Poetry Forum

I don’t catch the 21
into Town, passing the shops
on London Road, selling value for money
and crying out to me
like the homeless woman
cadging the price of her
next can of Special Brew.

I no longer take the short clamber
up Hardman Street, that drains
and claims a little more
of the energy that I find I can afford
less and less of; that forces
the realisation of the years
I have accumulated, with each step.

I now take the 61 from Walton
to Penny Lane (echoes of civic pride)
where Sergeant Pepper’s Bistro stands:
a reminder of Single’s Nights
of delights. Now just a scratched LP.
Where pigeons court for hours, in the dirt,
to gain one second of petit mort.

Then a 74 or 75 or 80
takes me along Croxteth Road
passing the new high-rise luxury flats:
an oasis in a desert of desolation.
Where we once car-crashed on cheap vodka,
staying in some hostel in days when dying
was our purpose for living.

On Princes Avenue the side streets –
once avenues – are guarded by
amputated trees, like unpunctuated lines
of poetry. Bent. Watching over the dying
(but we’re all dying, aren’t we babe?)
And I think of Mary Hennock, who I once loved,
as the Cathedral comes into view.

As the Cathedral comes into view
and I think of Mary Hennock, who I once loved.
But we’re all dying, aren’t we babe?
Of poetry. Bent. Watching over the dying.
Amputated trees, like unpunctuated lines -
once avenues – are guarded by,
on Princes Avenue, the side streets.

Was our purpose for living
staying in some hostel in days when dying?
Where we once car-crashed on cheap vodka:
an oasis in a desert of desolation.
Passing the new high-rise luxury flats,
takes me along Croxteth Road.
Then a 74 or 75 or 80.

To gain one second of petit mort,
where pigeons court for hours, in the dirt
of delights. Now just a scratched LP:
A reminder of Single’s Nights
where Sergeant Pepper’s Bistro stands.
To Penny Lane (echoes of civic pride).
I now take the 61 to Walton.

I have accumulated, with each step,
the realisation of the years:
less and less of; that forces
of the energy that I find I can afford
and claims a little more
up Hardman Street (that drains).
I no longer take the short clamber.

Next can of Special Brew.
Cadging the price of her,
like the homeless woman,
and crying out to me
on London Road, selling value for money
into Town, passing the shops.
I don’t catch the 21.

I really like this and can't for the life of me remember the name for this type of poem, and haven't got the bottle to try writing one, but a few niggles:

S2 L2 shouldn't that be which?

My brain is screaming whom I once loved at me.

On Princes Avenue the side streets –
once avenues – are guarded by
amputated trees, like unpunctuated lines ----- I don't think you need the like
of poetry. Bent. Watching over the dying
(but we’re all dying, aren’t we babe?)
And I think of Mary Hennock, who I once loved,
as the Cathedral comes into view.

It's a form of palindrome, Julia Copus tried to claim she invented it and called it The Specular Form. Like Bloggsworth this is not a form I have properly tried to use certainly for nothing as long as this. Overall it works pretty well, however until you reach the mid point the odd lines stick out as being strangely worded, the reason for this becomes fairly obvious once you reach the turning point. I like a lot of the content in here, but wonder if the form is damaging what could be a very interesting poem. I like the different bus routes and the memories attached to each one and they form a good linkage between them. The reversing of the poem doesn't add anything particularly new as a result and ends up with stanzas like

I have accumulated, with each step,
the realisation of the years:
less and less of; that forces
of the energy that I find I can afford
and claims a little more
up Hardman Street (that drains).
I no longer take the short clamber.

Which appears rather garbled. Overall I applaud the effort involved in writing this, having tried short efforts I would shudder to try anything of this length. I also find the content genuinely interesting, but marred by the necessary odd phrasing and punctuation.

The form fits the subject matter perfectly, but it's one of those pesky forms that is SO hard to make work perfectly in both directions. For me it falters most in the very last stanza, whereas in the turn at the middle it works perfectly. Changing single words has an awful knock-on effect so I'm not going to attempt any suggestions, though I've a feeling a lighter touch with the punctuation might help, as well as ditching all the capitals for the starts of sentences (though retaining them for place names).

I wish I knew Liverpool better. If I knew these streets it would resonate so much more.

I lik this quite a lot, up to the reversal - it's gently nostalgic and nicely expessed. For me, the rest of it seems to add nothing, except a slightly tiresome near-repeat of the first half. It seems to add no fresh insights to the narrative, nor a fresh twist. Surely the point of the form, whatever it's called, is that the second half should complement and enhance. All it does at the moment is emphasise, and the first half is already done well enough to make that unnecessary.

Cut it after s5 and you have a nice piece, in my view.

Cheers
peter

BenJohnson wrote:Overall it works pretty well, however until you reach the mid point the odd lines stick out as being strangely worded, the reason for this becomes fairly obvious once you reach the turning point. I like a lot of the content in here, but wonder if the form is damaging what could be a very interesting poem. I like the different bus routes and the memories attached to each one and they form a good linkage between them.

I'd agree with that. If it stopped at the Cathedral, with Mary Hennock, I'd be quite happy. And so, I suspect, would you.

Cheers

David

David wrote:If it stopped at the Cathedral, with Mary Hennock, I'd be quite happy. And so, I suspect, would you.

Precisely what I was trying to say, albeit much more clumsily.

Arian wrote:

David wrote:If it stopped at the Cathedral, with Mary Hennock, I'd be quite happy. And so, I suspect, would you.

Precisely what I was trying to say, albeit much more clumsily.

Pas du tout, mon ami!

With such a personal view (bus routes, proper nouns etc) I wonder if the form works against the poem. It is as if Yeats took one of his poems and tried to fix it into a specific technical form and by so doing lost the essence? because this is very good and I just feel it needs to be - er - free!
There are some this and that words, punctuation, that could be deleted to enhance, but I too got half way and you kept me, and then lost me, with the repeats. Well, fortunately, nothing is wasted in poetry - bit like Antoine Lavoisier's experiments. If you wanted to revise and keep what worked and omit the opposing you would still have a very good poem.