Beyond the green glass houses,
down lanes that gently turn,
trees stand stark in burning air,
their rythmic beating branches tear,
the varnish from a stripped pine chair,
while wrought iron rusts in beds of ferns.
Beyond those crumbling fields of corn
lies rubble strewn by stone clad walls,
while dying cattle are left to fall,
on tissues thrown by painted whores,
used to bathe the open sore,
while tarmac markings bleached and torn
track their escaping forms.
Beyond a distant road side verge
distinct locations re-emerge,
that point to far off sleepy towns
that forever stand on the way out
of England.While behind
a service station, assassins
of the nation stand casually round.
3 Jul 06
Rated 10 (10) by 1 users.
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Larry! Astonishingly beautiful - no not astonishing...expected from you.
I only have a tiny teensy bit of trouble with the last four lines.
They don't flow as well as the rest.
I would love to hear your voice reading this one.
I put this one on with much trepidation having originally written it on a coach coming back to England from a visit to Paris-France ,not Texas.Although it might not appear so it is an overtly ,for me ,political poem about the decimation of large swathes of British society and an attempt to usurp our culture through the implantation of a more materially orientated way of life with recognition and social credit based solely on monetery values.I love my country ,not in a patriotic way but in the knowledge of the wonderful jewel and place of stunning visual beauty it is, populated by a people who actually think they are normal yet are totally eccentrically wonderfully bonkers, including myself.The lines at the end of the poem refer to the displacement of the industrial base and its attendant cutures ,for example ,the miners whose way of life and occupations were destroyed ,by the service based economy we have now. Thanks for reading and being so positive about this poem,it means a lot to me.
Larry Jerusalem Lark
With just a few word changes - this could be the USA, also.
It really affected me. I live in the outskirts of a great city
and often ride the train in to the airport. Through the window
I watch the changes from pristine countryside to sparkling suburbia
to crumbling alleyways and warehouses surrounding the bastion towers of business...well you get the picture...
You paint an obscure picture.
i know it must feel like i'm stalking you but i love this. favorite, ten. not sure why, but line ten strikes me as very entertaining. the poem itself is perfect because each stanza has the perfect trim, not too much, or too little. great balance as well, from the images to the purpose to the well executed title.
just close your eyes and think of poetry then some part of a foriegn field will always be of prose
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ..... ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
ha ha ha ha
Beyond the green glass houses,
down lanes that gently turn,
White topped saddos with no flair
stand, their rhythmic greetin matching Rooney’s tear,
the blood o the red, red rose stripped to fair,
while all rejoice in the north, withoot a care...
beyond those crumbling cry’s of scorn
lies rubble strewn ‘twix poles ‘n keeper ‘n ball,
while dying hopes of a title fall,
on tissues painted red & white atop faithful supporters pores,
(more than) used to bathe the open sore,
of another loss, the press will scorn -
track the midfield’s escaping form.
Beyond a distant country’s verge
distinct losses re-emerge,
that point to far off for Becks to bend
‘round those that stand against ‘em (proud Edwards men)
While all that were left, stood behind
and knew that the penalty’s were just, not unkind.
Hands on face and knees to the ground
while the rest of the nation stands casually round.
he he he he
just an observation - the minors way of life were destroyed by the dwindling natural reserves we have in the country and by the prohibitive cost in obtaining the reserves we do have left. The costs arising due to the inflated economy we enjoy in the UK. Our (imagined) superiority and lack of industrious labour have meant that the service industries have provided an escape route for those who would otherwise be without work. Sorry to chuck a brick of reality through your sleepy back lane greenhouse and knock you right in your home-grown tomatoes, but hey consider the nation as whole (liverpool, glasgow, york, stornoway, bangor etc.) all very different but all relying on the commerce generated by means other than the UK's natural resources.
Larry - A voice of realism – Larks alter ego.
Dear Alter Ego
I find your perspective somewhat niave for it fails completely the recognise the historical and now much weakened struggle of working people.Of course it is acceptable for those in control to have an economy they are in control of(not).First confront and defeat the strongest part of your opponents and then drive wages down while buying off idiots who can't think for themselves with the cheap baubles of a consumer economy which creates a passively orientated right wing population who will only be stirred ,not by the need for community cultural and spiritual developement within a dynamic community, but when and if you take their Plasma TV screens away.The miners had a strong culture and so did people in other parts of the country now we have the bland insideous pap cuture spoon fed to a brain dead population who can't see beyond the shiny bonnet of theit new cars and i aint laffin'
Larry dead head lark
You have a great talent as an observor of football and your poetry's pretty good to.
ha ha, glad you took in the right way, in good spirits! on your poem a few minor points.
L2 perhaps mossy lanes?
for enhanced alliteration perhaps on l4 acrid air?
L5 - how can they remove the varnish from stripped chairs?
L8, I know you get facing stone but also knowing the structure of dykes in the UK, I'm wagering this is not the intended image, therefore clad doesn't seem right perhaps 'south facing?'
Having begun S2 with beyond, I would consider an alternative in S3. Also the repetition of 'that' beginning L's 16 & 17 requires attention.
L17 is a weak abstraction, there must be a metaphor which would better describe this.
Overall a good expression of the one modern facet of the once Great Britain.
All right. This is near brilliant, but for the appearance of the over-used image "painted whores." No changes suggested. It's simply a near-perfect poem. Keep it that way.
Thanks once more for the excellent crit .I am most grateful for your time and trouble
I thank god i managed it.To write a poem you don't feel the need to re-write ,but the pressure is on for the next one.Thanks Diana,you are an absolute star.
Larry Among mantle of stars Lark
Among the ICI stars the pollutants rafts through the estuary
I still think of Beeney with her dyed blonde hair
Oh dear, oh dear, Larry Lark, whose acumen I have often admired, I live in jolly-old England and despite the demise of many industries and the mechanisation of agriculture, it's not as bad as you paint in your poem. I've never seen trees standing stark in burning air or crumbling fields of corn. Yes, we have some assassins but so does everybody else. Yes, we had some dying cattle when we had an outbreak of foot and mouth disease but you won't see any now. Do the cattle only specifically fall on tissues thrown by painted whores. Are these painted whores unique to the English landscape? And are they whores or just women? What, are there no painted men in your poem? But they throw tissues as well and they have open sores, don't they? (We all have open sores in England.) If the branches are tearing the varnish of a random chair, how come it's already stripped and why is there a comma after 'tear'? Why is there a full stop after 'service station' and not a comma?