Poetry Forum

There’s nothing further to be said.
Lookit, lads, I’m nearly dead.
A drop of whiskey? Thanks, I will.

Ahh, God, that’s good. Simple and plain.
Down the red lane.
Tell me, lads, yer names again?

Is it Tom and Dick and Harry?
Listen, never marry,
Not the first lass what asks yer!

Wheeze.
Wheeze.
That were a joke.

I do be old, decrepit and bollock
Naked under this here sheet,
Like the Jocks under their kilts.

Hee hee hee,
Cough, cough. Spit.
Where’s that bloody whiskey?

The parson went out after the battle,
Pious and fat and smarmy,
And used his little officer’s cane
To flick over the kilts
On the bare dead buttocks,
To make it decent, like.

I had no time for him
When I were in the Army,
Nor his Tory religion.

We was sent to France
To fight for King and Country.
King never did bugger all for me,
And Country did fook all as well.
I went over because I were sent
And because of me mates.

I’m a hundred fookin eleven,
Here in this bleedin hospital.
Not thinking of heaven,
Not thinking nothing much.
Trying hard to forget
For ninety fookin year.

The television crews
Want interviews:
“Last Survivor Succumbs!”
Them lousers ...
Let them suck their thumbs.
I'd rather drop me trousers!

Not that I’m wearing none
Under this sheet, like.
Are ye hiding that whiskey?

I have nothing to say to that shower
Of cunning runts, what we call
The Highborn Ladies Running Team.
Hee hee. Pass along the bottle.
That were a joke in the Army.

I have nothing to say to them.
I have nothing to say to youse.

I have a lot I’d like to say
To Bert and Tich and Tommy G,
To Jimbo, to Fishface, to Bumblebee,
And to that pink-faced young Leftenant.
All killed. Killed dead ninety year ago
In front of me eyes. No surprise

Since it were war. Happened long ago.
Why do I remember their faces
And forget what happened yesterday?

Is that bottle dead? One last
Drop won’t kill me, but if it do,
I won’t be sad. I’d rather be dead
Than have reporters hover round me bed
Like carrion crows. God knows,
I’ve been hanging on too long.

Whenever I close my eyes
I see the grey Flanders skies,
I see their faces.
They were so young. I was so young.
I want to sleep, ye young lads,
I want to sleep and wake up beside ye.

It’s me, I’ll say,
No need to be afraid.
So sorry, boys,
I were slightly delayed.

Dedalus,

Wonderful poem. The dialect, tics, expressions give flesh to the old man. The rhymes and rhythms color that flesh with lilting, quirky – and at times petulant tones. Like following a road that covers many terrains, the rhythm and pacing adjust to the rocks, curves, and steep climbs. The rhyme appears and disappears seamlessly.

The portrait here so impressive. A man who’s survived war. It’s hardened him, but even in irritability he shows a sense of humor, something affable in an old man who misses his mates.

Editing dialogue, a tricky business. Spoken words aren’t images that can be readjusted to show a sharper vignette. Sometimes they’re a belch, hiccough or titter. So brook me, wing-maker, artist-in-the portrait. I’m going to show some audacity and dive into your text – a well-knit fabric I have only a few cavils for:

[]=remove
()=add

I’d change the first stanza a bit. The first line, though viable, adds little. Take the final line and meld it into the opening.

[There’s nothing further to be said.]
Lookit, lads, I’m [nearly dead] (delayed).

You might also consider the notion of late. As in “Lookit lads, I’m late.”

“Will I have a drop of whiskey?” seems too formal for this chap. It’s one of the few places where the voice strays from the dialect. I’ll offer the simplest suggestion, but I think you can make the dialect sing. What better point for a little parlance?

[Will I have a] (A) drop of whiskey? I will.

The next stanza uses rhyme and dialect perfectly. I can see the ghosts assemble for roll call. Implied, the taste of whiskey – words soaked in whiskey.

Ahh, God, that’s good. Simple and plain.
Down the red lane.
Tell me, lads, yer names again?

I love the Tom and Dick and Harry. The rhyme with marry. The titter “Hee-hee” feels awkward. It’s likely this reader’s misunderstanding, but without it there is a tacit laugh. The rhyme indicates the levity.

Is it Tom and Dick and Harry?
[Hee-hee.] Listen, never marry.
“Never marry” doesn’t repeat well. In other places the repetition is extremely effective.

[Never marry] (Not) the first lass what asks yer!

The repetition and sound elements enliven the next stanza. The single beat “Wheeze” carries the rhythm of a tapping foot. Something of youth, he’s returning.

Wheeze.
Wheeze.
That were a joke.

I’d pull out “Just” from the proceeding stanza.

I do be old, decrepit and bollock
Naked under this here sheet,
[Just l] (L)ike the Scots under their kilts.

Leave the stanza below. It works in the titter, cough and spit. The change in his countenance, vivid, and you haven’t mentioned it.

Hee hee hee,
Cough, cough. Spit.

Here the tone changes, perfectly executed with one intensifier.

Where’s that bloody whiskey?

This change in tone flows into the following stanza.

The parson went out after the battle,

I love this grouping of well-culled adjectives.

Pious and fat and smarmy,

Great movement into concrete image.

And used his little officer’s cane
To flick over the kilts
On the bare dead buttocks,
To make it decent, like.

I’ll move more quickly through the rest.

I had no time for him
When I were in the Army,
Nor his Tory religion.

We was sent to France
To fight for King and Country.
King never did bugger all for me,
And Country did fook all as well.
I went over because I were sent
And because of t’lads[, in course].

I’m a hundred fookin eleven, m’dear,
Here in this bleedin hospital,
Not thinking [of] heaven,
Not thinking [of] nothing much.
[Been t] (T)rying hard to forget
For ninety fookin year.

“Last Survivor Succumbs!”
The television crews

The rhyme between “crews” and “News” may be out of place. Also “put me on” offers several meanings.

Want to put me on [the News].
Them lousers ...
Let them suck [their] bleedin thumbs,

Would he rhyme on trousers? Maybe. Does he rhyme when he’s extremely peeved?

Before me heart falls in me trousers.

Not that I’m wearing none
Under this sheet, like. [Hee hee.]
Are ye hiding that whiskey?

[I have nothing to say.]
I have nothing to say to that shower
Of cunning runts, what we call
The Highborn Ladies Running Team.
[Hee hee.] Pass over the bottle.
That were a joke in the Army.

I have nothing to say, lads.
(N)othing to say to them.
(N)othing to say to youse.

(L)ot I’d like to say
To Bert and Tich and Tommy G,
To Jimbo, to Fishface, to Bumblebee,
And to that pink-faced young Leftenant.
All killed. Killed dead ninety year ago

The rhyme on “No surprise” doesn’t work for me.

In front of me eyes. [No surprise]

Since it were war. Happened long ago.
So why [can] I remember their faces
And forget [what happened] yesterday?

Is that bottle dead? One last
Drop won’t kill me, but if it do,
won’t be sad. I’d rather be dead
When reporters hover round [me bed]
Like carrion crows. God knows
I’ve been hanging on too long.

You might consider cutting some above or below, as the poem drags a bit, relying on the way he says the same thing differently.

This is where it picks up speed.

Whenever I close my eyes
I can [still] see those grey Flanders(‘) skies
And I can [still] see those faces.
[They were s] (S)o young. [I was so young.]
I want to sleep, ye young lads,

I’m assuming “young lads” refers to his former mates.

and wake up beside [them] (you).

It’s me, I’ll say,

The off-rhyme on “afraid” is perfect here.

No need to be afraid.
So sorry, boys,
I were slightly delayed.

The ending is marvelous. Your poem reminds me of Wilfred Owen.

One last suggestion make the poem look more like dialogue. Don’t capitalize the start of a line unless it begins a new sentence or clause.

Of course the critique I’ve provided describes more me as a reader than you as a poet.

Thanks for the read,
Heph

Your poem reminds me of Wilfred Owen - hell's bells*, there's praise for you, Bren. And pretty well deserved too. Another good one - but not part of the Irish cycle?

Cheers

David

*
Oh, the bells of Hell go ding-a-ling-a-ling,
For you and not for me!
The devil's got a thing-a-ling-a-ling
For you and not for me!
Oh, Death where is thy sting-a-ling-a-ling?
Oh, grave thy victory?
The bells of Hell go ding-a-ling-a-ling,
For you and not for me!

No, not part of the Irish Cycle at all, David ... although it could be dragged in at a pinch!

I was impressed with the thoroughness of your recommendations, Heph, and plan to use a lot of them. They make good sense and cut away a bit of the dross. I don't agree with everything (strange if I did) and I'd be happy to explain why I don't go along with some changes, while quite happily acquiescing in others!

Thanks for the comments.

dedalus/ Brendan