Geriatric Dog
Put pill in cheese.
Lay cheese on floor.
Dog steps on cheese.
Dog wonders where the fuck cheese is.
Remove cheese from paw.
Dog eats cheese.
Geriatric Dog
Sorry, but I'm finding it hard to take this seriously, reason being that as it stands it doesn't actually say much more than the very literal - tried to feed dog a pill, dog (getting too old) stood on the cheese in which it was hidden, then ate it. And with that 'fuck' thrown in it appears even more like some kind of piss-take about someone or something that's completely lost on me. I'm sure that's not your intention, but either way I doubt it'll attract many readers.
However should the dog refuse the cheese at first, you might be onto something. Try this for size - drop 'geriatric' from the title. Have the dog refusing the cheese, turning its back, then stepping on it before wondering where it is, then swallowing it along with the pill. It might not prove popular, but at least you've then got a metaphor - dog - woman, cheese - cheesy chat-ups, pill - some nastiness the narrator is about to inflict on the woman.
However should the dog refuse the cheese at first, you might be onto something. Try this for size - drop 'geriatric' from the title. Have the dog refusing the cheese, turning its back, then stepping on it before wondering where it is, then swallowing it along with the pill. It might not prove popular, but at least you've then got a metaphor - dog - woman, cheese - cheesy chat-ups, pill - some nastiness the narrator is about to inflict on the woman.
to be totally honest... whenever you feel you really shouldn't write that, that's exactly what you should write.
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EatMyPoetry
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Well unless I'm being stupid there doesn't seem to be much to 'get'. But it made me laugh for a couple of seconds if that helps!
Yeah, I was just aiming for a larf.EatMyPoetry wrote: Well unless I'm being stupid there doesn't seem to be much to 'get'. But it made me laugh for a couple of seconds if that helps!
Thanks for commenting everyone.
There's only one rule in street and bar fights: maximum violence, instantly. (Martin Amis, "Money")
So your dog is nearing the end of his working life;
His nobility, his glowing colour drip before your eyes,
And yet with a little help he is able to shrug off his inconveniences
The poem is hinting at the dog’s perception of a new problem.
So you bend and help, you will still find that bright patch of sun light in his eyes.
A nice poem
His nobility, his glowing colour drip before your eyes,
And yet with a little help he is able to shrug off his inconveniences
The poem is hinting at the dog’s perception of a new problem.
So you bend and help, you will still find that bright patch of sun light in his eyes.
A nice poem
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RichardSanders
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- Joined: Fri May 20, 2011 3:23 pm
Sorry but this could be much better if any kind of emotion where put into it.
Whether it's pity or humour at the expense of the dog is up to you but as it stands it's nothing more than a summary of events.
The kind of thing I'd expect as a newspaper cartoon.
In my humble opinion this shouldn't classify as poetry at all.
Regardless, you don't need the last two lines.
Kindest,
Richard
Whether it's pity or humour at the expense of the dog is up to you but as it stands it's nothing more than a summary of events.
The kind of thing I'd expect as a newspaper cartoon.
In my humble opinion this shouldn't classify as poetry at all.
Regardless, you don't need the last two lines.
Kindest,
Richard
Poor dog. For some reason, by the end I was expecting the line 'dog eats paw' which made me wonder if exploring this further in the realms of the absurd might be an option for you, if you wanted to. Not sure I would find this very easy to do myself, but everyone's different. Please feel free to chew this suggestion up and spit it out if you prefer 
I like the concise style by the way.
I like the concise style by the way.-
camus
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Whilst this is a valid statement, I'd also argue the very actions denote the emotional content.Sorry but this could be much better if any kind of emotion where put into it.
The poor pooch is obvioulsy a geriatric fool, which in itself is rather tragic.
so much dependsIn my humble opinion this shouldn't classify as poetry at all.
upon
a red wheel
barrow
glazed with rain
water
beside the white
chickens.
Now Richard, I'd put the poem somewhere in the above regions, admittedly not as easy on the eye or flowing with such simple skill, but still, surely poetry?
http://www.closetpoet.co.uk
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RichardSanders
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Hi Camus,
I agree I may have been a bit too harsh in voicing my opinion.
I guess the sense of caricature and malicious delight of the narrator, I got from the piece put me off as well as the lack of a single grammatically complete sentence.
Your example though, is in a different league. There is no doubt in my mind that, that's poetry.
Perhaps my understanding of poetry falls shorts but is this poetry?
Child kicks ball
Ball lands in water
Child cries.
If so, I guess I hold poetry to a different standard.
Nevertheless, I guess I was too harsh. I admit my response wasn't constructive.
Apologies.
Kindest,
Richard
I agree I may have been a bit too harsh in voicing my opinion.
I guess the sense of caricature and malicious delight of the narrator, I got from the piece put me off as well as the lack of a single grammatically complete sentence.
Your example though, is in a different league. There is no doubt in my mind that, that's poetry.
Perhaps my understanding of poetry falls shorts but is this poetry?
Child kicks ball
Ball lands in water
Child cries.
If so, I guess I hold poetry to a different standard.
Nevertheless, I guess I was too harsh. I admit my response wasn't constructive.
Apologies.
Kindest,
Richard
Last edited by RichardSanders on Sun Nov 13, 2011 1:21 pm, edited 2 times in total.
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camus
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Child kicks ball
Ball lands in water
Child cries.
There's a haiku in there somewhere!
Richard, I wasn't having "a go" each to their own. It's funny how people so quickly backtrack on their comments with a simple disagreement, challenging their view. I do it all the time. I guess it's lack of confindence in ones own voice and opinions.
That said:
cheers
Kris
Ball lands in water
Child cries.
There's a haiku in there somewhere!
Richard, I wasn't having "a go" each to their own. It's funny how people so quickly backtrack on their comments with a simple disagreement, challenging their view. I do it all the time. I guess it's lack of confindence in ones own voice and opinions.
That said:
Perhaps so, not a problem.If so, I guess I hold poetry to a different standard.
cheers
Kris
http://www.closetpoet.co.uk
The photographer hid his head under the black cloth, then he popped out again all agog with an idea. “The dog,” he said, “get the dog in there with you, Governor. You be petting the dog or something. Right there on the steps. It’ll be swell. It will be the nuts. You be petting that dog, he’s pawing up on you like he was glad to see you when you come home. See? It will be the nuts.”
“Sure, the nuts,” the Boss said.
Then he turned toward the old white dog, which hadn’t moved a muscle since the Cadillac pulled up at the gate and was lying over to one side of the porch like a worn-out fur rug. “Here, Buck,” the Boss said, and snapped his fingers.
But the dog didn’t show a thing.
“Here, Buck,” the Boss called.
Tom Stark prodded the dog with his toe for a little encouragement, but he might just as well have been prodding a bolster.
“Buck is gitten on,” Old Man Stark said. “He ain’t right spry any more.” Then the old man went to the steps and stooped down with a motion which made you expect to hear the sound of old rusty hinges on a barn door. “Hi, Buck, hi, Buck,” the old man wheedled without optimism. He gave up, and lifted his gaze to the Boss. “If he was hongry now,” he said, and shook his head. “If he was hongry we could guile him. But he ain’t hongry. His teeth gone bad.”
The Boss looked at me, and I knew what I was paid to do.
“Jack,” the Boss said, “get the hairy bastard up here and make him look like he was glad to see me.”
I was supposed to do a lot of different things, and one of them was to lift up fifteen-year-old, hundred-and-thirty-five-pound hairy white dogs on summer afternoons and paint an expression of unutterable bliss upon their faithful features as they gaze deep, deep into the Boss’s eyes. I got hold of Buck’s forelegs, as though I were girding myself to shove a wheelbarrow, and heaved. It didn’t work. I got his front end up for a second, but just as I got him up, he breathed out and I breathed in. One gust of Buck was enough. It was like a gust from a buzzard’s nest. I was paralyzed. Buck hit the porch boards and lay there like the old polar-bear rug he resembled. Then Tom Stark and one of the reporters shoved on the tail end and I heaved on the front end and held my breath and we got Buck the seven feet to the Boss. The Boss braced himself, and we heaved up the front end, and the Boss got a gust of Buck.
That gust was enough.
“God’s sake, pappy,” the Boss demanded as soon as he had mastered his spasm, “what you been feeding this dog?”
“He ain’t got any appetite,” Old Man Stark said.
“He ain’t got any appetite for violets,” the Boss said, and spat on the ground.
“The reason he fell,” the photographer observed, “was because his hind legs gave down. Once we get him propped up we got to work fast.”
“We?” the Boss said. “We! What the hell you mean we. You come kiss him. One whiff would curdle milk and strip a pine tree. We, hell!”
The Boss took a deep breath, and we heaved again. It didn’t work. Buck didn’t have any starch in him. We tried six or seven times, but it was no sale. Finally the Boss had to sit down on the steps, and we dragged Buck up and laid the faithful head on the Boss’s knee. The Boss put his hand on Buck’s head and looked at the photographer’s birdie. The photographer shot it, and said, “It’s the nuts,” and the Boss said, “Yeah, the nuts.”
The Boss sat there a few seconds with his hand on Buck’s head. “A dog,” the Boss said, “is man’s best friend. Old Buck, he’s the best friend I ever had.” He scratched the brute’s head. “Yeah, good old Buck,” the Boss said, “the best friend I ever had. But God damn it,” he said, and stood up so quick that Buck’s head slid off his knee, “he don’t smell a bit better’n the rest of ‘em.”
“Is that for the record, Boss?” one of the reporters asked.
“Sure,” the Boss said. “He smells just like the rest of ‘em.”
Then we cleared Buck’s carcass off the steps, and the photographer settled into the grind. He took the Boss and the family in every possible combination. Then he got his rig together, and said: “Governor, you know we want a picture of you upstairs. In the room you used to to have when you were a kid. It will be the nuts.”
“Yeah,” the Boss said, “the nuts.”
[center]***[/center]
All I was ever aiming for was the type of humor found in the above excerpt from "All the King's Men".
Now, while the poem could doubtlessly be improved, let me just speak for up for it as it stands.
I see your point, Richard, of the poem not having explicit emotional content on display, but as Kris pointed out, the actions of the speaker denote the poem's emotional content. Regardless of the many critical things that can be said, there is emotion here.
As for the charge of the N taking malicious delight in Makodo's...ahem...Geriatric Dog's momentary quandary and overall existential state, nothing could be further from the truth. The animal is loved. And while a sense of mild annoyance may come across, bound up with the obvious humor, I fail to understand how that would cloud what I see as the equally obvious undercurrent of love. But again, the poem is not exactly well written, so I'm more than willing to accept your interpretation without too much of a fuss. Like I previously hinted at, I'm not defending the poem so much as trying to explain my intentions.
Appreciate your thoughts.
You too, Kris and dragonfly.
“Sure, the nuts,” the Boss said.
Then he turned toward the old white dog, which hadn’t moved a muscle since the Cadillac pulled up at the gate and was lying over to one side of the porch like a worn-out fur rug. “Here, Buck,” the Boss said, and snapped his fingers.
But the dog didn’t show a thing.
“Here, Buck,” the Boss called.
Tom Stark prodded the dog with his toe for a little encouragement, but he might just as well have been prodding a bolster.
“Buck is gitten on,” Old Man Stark said. “He ain’t right spry any more.” Then the old man went to the steps and stooped down with a motion which made you expect to hear the sound of old rusty hinges on a barn door. “Hi, Buck, hi, Buck,” the old man wheedled without optimism. He gave up, and lifted his gaze to the Boss. “If he was hongry now,” he said, and shook his head. “If he was hongry we could guile him. But he ain’t hongry. His teeth gone bad.”
The Boss looked at me, and I knew what I was paid to do.
“Jack,” the Boss said, “get the hairy bastard up here and make him look like he was glad to see me.”
I was supposed to do a lot of different things, and one of them was to lift up fifteen-year-old, hundred-and-thirty-five-pound hairy white dogs on summer afternoons and paint an expression of unutterable bliss upon their faithful features as they gaze deep, deep into the Boss’s eyes. I got hold of Buck’s forelegs, as though I were girding myself to shove a wheelbarrow, and heaved. It didn’t work. I got his front end up for a second, but just as I got him up, he breathed out and I breathed in. One gust of Buck was enough. It was like a gust from a buzzard’s nest. I was paralyzed. Buck hit the porch boards and lay there like the old polar-bear rug he resembled. Then Tom Stark and one of the reporters shoved on the tail end and I heaved on the front end and held my breath and we got Buck the seven feet to the Boss. The Boss braced himself, and we heaved up the front end, and the Boss got a gust of Buck.
That gust was enough.
“God’s sake, pappy,” the Boss demanded as soon as he had mastered his spasm, “what you been feeding this dog?”
“He ain’t got any appetite,” Old Man Stark said.
“He ain’t got any appetite for violets,” the Boss said, and spat on the ground.
“The reason he fell,” the photographer observed, “was because his hind legs gave down. Once we get him propped up we got to work fast.”
“We?” the Boss said. “We! What the hell you mean we. You come kiss him. One whiff would curdle milk and strip a pine tree. We, hell!”
The Boss took a deep breath, and we heaved again. It didn’t work. Buck didn’t have any starch in him. We tried six or seven times, but it was no sale. Finally the Boss had to sit down on the steps, and we dragged Buck up and laid the faithful head on the Boss’s knee. The Boss put his hand on Buck’s head and looked at the photographer’s birdie. The photographer shot it, and said, “It’s the nuts,” and the Boss said, “Yeah, the nuts.”
The Boss sat there a few seconds with his hand on Buck’s head. “A dog,” the Boss said, “is man’s best friend. Old Buck, he’s the best friend I ever had.” He scratched the brute’s head. “Yeah, good old Buck,” the Boss said, “the best friend I ever had. But God damn it,” he said, and stood up so quick that Buck’s head slid off his knee, “he don’t smell a bit better’n the rest of ‘em.”
“Is that for the record, Boss?” one of the reporters asked.
“Sure,” the Boss said. “He smells just like the rest of ‘em.”
Then we cleared Buck’s carcass off the steps, and the photographer settled into the grind. He took the Boss and the family in every possible combination. Then he got his rig together, and said: “Governor, you know we want a picture of you upstairs. In the room you used to to have when you were a kid. It will be the nuts.”
“Yeah,” the Boss said, “the nuts.”
[center]***[/center]
All I was ever aiming for was the type of humor found in the above excerpt from "All the King's Men".
Now, while the poem could doubtlessly be improved, let me just speak for up for it as it stands.
I see your point, Richard, of the poem not having explicit emotional content on display, but as Kris pointed out, the actions of the speaker denote the poem's emotional content. Regardless of the many critical things that can be said, there is emotion here.
As for the charge of the N taking malicious delight in Makodo's...ahem...Geriatric Dog's momentary quandary and overall existential state, nothing could be further from the truth. The animal is loved. And while a sense of mild annoyance may come across, bound up with the obvious humor, I fail to understand how that would cloud what I see as the equally obvious undercurrent of love. But again, the poem is not exactly well written, so I'm more than willing to accept your interpretation without too much of a fuss. Like I previously hinted at, I'm not defending the poem so much as trying to explain my intentions.
Appreciate your thoughts.
You too, Kris and dragonfly.
There's only one rule in street and bar fights: maximum violence, instantly. (Martin Amis, "Money")
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RichardSanders
- Prolific Poster
- Posts: 466
- Joined: Fri May 20, 2011 3:23 pm
Hi Samaritan,
I didn't know "All the king's men" so thanks for that excerpt. It's funny.
As for the poem;
All I can offer is my personal opinion. As stated, I did that in a poor and non-constructive way which defeats the purpose of the forum. For that I sincerely apologize.
As for explaining the intent of the poem; I think if you tinker around with it, perhaps make it a little less minimalistic in form, it probably doesn't need an explanation.
And if I have created the impression I identify the narrator's state of mind (as percieved by me), with motivations of the writer; let me assure you, I never considered that at all.
As it stands, I don't like the piece but remember, it's just my inexperienced opinion.
Obviously, not everyone agrees with me.
Still, I do think you can improve on the piece and I would be interested to see what comes of it.
I hope I didn't offend to much.
Kindest,
Richard.
I didn't know "All the king's men" so thanks for that excerpt. It's funny.
As for the poem;
All I can offer is my personal opinion. As stated, I did that in a poor and non-constructive way which defeats the purpose of the forum. For that I sincerely apologize.
As for explaining the intent of the poem; I think if you tinker around with it, perhaps make it a little less minimalistic in form, it probably doesn't need an explanation.
And if I have created the impression I identify the narrator's state of mind (as percieved by me), with motivations of the writer; let me assure you, I never considered that at all.
As it stands, I don't like the piece but remember, it's just my inexperienced opinion.
Obviously, not everyone agrees with me.
Still, I do think you can improve on the piece and I would be interested to see what comes of it.
I hope I didn't offend to much.
Kindest,
Richard.
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Jam Sandwich
- Posts: 3
- Joined: Fri Apr 16, 2010 10:18 pm
Cool. I quite liked Suzanne's comment too. I think geriatric is good. And if you were to rework and heap more ambiguity as to where the senility lay (dog/owner), yet with the same matter-of-fact brevity, that would be even more entertaining. Great as it is though. More please!