richa
on Uncontrolled scribblings one luch break by Nicholas Jones
10 Jan 2006, 3:50 AM
When will the images come/And where will (they) come from.
A damp day confounds the season(s)
Or so my colleague(s) say; Or so my colleague says;
The whole See such vulgar people as footballers./ Or so my colleague say;/I canât recognise the overpaid fuckers. I quite cack handed.
Sorry if that was fallacious/and I was pathetic. is a play on pathetic fallacy but why is fallacious the correct word for this poem.
could it be a crush? more likely a power struggle... dont have much time now, but will think on it.
i can feel the frustration and anger, yet those emotions are delivered with the delicateness of one who is as you have written in the last verse.
nicely done.
Poems like this make me so proud to be male. not
Like swallowing a gigantic glass of swamped bed linen.
The best part is how you misspelled "letch" in the title.
Get some verb-tense agreement in here. Also, fix stanzas 2 and 6 so they're (or they're part of) real sentences. Otherwise, good. Fluff, but good.
The poor tulip boy has poor taste
that he loves his patch
and his trowel and spade
and his landlord, the dame
that he sells to in the market
his red and yellow flames.
I am a poor tulip boy
with not a purse nor a name,
made to grow tulips in clay
and sleep in my shoes
on a poor tulip boy wage,
happy to sell none today.
You're welcome. Nice.
I liked the original better.
Anne Boleyn is the easiest historical figure.
there are some nice moments here. i especially enjy\oy the metaphor of the steel and iron as her dress.
i think that the rhyme you use distractst he reader. since it came first, i looked for the whole thing to have rhythm and rhyme, and was a little disappointed when it didn't hold throughout.
good solution to the set-up.
when mittens turn, they fall? the title into the first line misleads me. i know what you are talking about, i just don't like the stretch.
you say you just need a friend.
man, that's the worst place to be, ever. wrap her up in that blanket, why don't you.
"And shoved in to rest in the silt from the north
Fields grown tired with potatoes."
really nice work, here.
still, it's not a complete image, even if it is a lovely one. the hard-ass in me wants a complete image from my haiku.
"She flips suddenly, too soon,
the child startles back "
the child flips, or the crab flips? I can't tell if the crab is/was alive/dead, and i want to know. clarifying this will clarify all.
i agree about the too, too solid flesh; i don't see it as solid at all.
that being said, this is a great moment. you dropped us right into it.
No poor person owns a golden labrador, the poem therefore has no resonance with anything I have ever experienced and I work in Mayfair for fucks sake. Complete rubbish, kindly change to a mongrel.