On Saturday, November 26, 2022 at 3:49:07 PM UTC-5, [email protected] wrote:
My Father's House
This is my father's house, although
The man died thirteen years ago.
They said it would be quite all right
To take a drive to see it now.
Dad laid those grey foundation blocks
And built the whole thing (from a box),
Toiling after each full day's work.
I helped, though I was only six.
Look, here's the back door I would use
And here's where I'd remove my shoes
To enter; there I'd leave my things
And, when allowed, climb up these stairs.
In this room I'd wash many a dish,
Gaze out this window, and I'd wish
To be so many other places.
(Wishy-washy? Oh, I guess!)
Outside, the garden that he grew
Where I would work the summers through,
While watching my friends run and play
Mysterious games I never knew.
That room's all changed; oh, where is it,
The one chair I was let to sit?
(For boys can be such filthy things.)
Which, the corner where boys were put?
Oh ... down that hall there is a room
Where I'd be shut (as in a tomb)
After the meal, to make no noise,
To read or play alone, and then
Lights out: in bed by nine each night,
Some nights wanting to pee with fright,
Face and pyjama bottoms down
As for my father's belt I'd wait.
Oh, if I were a millionaire
I'd buy my father's house, and there
I'd build a bonfire, oh so high
Its flames would light up all the air.
~~
George J. Dance
from Logos and other logoi, 2021
Read twice, outstanding work of poetry....!
On 2022-11-26 4:02 p.m., Zod wrote:
On Saturday, November 26, 2022 at 3:49:07 PM UTC-5, [email protected] wrote:
My Father's House
This is my father's house, although
The man died thirteen years ago.
They said it would be quite all right
To take a drive to see it now.
Dad laid those grey foundation blocks
And built the whole thing (from a box),
Toiling after each full day's work.
I helped, though I was only six.
Look, here's the back door I would use
And here's where I'd remove my shoes
To enter; there I'd leave my things
And, when allowed, climb up these stairs.
In this room I'd wash many a dish,
Gaze out this window, and I'd wish
To be so many other places.
(Wishy-washy? Oh, I guess!)
Outside, the garden that he grew
Where I would work the summers through,
While watching my friends run and play
Mysterious games I never knew.
That room's all changed; oh, where is it,
The one chair I was let to sit?
(For boys can be such filthy things.)
Which, the corner where boys were put?
Oh ... down that hall there is a room
Where I'd be shut (as in a tomb)
After the meal, to make no noise,
To read or play alone, and then
Lights out: in bed by nine each night,
Some nights wanting to pee with fright,
Face and pyjama bottoms down
As for my father's belt I'd wait.
Oh, if I were a millionaire
I'd buy my father's house, and there
I'd build a bonfire, oh so high
Its flames would light up all the air.
~~
George J. Dance
from Logos and other logoi, 2021
Read twice, outstanding work of poetry....!
Thanks, Zod. It's a poem I'm proud of. I wrote the first draft quickly,
but I spent several years tweaking it before it went into a book.
The big revision here is the rewrite to L2. In the original discussion,
one of the people trying to cut it to shreds was a poet, and amongst her complaints she had a criticism I thought valid: it's not clear that the speaker is the child of the poem now grown up. And I think realizing tht
is essential to appreciating the thing. Having the father been dead for
over a decade makes that much clearer.
As well, it makes certain things more ambiguous, and I think that's a
plus as well. By taking out the old L2, it's no longer clear whether the house this guy is walking around in is abandoned, or still lived in.
It's also unclear who "they" are; my hidden idea was that the speaker
was under psychiatric care, ant "they" were the ones looking after him,
but I wanted to keep that hidden.
On 2022-11-26 4:02 p.m., Zod wrote:
On Saturday, November 26, 2022 at 3:49:07 PM UTC-5, [email protected] wrote:
My Father's House
This is my father's house, although
The man died thirteen years ago.
They said it would be quite all right
To take a drive to see it now.
Dad laid those grey foundation blocks
And built the whole thing (from a box),
Toiling after each full day's work.
I helped, though I was only six.
Look, here's the back door I would use
And here's where I'd remove my shoes
To enter; there I'd leave my things
And, when allowed, climb up these stairs.
In this room I'd wash many a dish,
Gaze out this window, and I'd wish
To be so many other places.
(Wishy-washy? Oh, I guess!)
Outside, the garden that he grew
Where I would work the summers through,
While watching my friends run and play
Mysterious games I never knew.
That room's all changed; oh, where is it,
The one chair I was let to sit?
(For boys can be such filthy things.)
Which, the corner where boys were put?
Oh ... down that hall there is a room
Where I'd be shut (as in a tomb)
After the meal, to make no noise,
To read or play alone, and then
Lights out: in bed by nine each night,
Some nights wanting to pee with fright,
Face and pyjama bottoms down
As for my father's belt I'd wait.
Oh, if I were a millionaire
I'd buy my father's house, and there
I'd build a bonfire, oh so high
Its flames would light up all the air.
~~
George J. Dance
from Logos and other logoi, 2021
Read twice, outstanding work of poetry....!
Thanks, Zod. It's a poem I'm proud of. I wrote the first draft quickly,
but I spent several years tweaking it before it went into a book.
The big revision here is the rewrite to L2. In the original discussion,
one of the people trying to cut it to shreds was a poet, and amongst her complaints she had a criticism I thought valid: it's not clear that the speaker is the child of the poem now grown up. And I think realizing tht
is essential to appreciating the thing. Having the father been dead for
over a decade makes that much clearer.
As well, it makes certain things more ambiguous, and I think that's a
plus as well. By taking out the old L2, it's no longer clear whether the house this guy is walking around in is abandoned, or still lived in.
It's also unclear who "they" are; my hidden idea was that the speaker
was under psychiatric care, ant "they" were the ones looking after him,
but I wanted to keep that hidden.
My Father's House
This is my father's house, although
The man died thirteen years ago.
They said it would be quite all right
To take a drive to see it now.
Dad laid those grey foundation blocks
And built the whole thing (from a box),
Toiling after each full day's work.
I helped, though I was only six.
Look, here's the back door I would use
And here's where I'd remove my shoes
To enter; there I'd leave my things
And, when allowed, climb up these stairs.
In this room I'd wash many a dish,
Gaze out this window, and I'd wish
To be so many other places.
(Wishy-washy? Oh, I guess!)
Outside, the garden that he grew
Where I would work the summers through,
While watching my friends run and play
Mysterious games I never knew.
That room's all changed; oh, where is it,
The one chair I was let to sit?
(For boys can be such filthy things.)
Which, the corner where boys were put?
Oh ... down that hall there is a room
Where I'd be shut (as in a tomb)
After the meal, to make no noise,
To read or play alone, and then
Lights out: in bed by nine each night,
Some nights wanting to pee with fright,
Face and pyjama bottoms down
As for my father's belt I'd wait.
Oh, if I were a millionaire
I'd buy my father's house, and there
I'd build a bonfire, oh so high
Its flames would light up all the air.
~~
George J. Dance
from Logos and other logoi, 2021
Robert Burrows wrote:
On Saturday, December 3, 2022 at 8:48:08 AM UTC-5, Will Dockery wrote:
George J. Dance wrote:
My Father's House
This is my father's house, although
The man died thirteen years ago.
They said it would be quite all right
To take a drive to see it now.
Dad laid those grey foundation blocks
And built the whole thing (from a box),
Toiling after each full day's work.
I helped, though I was only six.
Look, here's the back door I would use
And here's where I'd remove my shoes
To enter; there I'd leave my things
And, when allowed, climb up these stairs.
In this room I'd wash many a dish,
Gaze out this window, and I'd wish
To be so many other places.
(Wishy-washy? Oh, I guess!)
Outside, the garden that he grew
Where I would work the summers through,
While watching my friends run and play
Mysterious games I never knew.
That room's all changed; oh, where is it,
The one chair I was let to sit?
(For boys can be such filthy things.)
Which, the corner where boys were put?
Oh ... down that hall there is a room
Where I'd be shut (as in a tomb)
After the meal, to make no noise,
To read or play alone, and then
Lights out: in bed by nine each night,
Some nights wanting to pee with fright,
Face and pyjama bottoms down
As for my father's belt I'd wait.
Oh, if I were a millionaire
I'd buy my father's house, and there
I'd build a bonfire, oh so high
Its flames would light up all the air.
~~
George J. Dance
from Logos and other logoi, 2021
Again, excellent poetry, as all apparently agree.
It's pathological, not poetic.
In your opinion, you mean.
On Saturday, December 3, 2022 at 3:26:52 PM UTC-5, Zod wrote:
On Saturday, December 3, 2022 at 2:41:33 PM UTC-5, Dennis Rowan wrote:
AgreGeorge J. Dance wrote:
My Father's House
This is my father's house, although
The man died thirteen years ago.
They said it would be quite all right
To take a drive to see it now.
Dad laid those grey foundation blocks
And built the whole thing (from a box),
Toiling after each full day's work.
I helped, though I was only six.
Look, here's the back door I would use
And here's where I'd remove my shoes
To enter; there I'd leave my things
And, when allowed, climb up these stairs.
In this room I'd wash many a dish,
Gaze out this window, and I'd wish
To be so many other places.
(Wishy-washy? Oh, I guess!)
Outside, the garden that he grew
Where I would work the summers through,
While watching my friends run and play
Mysterious games I never knew.
That room's all changed; oh, where is it,
The one chair I was let to sit?
(For boys can be such filthy things.)
Which, the corner where boys were put?
Oh ... down that hall there is a room
Where I'd be shut (as in a tomb)
After the meal, to make no noise,
To read or play alone, and then
Lights out: in bed by nine each night,
Some nights wanting to pee with fright,
Face and pyjama bottoms down
As for my father's belt I'd wait.
Oh, if I were a millionaire
I'd buy my father's house, and there
I'd build a bonfire, oh so high
Its flames would light up all the air.
~~
George J. Dance
from Logos and other logoi, 2021
I like George's poem.
It's a sad poem but bold and unaffected.
I read it again.
Keep it up, George.
Sounds like
On Saturday, December 3, 2022 at 8:48:08 AM UTC-5, Will Dockery wrote:
George J. Dance wrote:
My Father's House
This is my father's house, although
The man died thirteen years ago.
They said it would be quite all right
To take a drive to see it now.
Dad laid those grey foundation blocks
And built the whole thing (from a box),
Toiling after each full day's work.
I helped, though I was only six.
Look, here's the back door I would use
And here's where I'd remove my shoes
To enter; there I'd leave my things
And, when allowed, climb up these stairs.
In this room I'd wash many a dish,
Gaze out this window, and I'd wish
To be so many other places.
(Wishy-washy? Oh, I guess!)
Outside, the garden that he grew
Where I would work the summers through,
While watching my friends run and play
Mysterious games I never knew.
That room's all changed; oh, where is it,
The one chair I was let to sit?
(For boys can be such filthy things.)
Which, the corner where boys were put?
Oh ... down that hall there is a room
Where I'd be shut (as in a tomb)
After the meal, to make no noise,
To read or play alone, and then
Lights out: in bed by nine each night,
Some nights wanting to pee with fright,
Face and pyjama bottoms down
As for my father's belt I'd wait.
Oh, if I were a millionaire
I'd buy my father's house, and there
I'd build a bonfire, oh so high
Its flames would light up all the air.
~~
George J. Dance
from Logos and other logoi, 2021
Again, excellent poetry, as all apparently agree.
It's pathological, not poetic.
On 2022-12-03 2:41 p.m., Dennis Rowan wrote:
On Saturday, December 3, 2022 at 1:15:49 PM UTC-5, [email protected] wrote: >>> On Saturday, December 3, 2022 at 8:48:08 AM UTC-5, Will Dockery wrote:
George J. Dance wrote:
My Father's House
This is my father's house, although
The man died thirteen years ago.
They said it would be quite all right
To take a drive to see it now.
Dad laid those grey foundation blocks
And built the whole thing (from a box),
Toiling after each full day's work.
I helped, though I was only six.
Look, here's the back door I would use
And here's where I'd remove my shoes
To enter; there I'd leave my things
And, when allowed, climb up these stairs.
In this room I'd wash many a dish,
Gaze out this window, and I'd wish
To be so many other places.
(Wishy-washy? Oh, I guess!)
Outside, the garden that he grew
Where I would work the summers through,
While watching my friends run and play
Mysterious games I never knew.
That room's all changed; oh, where is it,
The one chair I was let to sit?
(For boys can be such filthy things.)
Which, the corner where boys were put?
Oh ... down that hall there is a room
Where I'd be shut (as in a tomb)
After the meal, to make no noise,
To read or play alone, and then
Lights out: in bed by nine each night,
Some nights wanting to pee with fright,
Face and pyjama bottoms down
As for my father's belt I'd wait.
Oh, if I were a millionaire
I'd buy my father's house, and there
I'd build a bonfire, oh so high
Its flames would light up all the air.
~~
George J. Dance
from Logos and other logoi, 2021
Again, excellent poetry, as all apparently agree.
It's pathological, not poetic.
I like George's poem.
It's a sad poem but bold and unaffected.
I read it again.
Keep it up, George.
Thank you for reading and for commenting, Dennis; and let me welcome you
to appc, too.
I don't like a lot of confessional poetry, but there are some that are
done well (many of Plath's, eg) that I've enjoyed; and this poem is to
some degree confessional, as the speaker's roughly based on me in my
much younger days. But it's not really confessional, but a dramatic monologue; the speaker's not me, and I've modified facts (leaving out
some, exaggerating others) for the sake of the goal, to give the reader
a look into the mind of the speaker.
I am really glad that you liked it, and even more so that you liked it
that much, enough to write and tell me.
On Saturday, December 3, 2022 at 4:08:04 PM UTC-5, Zod wrote:
On Saturday, December 3, 2022 at 4:06:03 PM UTC-5, Spam-I-Am wrote:
On Saturday, December 3, 2022 at 2:41:33 PM UTC-5, Dennis Rowan wrote: >> > > > > > > George J. Dance wrote:
Hi there Corey....!!Okay. Good for you.Sounds like a good review to me....Wtf is “sad but bold and unaffected” supposed to mean? Sounds like bullshit to me.My Father's House
This is my father's house, although
The man died thirteen years ago.
They said it would be quite all right
To take a drive to see it now.
Dad laid those grey foundation blocks
And built the whole thing (from a box),
Toiling after each full day's work.
I helped, though I was only six.
Look, here's the back door I would use
And here's where I'd remove my shoes
To enter; there I'd leave my things
And, when allowed, climb up these stairs.
In this room I'd wash many a dish,
Gaze out this window, and I'd wish
To be so many other places.
(Wishy-washy? Oh, I guess!)
Outside, the garden that he grew
Where I would work the summers through,
While watching my friends run and play
Mysterious games I never knew.
That room's all changed; oh, where is it,
The one chair I was let to sit?
(For boys can be such filthy things.)
Which, the corner where boys were put?
Oh ... down that hall there is a room
Where I'd be shut (as in a tomb)
After the meal, to make no noise,
To read or play alone, and then
Lights out: in bed by nine each night,
Some nights wanting to pee with fright,
Face and pyjama bottoms down
As for my father's belt I'd wait.
Oh, if I were a millionaire
I'd buy my father's house, and there
I'd build a bonfire, oh so high
Its flames would light up all the air.
~~
George J. Dance
from Logos and other logoi, 2021
I like George's poem.
It's a sad poem but bold and unaffected.
I read it again.
Keep it up, George.
Go team.
On Monday, December 5, 2022 at 4:00:14 PM UTC-5, Zod wrote:
Michael Pendragon wrote:
George J. Dance wrote:
My Father's House
This is my father's house, although
The man died thirteen years ago.
They said it would be quite all right
To take a drive to see it now.
Dad laid those grey foundation blocks
And built the whole thing (from a box),
Toiling after each full day's work.
I helped, though I was only six.
Look, here's the back door I would use
And here's where I'd remove my shoes
To enter; there I'd leave my things
And, when allowed, climb up these stairs.
In this room I'd wash many a dish,
Gaze out this window, and I'd wish
To be so many other places.
(Wishy-washy? Oh, I guess!)
Outside, the garden that he grew
Where I would work the summers through,
While watching my friends run and play
Mysterious games I never knew.
That room's all changed; oh, where is it,
The one chair I was let to sit?
(For boys can be such filthy things.)
Which, the corner where boys were put?
Oh ... down that hall there is a room
Where I'd be shut (as in a tomb)
After the meal, to make no noise,
To read or play alone, and then
Lights out: in bed by nine each night,
Some nights wanting to pee with fright,
Face and pyjama bottoms down
As for my father's belt I'd wait.
Oh, if I were a millionaire
I'd buy my father's house, and there
I'd build a bonfire, oh so high
Its flames would light up all the air.
~~
George J. Dance >> >> > > >> >> > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > from Logos and other logoi, 2021
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx trolling snipped xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Where I grew up, a 13-14-year old who was regularly drinking, getting high, and banging other children would have been thought of as trash
Yet you seem to have no problem with grown men such as Edgar Allan Poe and Jerry Lee Lewis having sex, and marrying, 13-year-old girls....
http://www.todayifoundout.com/index.php/2014/05/26-year-old-edgar-allan-poe-married-13-year-old-cousin/
********* As if his stories weren’t occasionally disturbing enough, it turns out Edgar Allan Poe’s love life was more than a little creepy as well. *****************
********** Poe met his bride-to-be, Virginia Clemm, when she was 7 years old, and he was 20 *******
“Poe secretly married Virginia . . . on September 22, 1835. He was 26 and she was 13, though she is listed on the marriage certificate as being 21.”
Jerry Lee Lewis, a very similar tale....
Yet Pendragon appears to accept and condone this, while hypocritically attacking young Doc, himself just a boy at the time, not a grown man of 26 like Poe was....
Pendragon is a hypocritical troll, what else would you expect?
Zod wrote:
George Dance wrote:
My Father's House
This is my father's house, although
The man died thirteen years ago.
They said it would be quite all right
To take a drive to see it now.
Dad laid those grey foundation blocks
And built the whole thing (from a box),
Toiling after each full day's work.
I helped, though I was only six.
Look, here's the back door I would use
And here's where I'd remove my shoes
To enter; there I'd leave my things
And, when allowed, climb up these stairs.
In this room I'd wash many a dish,
Gaze out this window, and I'd wish
To be so many other places.
(Wishy-washy? Oh, I guess!)
Outside, the garden that he grew
Where I would work the summers through,
While watching my friends run and play
Mysterious games I never knew.
That room's all changed; oh, where is it,
The one chair I was let to sit?
(For boys can be such filthy things.)
Which, the corner where boys were put?
Oh ... down that hall there is a room
Where I'd be shut (as in a tomb)
After the meal, to make no noise,
To read or play alone, and then
Lights out: in bed by nine each night,
Some nights wanting to pee with fright,
Face and pyjama bottoms down
As for my father's belt I'd wait.
Oh, if I were a millionaire
I'd buy my father's house, and there
I'd build a bonfire, oh so high
Its flames would light up all the air.
~~
George J. Dance
from Logos and other logoi, 2021
Read twice, outstanding work of poetry....!
Thanks, Zod. It's a poem I'm proud of. I wrote the first draft quickly,
but I spent several years tweaking it before it went into a book.
The big revision here is the rewrite to L2. In the original discussion,
one of the people trying to cut it to shreds was a poet, and amongst her complaints she had a criticism I thought valid: it's not clear that the speaker is the child of the poem now grown up. And I think realizing tht
is essential to appreciating the thing. Having the father been dead for
over a decade makes that much clearer.
As well, it makes certain things more ambiguous, and I think that's a
plus as well. By taking out the old L2, it's no longer clear whether the house this guy is walking around in is abandoned, or still lived in.
It's also unclear who "they" are; my hidden idea was that the speaker
was under psychiatric care, ant "they" were the ones looking after him,
but I wanted to keep that hidden.
George J. Dance wrote:
Zod wrote:
George Dance wrote:
My Father's House
This is my father's house, although
The man died thirteen years ago.
They said it would be quite all right
To take a drive to see it now.
Dad laid those grey foundation blocks
And built the whole thing (from a box),
Toiling after each full day's work.
I helped, though I was only six.
Look, here's the back door I would use
And here's where I'd remove my shoes
To enter; there I'd leave my things
And, when allowed, climb up these stairs.
In this room I'd wash many a dish,
Gaze out this window, and I'd wish
To be so many other places.
(Wishy-washy? Oh, I guess!)
Outside, the garden that he grew
Where I would work the summers through,
While watching my friends run and play
Mysterious games I never knew.
That room's all changed; oh, where is it,
The one chair I was let to sit?
(For boys can be such filthy things.)
Which, the corner where boys were put?
Oh ... down that hall there is a room
Where I'd be shut (as in a tomb)
After the meal, to make no noise,
To read or play alone, and then
Lights out: in bed by nine each night,
Some nights wanting to pee with fright,
Face and pyjama bottoms down
As for my father's belt I'd wait.
Oh, if I were a millionaire
I'd buy my father's house, and there
I'd build a bonfire, oh so high
Its flames would light up all the air.
~~
George J. Dance
from Logos and other logoi, 2021
Read twice, outstanding work of poetry....!
Thanks, Zod. It's a poem I'm proud of. I wrote the first draft quickly,
but I spent several years tweaking it before it went into a book.
The big revision here is the rewrite to L2. In the original discussion,
one of the people trying to cut it to shreds was a poet, and amongst her
complaints she had a criticism I thought valid: it's not clear that the
speaker is the child of the poem now grown up. And I think realizing tht
is essential to appreciating the thing. Having the father been dead for
over a decade makes that much clearer.
As well, it makes certain things more ambiguous, and I think that's a
plus as well. By taking out the old L2, it's no longer clear whether the
house this guy is walking around in is abandoned, or still lived in.
It's also unclear who "they" are; my hidden idea was that the speaker
was under psychiatric care, ant "they" were the ones looking after him,
but I wanted to keep that hidden.
Well put, and getting this thread back on topic.
🙂
I see I left out the most important point.
<snip>
-- Michael Pendragon, "Hicksville," from A Year of Sundays, July 2020.If you'd like to compare your poem to one of Eliot's, then doing so
**by opening a new thread**.
would probably get you more attention. Even if not: Do not hijack other people's poetry threads to promote your own. That's the kind of shit I'd expect from a relative newbie like the Ashtroll, but I'd hoped that you'd know better.
Will Dockery wrote:
George J. Dance wrote:
Zod wrote:
George Dance wrote:
My Father's House
This is my father's house, although
The man died thirteen years ago.
They said it would be quite all right
To take a drive to see it now.
Dad laid those grey foundation blocks
And built the whole thing (from a box),
Toiling after each full day's work.
I helped, though I was only six.
Look, here's the back door I would use
And here's where I'd remove my shoes
To enter; there I'd leave my things
And, when allowed, climb up these stairs.
In this room I'd wash many a dish,
Gaze out this window, and I'd wish
To be so many other places.
(Wishy-washy? Oh, I guess!)
Outside, the garden that he grew
Where I would work the summers through,
While watching my friends run and play
Mysterious games I never knew.
That room's all changed; oh, where is it,
The one chair I was let to sit?
(For boys can be such filthy things.)
Which, the corner where boys were put?
Oh ... down that hall there is a room
Where I'd be shut (as in a tomb)
After the meal, to make no noise,
To read or play alone, and then
Lights out: in bed by nine each night,
Some nights wanting to pee with fright,
Face and pyjama bottoms down
As for my father's belt I'd wait.
Oh, if I were a millionaire
I'd buy my father's house, and there
I'd build a bonfire, oh so high
Its flames would light up all the air.
~~
George J. Dance
from Logos and other logoi, 2021
Read twice, outstanding work of poetry....!
Thanks, Zod. It's a poem I'm proud of. I wrote the first draft quickly, >> but I spent several years tweaking it before it went into a book.
The big revision here is the rewrite to L2. In the original discussion, >> one of the people trying to cut it to shreds was a poet, and amongst her >> complaints she had a criticism I thought valid: it's not clear that the >> speaker is the child of the poem now grown up. And I think realizing tht >> is essential to appreciating the thing. Having the father been dead for >> over a decade makes that much clearer.
As well, it makes certain things more ambiguous, and I think that's a
plus as well. By taking out the old L2, it's no longer clear whether the >> house this guy is walking around in is abandoned, or still lived in.
It's also unclear who "they" are; my hidden idea was that the speaker
was under psychiatric care, and "they" were the ones looking after him, >> but I wanted to keep that hidden.
Well put, and getting this thread back on topic.
🙂Agreed and seconded....!
On 2023-2-26 4:02 p.m., Zod wrote:
[email protected] wrote:
My Father's House
This is my father's house, although
The man died thirteen years ago.
They said it would be quite all right
To take a drive to see it now.
Dad laid those grey foundation blocks
And built the whole thing (from a box),
Toiling after each full day's work.
I helped, though I was only six.
Look, here's the back door I would use
And here's where I'd remove my shoes
To enter; there I'd leave my things
And, when allowed, climb up these stairs.
In this room I'd wash many a dish,
Gaze out this window, and I'd wish
To be so many other places.
(Wishy-washy? Oh, I guess!)
Outside, the garden that he grew
Where I would work the summers through,
While watching my friends run and play
Mysterious games I never knew.
That room's all changed; oh, where is it,
The one chair I was let to sit?
(For boys can be such filthy things.)
Which, the corner where boys were put?
Oh ... down that hall there is a room
Where I'd be shut (as in a tomb)
After the meal, to make no noise,
To read or play alone, and then
Lights out: in bed by nine each night,
Some nights wanting to pee with fright,
Face and pyjama bottoms down
As for my father's belt I'd wait.
Oh, if I were a millionaire
I'd buy my father's house, and there
I'd build a bonfire, oh so high
Its flames would light up all the air.
~~
George J. Dance
from Logos and other logoi, 2021
Read twice, outstanding work of poetry....!
Thanks, Zod. It's a poem I'm proud of. I wrote the first draft quickly,
but I spent several years tweaking it before it went into a book.
The big revision here is the rewrite to L2. In the original discussion,
one of the people trying to cut it to shreds was a poet, and amongst her complaints she had a criticism I thought valid: it's not clear that the speaker is the child of the poem now grown up. And I think realizing tht
is essential to appreciating the thing. Having the father been dead for
over a decade makes that much clearer.
As well, it makes certain things more ambiguous, and I think that's a
plus as well. By taking out the old L2, it's no longer clear whether the house this guy is walking around in is abandoned, or still lived in.
It's also unclear who "they" are; my hidden idea was that the speaker
was under psychiatric care, ant "they" were the ones looking after him,
but I wanted to keep that hidden.
On 2022-11-26 4:02 p.m., Zod wrote:
On Saturday, November 26, 2022 at 3:49:07 PM UTC-5, [email protected] wrote:
My Father's House
This is my father's house, although
The man died thirteen years ago.
They said it would be quite all right
To take a drive to see it now.
Dad laid those grey foundation blocks
And built the whole thing (from a box),
Toiling after each full day's work.
I helped, though I was only six.
Look, here's the back door I would use
And here's where I'd remove my shoes
To enter; there I'd leave my things
And, when allowed, climb up these stairs.
In this room I'd wash many a dish,
Gaze out this window, and I'd wish
To be so many other places.
(Wishy-washy? Oh, I guess!)
Outside, the garden that he grew
Where I would work the summers through,
While watching my friends run and play
Mysterious games I never knew.
That room's all changed; oh, where is it,
The one chair I was let to sit?
(For boys can be such filthy things.)
Which, the corner where boys were put?
Oh ... down that hall there is a room
Where I'd be shut (as in a tomb)
After the meal, to make no noise,
To read or play alone, and then
Lights out: in bed by nine each night,
Some nights wanting to pee with fright,
Face and pyjama bottoms down
As for my father's belt I'd wait.
Oh, if I were a millionaire
I'd buy my father's house, and there
I'd build a bonfire, oh so high
Its flames would light up all the air.
~~
George J. Dance
from Logos and other logoi, 2021
Read twice, outstanding work of poetry....!
Thanks, Zod. It's a poem I'm proud of. I wrote the first draft quickly,
but I spent several years tweaking it before it went into a book.
The big revision here is the rewrite to L2. In the original discussion,
one of the people trying to cut it to shreds was a poet, and amongst her complaints she had a criticism I thought valid: it's not clear that the speaker is the child of the poem now grown up. And I think realizing tht
is essential to appreciating the thing. Having the father been dead for
over a decade makes that much clearer.
As well, it makes certain things more ambiguous, and I think that's a
plus as well. By taking out the old L2, it's no longer clear whether the house this guy is walking around in is abandoned, or still lived in.
It's also unclear who "they" are; my hidden idea was that the speaker
was under psychiatric care, ant "they" were the ones looking after him,
but I wanted to keep that hidden.
On 2022-11-26 4:02 p.m., Zod wrote:
[email protected] wrote:
My Father's House
This is my father's house, although
The man died thirteen years ago.
They said it would be quite all right
To take a drive to see it now.
Dad laid those grey foundation blocks
And built the whole thing (from a box),
Toiling after each full day's work.
I helped, though I was only six.
Look, here's the back door I would use
And here's where I'd remove my shoes
To enter; there I'd leave my things
And, when allowed, climb up these stairs.
In this room I'd wash many a dish,
Gaze out this window, and I'd wish
To be so many other places.
(Wishy-washy? Oh, I guess!)
Outside, the garden that he grew
Where I would work the summers through,
While watching my friends run and play
Mysterious games I never knew.
That room's all changed; oh, where is it,
The one chair I was let to sit?
(For boys can be such filthy things.)
Which, the corner where boys were put?
Oh ... down that hall there is a room
Where I'd be shut (as in a tomb)
After the meal, to make no noise,
To read or play alone, and then
Lights out: in bed by nine each night,
Some nights wanting to pee with fright,
Face and pyjama bottoms down
As for my father's belt I'd wait.
Oh, if I were a millionaire
I'd buy my father's house, and there
I'd build a bonfire, oh so high
Its flames would light up all the air.
~~
George J. Dance
from Logos and other logoi, 2021
Read twice, outstanding work of poetry....!
Thanks, Zod. It's a poem I'm proud of. I wrote the first draft quickly,
but I spent several years tweaking it before it went into a book.
The big revision here is the rewrite to L2. In the original discussion,
one of the people trying to cut it to shreds was a poet, and amongst her complaints she had a criticism I thought valid: it's not clear that the speaker is the child of the poem now grown up. And I think realizing tht
is essential to appreciating the thing. Having the father been dead for
over a decade makes that much clearer.
As well, it makes certain things more ambiguous, and I think that's a
plus as well. By taking out the old L2, it's no longer clear whether the house this guy is walking around in is abandoned, or still lived in.
It's also unclear who "they" are; my hidden idea was that the speaker
was under psychiatric care, ant "they" were the ones looking after him,
but I wanted to keep that hidden.
George J. Dance wrote:
My Father's House
This is my father's house, although
The man died thirteen years ago.
They said it would be quite all right
To take a drive to see it now.
Dad laid those grey foundation blocks
And built the whole thing (from a box),
Toiling after each full day's work.
I helped, though I was only six.
Look, here's the back door I would use
And here's where I'd remove my shoes
To enter; there I'd leave my things
And, when allowed, climb up these stairs.
In this room I'd wash many a dish,
Gaze out this window, and I'd wish
To be so many other places.
(Wishy-washy? Oh, I guess!)
Outside, the garden that he grew
Where I would work the summers through,
While watching my friends run and play
Mysterious games I never knew.
That room's all changed; oh, where is it,
The one chair I was let to sit?
(For boys can be such filthy things.)
Which, the corner where boys were put?
Oh ... down that hall there is a room
Where I'd be shut (as in a tomb)
After the meal, to make no noise,
To read or play alone, and then
Lights out: in bed by nine each night,
Some nights wanting to pee with fright,
Face and pyjama bottoms down
As for my father's belt I'd wait.
Oh, if I were a millionaire
I'd buy my father's house, and there
I'd build a bonfire, oh so high
Its flames would light up all the air.
~~
George J. Dance
from Logos and other logoi, 2021
Here it is, MFH.
On Mon, 3 Feb 2025 13:06:00 +0000, George J. Dance wrote:https://www.novabbs.com/arts/article.php?id=15801&group=rec.arts.poems
Why do you lie so much, George?
(That's a rhetorical question, as you've already intimated that your
pathological lying stems from you having been abused as a child.)
No, Lying Michael: I have never said, or even "intimated" (!) that I was
pathological, lying, or
"abused as a child".
You wrote a "mostly autobiographical" poem detailing the abuses you
suffered as a child, George. And you're demonstrating your pathological obsession with lying in your trio of denials, listed above.
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