Originally Posted by Hawkman
Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine...
Overlooked my comment re your London poems ? here it's again then:
The four are outstanding, Doc, I read and re-read. But the fourth... Gosh, I wish I were this poem's "you"! Delightful, lovely poetry.
Sorry Bar, was busy starting fires
Your kind words have been read and deeply appreciated!
Best,
DH
Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine...
It's all good, with III being knocked out of the park. IV, though it has great elements about it, seems to be the weakest- but only because it is in want of a little more attention.
But that's only relatively speaking, because the entire thing is good.
J
So many thanks, Jack. Great to know you're still reading.
In time, IV will undergo extensive editing.
Best,
DH
Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine...
I have readied all poems, they just fabulous written and with great images to matches. I could not pick favour but all tell story about feelings and with very thing one has different emotions behind.
Last edited by zoolane; 10-09-2012 at 05:52 PM.
English my native language and have characterizes of dyslexia.
Copyright (C) 2011, Zoolane
I have pass by English Exam.
Hey Zoo,
I truly appreciate your readership, and your kind words.
Hope you're well!
DH
Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine...
That was a brilliant read Doc. Great ride with just the right amount of salt and vinegar!
Before sunlight can shine through a window, the blinds must be raised - American Proverb
Frankfurt Blues
The cloud descends quietly;
It hovers near the ground
Obscuring tops of glass buildings
Like an old, tattered grey curtain.
Invisible jet engines roar.
I sink in comfortable Mercedes leather
And listen to my taxi driver's music:
Melancholy, it must be, by Stan Getz.
A new experience this, to hear jazz
In someone else's car; a nod from fate, perhaps.
We drive fast on smooth and noiseless tarmac,
Past gigantic neon and people
Who are blurry, walking fast, umbrella-covered.
In my hotel, uniformed youngsters sir me,
As if they're certain I'm respectable and nice.
I'm actually a total bastard. This carpet
I'm treading on that muffles footsteps and guilt,
This bottle of Riesling I'm diving in at 3pm,
This Robusto -- they're all the fruit of craftiness,
Of meticulously calculated, skillful steps,
Which made me the successful bidder
And fed a dozen other fukcers nothing but my dust.
Survival of the fittest, and that's just how it is;
That's the way the capitalist cookie crumbles.
"Poor boy made good." My highschool teachers
Would be proud of me. So would my friends.
The real ones. Wherever they may be.
With evening, the cloud departs, just as
Noiselessly as it arrived. The only thing that
Makes the sky grey now is light pollution.
I desire sleep. Even that comes easily.
Tomorrow, all I must do is be who I need to be.
All I must do is smile, and sign.
Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine...
Great narrative, Doc. Pithy, reflective, but it reads like prose. Fluid, rhythmic prose though. It would make a good beginning to a short story, or as it is, a good piece of flash fiction (even if it's true - lol) But is that fair, I ask myself. I've been reading Some of Thurber's "fables" and I keep telling myself I'm reading poetry. You've done the same sort of thing here, writing prose with assonance and rhythm. For this reader it still comes over as prose though. or does it? Jury's out. Damned good read though.
Live and be well - H
RE yer blues...
Was just reading a book that talks about the uselessness of business school and the MBA. It perched upon one of the central points of your poem, as well:
"Tomorrow, all I must do is be who I need to be.
All I must do is smile, and sign."
In America, we're told of equality at an early age. Everyone is equal. You don't get special privileges just because you're you. But the older this reader gets, the more he starts to realize how everything is, in fact, contingent upon who you are (or seem to be?). The complete opposite! and your poem re-invoked that rather amusing and sad train of thought.
J
Your Frankfurt poem (in addition to who is described in it) is opulent, rich, it moves stately, logically and still sth is disturbing, so sad.
"tomorrow (...) I (...) must be who I need to be"
is very poignant.
A deep frustration transpires through your words. They plunge one into deep thought of some lives' emptiness...
My favorite:
"A new experience this, to hear jazz
In someone else's car; a nod from fate, perhaps."
but all the poem is a beautiful read. Thanks Doc!
Inside A Box Inside A Bigger Box
Inside a box inside a bigger box
Tightly strapped to my glass desk, I work.
At noon, clocks droop and melt.
My colleagues stiff, as if in rigor mortis -
One more line of code in place,
One email answered. Endless, it feels,
Promethean, our imprisonment.
But evening falls; colours must now be
Strong enough to see, or they just fade.
Clarity rises. On coming home,
Shakespeare and Kipling and that old dog
Kerouac greet me, tails wagging: "Read us."
And then three or four hours are nothing:
They're as sufficient as the short minutes
Of a last good-bye between old friends.
Most people reckon life is short.
It must be, then, that we perceive of it
Not as the sum of countless working days
Or five hundred monthly salaries,
But as time spent in dim, flickering light,
Enjoying words or sounds or images
Or, the more fortunate, another person.
--
Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine...
Ha! I knew that was yours!
There's so much going on, so many images. I loved the way those books greeted you!
ay up
Thanks, Mick!It's the only thing I've written in the past couple of months which feels worth sharing. Hopefully your kind words and readership will help me back on track.
Best,
DH
Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine...
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