S.A.D.

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S.A.D.

Postby marwood » Wed Mar 28, 2012 12:19 pm

The town hall clock strikes twelve, but the midday
sun fails to make an appearance, mad dogs
and Englishmen are nowhere to be found.

A cyclist scythes past, carrier bags swing
from the handlebars, feet raised through puddles,
leaving behind a wake of obscenities.

At the Prince of Wales smokers stay inside,
cursing the smoking ban and the nanny
state, while the barmaid, passively, looks on.

Outside the coffee shop, chrome tabletops
reflect the despondency, a lottery
ticket lies torn and sodden in the ash tray.

A hoodie in looted trainers tramples
through flowers that were planted by the council,
in order to brighten roadside verges;

you begin to wonder why anyone
bothers at all; on the canal, even
the ducks look as though they have had enough.
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen.
marwood
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Re: S.A.D.

Postby Cath » Wed Mar 28, 2012 12:52 pm

Lovely! You can really visualise what you are describing. Interesting that you wrote it as a prose-like poem rather than as "straight" prose. I like the moody ducks at the end - they come upon you like a tickle when reading.
"Why should we be owls, when we can be Eagles?" (Keats to Reynolds, 3 February 1818)
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Re: S.A.D.

Postby Saturn » Wed Mar 28, 2012 10:32 pm

Another great one marwood, and a feeling and images that will be familiar to anyone who's ever taken the time on a slow day to observe the monotony and banality of everyday life.
"Oh what a misery it is to have an intellect in splints".
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Re: S.A.D.

Postby BrokenLyre » Thu Mar 29, 2012 6:20 pm

Wow - Thanks marwood.... even better the 2nd and 3rd reading. I especially like the biker in the puddles "leaving behind a wake of obscenities"

I really like the way "action" and "inaction" vacillate in the poem - clock "strikes" twelve, but no real movement. Biker moves, but focus is on what he left behind.... a passive barmaid .... a "ticket lies torn" (both inaction), a "hoodie.. tramples" (movement) but the canal and even the ducks feel stationary. The humdrum of life it seems: life has activity but no real movement. I don't know what the title stands for - S.A.D. - but I take it as "Some Average Day" :)
"Come... dry your eyes, for you are life, rarer than a quark and unpredictable beyond the dreams of Heisenberg; the clay in which the forces that shape all things leave their fingerprints most clearly. Dry your eyes... and let's go home."
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Re: S.A.D.

Postby Raphael » Thu Mar 29, 2012 11:03 pm

Good poem, and wouldn't mind a visit to that pub! :D
John....you did not live to see-
who we are because of what you left,
what it is we are in what we make of you.

Peter Sanson, 1995.
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