poetry critical

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A shadow of Thatcherism
grouts post war subway.
Fragrant ghost of industry,
enmeshed in political lathes
Alsation warm,
flesh – tenement grey
trading Lennon for put downs
from pinstriped shadows.
In moth dead flicker
Elisabeth shines
On a suede quarry of indignity,
the purifier of conscience
next to a beaker marked ‘M’
and a clown high on lows
with a name no one knows.
He hurls a chorus to a neon nymph,
a high heel lyric for twelve bar blues.
Four pounds eight pence later
moon turns to foil
hope to latex
wrapped around an arm
that once made Daimler's.

18 Mar 07

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I usually don’t like poetry that makes me feel stupid.  Not stupid, I guess, but uninformed—as stupid people often are.  I’m not onto some of the references, like Alsation (a company?), suede quarry (seats?), and the beaker marked ‘M’.

What I am getting is a gritty montage of an anonymous auto worker turned heroin user.  There’s a lot of political hostility that I can only brush up to—maybe because I’m a yank.

The very good news is that I’m being forced to see a kaleidoscopic tableau in my mind, one that I’ve never visited physically.  That takes some impressive crafting (AKA art).

Fwiw, 3-8 is a fragment.  There is no period at the end of 10, yet you start 11 with upper case.

The beginnings and endings of each of your sections are very strong.  Nicely done.
 — wily

the suede quarry is the guitar case and the dog keeps him warm.
 — unknown