils the fragrance of the future. The speaker's respondent is invited to look behind it.

Quote:

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Originally Posted by miyako73

Just elegant. An honest poetic detailing of a man who wants to be understood. This one left me with fragments I tried piecing together to come up with a beautiful picture, and the picture was beautiful, very beautiful.

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Thank you so much, Miyako.

You hit the nail on the head. "To L" is indeed the effort of a guy to be understood by a woman.

(I feel a sexist joke coming up, so I'll move right along.)

Quote:

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Originally Posted by MorpheusSandman

I feel I've missed out on too much of your work, Doc. I must read through this thread and catch up, but in the meantime I'll comment on your latest:

A very subtle and effectively ambiguous poem. It's one of those that cries out for interpretation, but I'm not sure I'm feeling up to it just yet. I love the concept of the future as like trying to see through (what I presume is cigarette) smoke, but I'm not sure about the double metaphor with the future being like seeing through cigarette smoke, which is like skin behind dresses. It seems to muddle the elegance of both--unless I'm reading it wrong (also like Prince, I'm not sure why "fragrant" is the right adjective here, given the context).

What I really like, though, is how you seem to synthesize the idea of that future with veins inside of skin in S2. In fact, retroactively, it's almost as if you're continuing to peel back layers of the metaphor (future through smoke, skin through clothing, veins through skin, magic fluid inside the future). The "it has wings" reminds me of Dickinson's "Hope is a thing with feathers," actually, although I'm not quite sure about the idea of it being white... unless maybe I'm missing something obvious. The end does seem to tie all of the metaphors together, but in a vaguely imperceptible way... I'd love to hear your own thoughts about it, as I could be completely wrong.

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Thank you, Morpheus! I am inclined to agree with you that the double metaphor in the first stanza is a bit too much. One too many layers to remove before one sees the pieces of the puzzle -- and even then they're hard to put together.

(I only do this when I've had a few drinks, I think. I must stop. Stop doing it, not stop drinking.)

With regards to the white thing with wings: it's meant to create the image of an angel, which (to my drunken mind) worked well with the devil of the next line.

As for the imperceptibility, I'll just let you enjoy it rather than explain it away. I hope you don't mind :)

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Hawkman

Hi Doc: Lots to like in this one. Definitely a lot to think about, as Morpheus says. Not 100% sure what you are actually referring to, Oil? Nuclear Power? or not, as the case may be. It has sinister undercurrents of despair, perhaps. The biggest problem I have with this poem is here:

"...And if you bathe in it,
The itching of a hundred yesterdays dies."

Not sure that "and" is the right conjunction here, as "but" would seem to make more sense in context. The other niggle is the successive sibillants in yesterdays dies. Not a good combination. Perhaps:

"but to bathe in it
kills the itching of a hundred yesterdays."

Just a suggestion.

Live and be well - H

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Thanks so much, Hawk!

The poem addresses a woman. I won't go into it much more, otherwise I'd be like the guy who tells a joke and then has to explain it. :)

You are absolutely right, however, about "yesterdays dies" -- it just doesn't roll of the tongue. This is a top priority for when revision time comes.

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Alexander III

I love this, Its a shame I did not come across your poetry before, this is poetry which is a pleasure to read, which I genuinely enjoy as poetry. Especialy the first stanza it is a great opening stanza. Very exited to have found another solid talent on this poetry forums.

:)

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Thank you so much, Alexander! Great to meet you.

Quote:

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Originally Posted by cogs

i understood it to be the subject, a future. at first, i considered the cities, with smog, to be the smoke, which, if lifted (undressing), could reveal something positive (fragrant).
then, the veins could be the cities' electricity, which is a metaphor for the future hope.
i'm not sure about what the itching means, apart from an expectation that meets hope.
finally, since the yesterdays died, the future is reached, which then dies, and is an angel. then, perhaps the future is a conceived child?

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Thanks for your input, cogs! I don't mean to be enigmatic. I blame my recent wanderings into the realm of surrealism in cinema and poetry. It'll pass, I promise :)

As I said before, the poem is about a woman.


Best health to all!

DH

Quote:

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Originally Posted by DocHeart

With regards to the white thing with wings: it's meant to create the image of an angel, which (to my drunken mind) worked well with the devil of the next line.

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Ah! An angel makes perfect sense and I feel a bit of a dope for not latching onto the clue about the devil! Thanks for the response, and I certainly don't mind you keeping it somewhat of a mystery. Mysteries are what makes a Lazarus of a poem (I guess that makes readers Jesuses!).

An evening with Miles


You push air through that trumpet
Forcing red shadows out of your lungs
And setting them against backgrounds
Of kisses wading through scotch --

Ah! You make our hearts vibrate.
Cry now, permit our skins
To sense that syncopated whip
Harder! Attack our hesitations
Make us snap out of it all!

And let the rain percuss the city's chest
Outside;
Let the cement and the asphalt
Be yours.

It's all there Doc, the low light, cigarette smoke suspended in the bliss of jazz, late at night, in a bar, in the city... I should have known - jazz is the neon of noire, flickering in the rain, buzzing with the electric pulse of joy and sorrow, a pulse that Doc keeps at his fingertip.

Thanks for this

H

Monsieur Hawk has a habit of putting it in exactly the right words.






J

I've never been a huge fan of jazz, but I do love Miles Davis, and that poem is a piece of Round About Midnight, yes it is. I can just see the smokey club full of well-dressed by slightly sleazy patrons with their sweating drinks and sweaty faces foggy through the cigarette smoke whispering sweet nothings in their sweethearts' ears while Miles plays it cool like the music for a mating dance.

A few quibbles: I'm not quite sold on "kisses wading through scotch," as it seems like an awkward image. Am I supposed to imagine lips literally swimming in a glass of scotch? I like the sexual connotations that begin with S2, and the way that "vibrate" develops to the rain percussing the city's chest. Although, I feel more could be done with it, as if it could be developed into a metaphorical conceit with out the prose-y nature of "cry now, permit our skins", which seems like a lag after that opening line.

well, i am a fan of modern jazz. funny how you mimicked the syncopated beat. lol, i wrote a jazz piece a while ago, and determined that only when i improve will i write another. 'attack' is apropos for a trumpet's sforzandos. 'percuss the city's chest' can't get any better (this is not mentioning the 'vibrate', 'skins', and 'snap').

i'm not sure how (or what) the red shadows come out of the lungs, and, with ms, didn't see the logic in the kiss/scotch pair (other than embouchure against trumpet and mouth, lol). perhaps, in the obvious pushing of air, the shadows could be that air itself. also, the city's asphalt is obviously outside, so perhaps the last stanza could be shortened to two lines? (also, the hard, gritty, heartless cityscape is excellent against the smooth, flowing, heartfelt jazz.)

your poems usually make me feel that i'm looking at a painting.

Quote:

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Originally Posted by DocHeart

An evening with Miles


You push air through that trumpet
Forcing red shadows out of your lungs
And setting them against backgrounds
Of kisses wading through scotch --

Ah! You make our hearts vibrate.
Cry now, permit our skins
To sense that syncopated whip
Harder! Attack our hesitations
Make us snap out of it all!

And let the rain percuss the city's chest
Outside;
Let the cement and the asphalt
Be yours.

---

A gem of a poem and what a tribute to jazz, Doc., I've recently been to a great concert in Paris, rue des Lombards, all dedicated to that art... ah, "permit our skins to sense that syncopated whip harder!"

Gotta agree with the Bar on that one.






J

Weekends of silent phones


I play squash with bouncing cheques
From nine till six; then I drive home
Among my dopelgangers, wishing no more
Than to taste scotch in twilight silence
Holding a book; a symbol of a bachelor
Who now wishes to become inelligible.

These days, spring Fridays that fade into
Weekends of silent phones
Are just that: a little space to breathe.
Their early evenings hold no sinful promise
Of booze and girls eager to giggle.
Just a peculiar slowing down of the heart
As literature emerges from the pages
And shields my balcony
From May's moist breeze.

Hi Doc, I really loved this, right up to the last two lines. How does literature shield your balcony from May's moist breeze? I hope you keep your books indoors; I'd hate to think of them all turning to paper mache while you squat, incommunicado on your balcony behind their decaying remains, drinking Scotch by the disconnected phone!

You must take better care of your books ;)

Live and be well - H

This skips along nimbly until the ache of those two final lines, which are splendid in saying just enough but no more.

Quote:

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I play squash with bouncing cheques
From nine till six; then I drive home
Among my dopelgangers, wishing no more
Than to taste scotch in twilight silence
Holding a book; a symbol of a bachelor
Who now wishes to become inelligible.

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The word 'dopelgangers' was a really good choice, Doc. One can picture the speaker in traffic, aching to get home to that scotch and forget about mundanity for a while.

Playing 'sqaush with bouncing checks' seems like it could easily make a man feel that way. The meaning of the last two lines seems to be most developed in the coming stanza...

Quote:

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These days, spring Fridays that fade into
Weekends of silent phones
Are just that: a little space to breathe.
Their early evenings hold no sinful promise
Of booze and girls eager to giggle.
Just a peculiar slowing down of the heart
As literature emerges from the pages
And shields my balcony
From May's moist breeze.

---

There's no 'eager promise,' just much deserved relaxation, and perhaps a tinge of resignation. Just a man reading, sipping scotch. And it slows the heart down, and disconnects the reader from the world to someplace that is not mundane...

Usually when you disagree with Hawkman you're wrong. But this reader has got to disagree with Monsieur Hawk and say he quite likes your last two lines. The living literature shields the reader from reality, ie the breeze coming in from the balcony (wonderful imagery), was the interpretation that this reader made.

Thanks for posting, Doc.




J

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Jack of Hearts

Usually when you disagree with Hawkman you're wrong. But this reader has got to disagree with Monsieur Hawk and say he quite likes your last two lines. The living literature shields the reader from reality, ie the breeze coming in from the balcony (wonderful imagery), was the interpretation that this reader made.

Thanks for posting, Doc.




J

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Sorry chum but the word choices in the last two lines are too specific. Literature shielding the balcony? I just see books stacked on one. To have said "literature shields me from May's moist breath," would have been sufficiently abstract as a metaphor to convey intent without conjouring a bizarre image of literature (as books) stacked on a balcony. It might have been an idea to incorporate a literative allusion to balconies, as in balcony scenes, as per the bard I suppose, but this too would probably be too evocative of one specific play. One wrong word can really throw a reader and derail the carefully established relationship with the text.

True I'm just one reader, so up to a point, this is a subjective opinion, but it doesn't make the assessment untrue.

Live and be well - H

Ah. Fair enough.

Anyways, a fine poem, Doc. Keep 'em coming!







J

Quote:

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Originally Posted by DocHeart

from: Weekends of silent phones
...
Just a peculiar slowing down of the heart
As literature emerges from the pages
And shields my balcony
From May's moist breeze.

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A fine poem, reflecting so accurately my own spring Fridays that fade into shabbatot, quiet --- and only calls of "still little voice"...! Good poetry, Doc.

Quote:

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Originally Posted by DocHeart

To L



I promise you there is a future;
Not evident behind my smoke, perhaps,
But every bit as real as fragrant skin
Which patiently awaits undressing.

Inside its veins flows a magic fluid
Which can light up your cities
If you drink it; And if you bathe in it,
The itching of a hundred yesterdays dies.

It's all in white now; look, it has wings.
A far cry from the devil you imagined.
Why don't we take it to bed with us
I can kiss it. You can drink it.

---

This is quite beautiful. On reading the first line, I was sorta hoping this was a suitor's promise to his lady that they would have a future together. I didn't think there were too many metaphors at all. Sometimes I don't really want to know exactly what something means, I just want the music and the mystery of it to roll across my skin. And this one did.

Qi, thanks for calling that one up again. It really is something special. Doc, sometimes you out-do yourself.





J



EDIT: The first stanza is impossibly beautiful.

EDIT EDIT: How did this reader miss 'To L' the first time? Somehow this is Doc's fault.

Just read 'To L' as posted by Jack in the favourites section and want to send you Kudos as I love it. I blame my missing it on this single thread business. mutter mutter ;)
cheers
JB

He kisses his beloved on the morn of her departure


Night clouds take flight.
Past shimmering waves
Gradience transforms
Night's blue to white.
Fresh, fresh the breeze,
Warm tears from your eyes.
Stars flicker, glimmer, glow and fall
Measuring summer sighs.

Doc, this poem has some real elegance in there! But this reader can't help but feel that it needs something of a trimming at parts to bring it out. Of course, the title is the key here and that's a great and interesting choice. It's actually hard to say why this reader feels ambivalence toward this poem. Maybe you could look at it in a few days and see how you feel. This reader certainly will.



J

I love to hear "summer sighs"... but stars do not fall after dawn, do they? Doc, great is my fault, but I interfered with your verse and left little of it, in the endavour to make it elegantly sparse. Perhaps I only made it poor. Forgive me, but here are the four lines:

Beneath night's blue, the shimmering waves.
Fresh is the breeze, warm are tears
and stars -
fall into summer sighs.

I always love to discover what's on your mind. This time something light and playful, isn't it.

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Jack of Hearts

Maybe you could look at it in a few days and see how you feel. This reader certainly will.



J

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God, man, I looked at it this morning and I don't like it one bit. Nasty wee effort, isn't it?

I don't think I'll go back to this one -- but I'll leave it up as a reminder that I should never attempt poetry after my (famous) green pepper and feta cheese omelet.

Bar, thanks for your comment, too. :)

Best,
DH

Quote:

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Originally Posted by DocHeart

God, man, I looked at it this morning and I don't like it one bit. Nasty wee effort, isn't it?

I don't think I'll go back to this one -- but I'll leave it up as a reminder that I should never attempt poetry after my (famous) green pepper and feta cheese omelet.

Bar, thanks for your comment, too. :)

Best,
DH

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Nonononono. It's not nasty. Don't give up on it, Doc. This reader will come back and visit it in the next few days after he's thought a little more about it.






J

Hello Doc. I'm not too sure about the title as the use of "morn" for morning is kind of self-consciously "poetic" and somewhat at varience with the abbreviated stop-start of the short sentences, unless, of course, you intend it to be satirical. Gradience, although not in any of my dictionaries, is a term used in linguistics and semiotics and I'm not comfortable the way it sits in your verse. I assumed you meant it to indicate the sky's colour gradient (combined with its radience).

The structure seems to be struggling against itself a little. You seem to be grasshoppering around with your images. Starting with night (mentioned twice) then light, breeze, tears, falling stars and sighs. I can't decide if I should suggest you put the images into a more cohernet order, so that they progress better. Take the falling stars; Should they be with the night images or should they be linked to the tears? The trouble is that as an image for tears they really need to be part of the same sentence. You've been a bet profligate with your full stops. Consequently it doesn't read as well as it might.

Having said all that I don't actually think it's a bad start. you've some nice images here as a framework to hang a really nice poem on.

"Stars glimmer, glow and fall,
night clouds take flight
and radience transforms
the blue to white.
Fresh, fresh the breeze
cooling tears from your eyes,
measuring summer sighs."

Might be one way to polish it. Always a pleasure to get a glimps of the Doc's take on things. :)

Live and be well - H

I just read "To L" for the first time and wanted to say that it was superb. Outstanding work.

Quote:

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Originally Posted by DocHeart

He kisses his beloved on the morn of her departure

Night clouds take flight.
Past shimmering waves
Gradience transforms
Night's blue to white.
Fresh, fresh the breeze,
Warm tears from your eyes.
Stars flicker, glimmer, glow and fall
Measuring summer sighs.

---

Okokok, here goes.


Things that seem to be working. The rhyme scheme is something this reader liked, it seemed to hold the thing together and make it melodical when spoken aloud. The sense of coming to rest is evident in the pacing, almost like a lullaby. There is color in this poem, and there is sensation, like where there's a 'fresh breeze' and 'warm tears' and imagery of the ocean. One feels the ocean is warm in this poem.

It's as though you were too undecided about this poem. At least it feels that way to this reader. This reader accuses you of being indecisive or unsure.


PRESCRIPTION: (in this reader's opinion) Go back and meditate on poem. Ask yourself what this mother is really about and what's important to it. Try to remember how you originally wanted to feel about it. Make decisions and let your natural talent guide you and write the thing.

(not that this reader is fit to be giving prescriptions or considers himself a good enough poet to be saying anything about process to you. But he likes you and wants to offer advice, and that's cheap after all. Based on your comment about it being 'nasty', maybe you owe it to yourself to just try to come to grips with the thing anyway).

If you feel like it, Doc. Hopefully you don't take this response as pretentious or mean. Maybe you don't want advice or encouragement or even readership at this point. Maybe you don't even want to talk about the poem. But if you want to talk about the poem, work it out through conversation or something, this reader is open to that. Either right here or through PM. Whatever you want amigo.







J

The moon and the tree


"I'm tired," sighed the moon,
Pale and waning,
And leant to the right
To rest its back
On dark branches
That reached up
To receive it.

"Rest here," cooed the tree,
"I've doused my leaves
In the rare moisture
Of eyes that see your golden skin
And cry."

This is lovely Doc. Dare I suggest that you replace "and leant" with leaning? Not sure about the last line. I feel the ending would be stronger with a consonant. Weep perhaps?

Really like it though.

Live and be well - H

Quote:

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Originally Posted by DocHeart

The moon and the tree


"I'm tired," sighed the moon,
Pale and waning,
And leant to the right
To rest its back
On dark branches
That reached up
To receive it.

"Rest here," cooed the tree,
"I've doused my leaves
In the rare moisture
Of eyes that see your golden skin
And cry."

---

I read this a few days ago, but was wandering for a while, so comment only now - It's a subtle example of pathetic fallacy and a beautiful, evocative, touching poem, Doc! I would only suggest to end it at "golden skin", for crying is alluded to in "rare moisture". Enjoyed a lot, thank you!

Sorry I missed some of these on the first go around, but I've got a fairly good excuse.

#100-- I wouldn't change a thing. It is "simple," meaning the kind of simplicity that goes hand in hand with elegance. Just like a batter who doesn't need to swing for the fences but merely bring in a runner from third base, sometimes our most effective poems are the ones in which we don't try to do too much. Therein lies their power.

#108 I agree with Hawkman on "leaning." The other two descriptive words are adjectives, so you need the participle, not the verb, for balance. The only other change I make is in the line breaks of the three concluding lines:

Quote:

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In the rare moisture
Of eyes that see your golden skin
And cry.

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In the rare moisture
of eyes that see
your golden skin
and cry.

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by DocHeart

The moon and the tree


"I'm tired," sighed the moon,
Pale and waning,
And leant to the right
To rest its back
On dark branches
That reached up
To receive it.

"Rest here," cooed the tree,
"I've doused my leaves
In the rare moisture
Of eyes that see your golden skin
And cry."

---

Simply beautiful, Doc. When this reader read it after you first posted it he knew it was special.







J

Where are you Doc???

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Bar22do

Where are you Doc???

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Right here, my dear, right here. :)

A thank-you to all of you who have taken time to read and comment. I appreciate and learn from your input.

Best,
DH

Summer in the City


On frying pavements
You all stand still
Like sweating statues.
Those cracks on the surface
Are big enough to swallow you
But you float above somehow.
This vicious sun
Should shred your skin
Should melt your eyes
But you're intact. Intact!

Are you people?

Look:
Fear has stopped that man's heart.
Worry has whipped that young girl's face.
Despair robbed that old lady of her zimmer frame.
Hunger stole that student's dignity.
Statistics took this baby's mother away.

Why are you all so still?

I particularly like the last line of S1 DocHeart as if to say 'live!' or be grateful. The range of imagery and everyday realities under a hot beating sun is very well blended to culminate in the final question.

This is deeply humane, moving, denouncing... while the heat continues as does human indifference... well said, Doc. Glad "I" brought you back! Let's pretend it was not a coincidence. Great to read you as always.

'To L' is really magnificeny. You really out did yourself, you old fart!






J

Quote:

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Originally Posted by DocHeart

Summer in the City


On frying pavements
You all stand still
Like sweating statues.
Those cracks on the surface
Are big enough to swallow you
But you float above somehow.
This vicious sun
Should shred your skin
Should melt your eyes
But you're intact. Intact!

Are you people?

Look:
Fear has stopped that man's heart.
Worry has whipped that young girl's face.
Despair robbed that old lady of her zimmer frame.
Hunger stole that student's dignity.
Statistics took this baby's mother away.

Why are you all so still?

---

Hmmmm...







J

Clog


Water ran; mixed with
My five-o-clock shadow
And shaving foam
And your long brown strands,
It became a filthy obstruction
The disgusting froth
Of heated arguments
Pointlessly reheated.

Too narrow the drain,
Too feeble the excuses and apologies:
The muck stayed there.
It formed a nasty lake
Infested with insults and indicisiveness.

Couplehood is easy for the young,
The unscarred, the pure of heart.
But for you and me it's a lost cause;
A brief battle to let feelings flow,
To be sincere; to accept intimacy.
When defeat floods the floor
Mould forms over our words;
Slime drowns our hearts.