The Dry Dock Road - edit 1

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FrankDyer
Posts: 227
Joined: 17 May 2011, 06:28

The Dry Dock Road - edit 1

#1 Post by FrankDyer » 04 Aug 2012, 03:36

Again I’m cycling the Dry Dock Road.
The alarm rattles in its tin
creating bedlam for a moment in the darkness
Despair - at the early call
longing to stay in the warm

I dress hurridly in the damp air.
Make Nescafe in a flask, add sugar
and heave Dad's home-guard haversack
over my back and peddle down the path.

I remember his steel helmet with a plastic cover
to stop the rain, or was it shrapnel,
falling on his neck? The gas mask
that I played with, practicing breathing
and thinking it fun - not knowing what gas was
or its effects. Lucky me.

I remember the ack-ack guns at the rear
of our house, manned, how does one
say womanised by WAAC's
in imitation nylons, just a dab of stain
and luscious lips.

I still see the Italian internees in the camp
trundling the town in long coats
returning at dusk to lock themselves in
like chickings bedding down from the fox.

We used his bayonet to cut kindling
for the fire, rusty and battered
by hammer blows. It never saw
a German gut nor paratrooper.
No Nazi or otherwise fell near us.

I peddle past the steel company hopital
always lights on there.
Dad almost died after his stomach ulcer op.
The Sister shouted at him when he gave up,
'Its up to you now, live or die.'
He survived, eating eight tiny meals every day
for the rest of his life.

Over Newbridge Road only it isn’t new.
It is barred to all vehicles.
I wonder if it will give way as I cross.
Two years earlier we had dived from its ramparts
an expensive diving platform.
Now, my route over the river to my work.

I draw level with the Dry Dock outlet
and the weir. The sewer outfall expels
its filth and] a vile stink hangs on the river mist.
Seagulls guard the mud-banks contemplating
their fragile existence, forlorn of any comfort
ther than that of preened feathers and the odd morsel
floating in on the rising tide.

A tug boat blasts its raucous cry from the lock
expecting a ship - to push and batter into position.
Llew Evans bellows on his horn,
‘Belay that, lego aft!’
Llew, a drama queen
bullying certified captains to his will.
The Dry Dock workshops loom over me
on the last half mile. High and dark
they menace all who pass by.

I turn into the last stretch passing the
ship chandler’s buildings, just a collection
of wooden shacks covered in tar to make
weatherproof. Dennis, Dad's helper, almost burned
them down when re-tarring.

He forgot tar and fire mix only too well.
Dennis moved fast that day,
the flames licked at the paint store door.
................

Again I’m cycling the Dry Dock Road
The alarm rattles in its tin
creating bedlam for a moment in the darkness
Dispair at the early call
longing to stay in the warm

I dress hurridly in the damp air
make Nescafe in a flask, add sugar
and heave Dad's home-guard haversack
over my back and peddle down the path

I remember his steel helmet with a plastic cover
to stop the rain, or was it shrapnel,
falling on his neck. His gas mask
that I practised in not knowing
what gas was or it effects
Lucky me.

I remember the ack-ack guns at the rear
of our house, manned, how does one
say womanised? by WACK's
In imitation nylons, just stain
and luscious lips

I still see the Italian internees in the camp
trundling the town in long coats
returning at dusk to lock themselves in.
Like chickings bedding down from the fox.

We used his bayonet to cut kindling
sticks for the fire, rusty and battered
by hammer blows. It never saw a German gut
no paratroopers, Nazi or otherwise
fell near us.

I peddle past the steel company hopital
always lights on there
Dad almost died after his stomach was
removed, save for one small corner.
Sister shouted at him when he gave up,
'Its up to you now, live or die.'
He survived, eating eight tiny meals every day
for the rest of his life.

Over Newbridge Road only it isn’t new
It is barred to any vehicles
I wonder if I it will give way as I cross
Two years earlier and we dived from its ramparts
An expensive diving platform
Now my route over the river to my work

I draw level with the Dry Dock outlet
And the weir. The sewer outfall expels
Its filth and a vile stink hangs on the river mist
Seagulls guard the mud-banks contemplating
Their fragile existence, forlorn of any comfort
Other than preened feathers and the odd morsel
Floating in on the rising tide.

A tug boat blasts its raucous cry from the lock
Expecting a ship - to push and batter into position
Llew Evans bellows on his horn
‘Belay that, lego aft!’
Llew, a drama queen
Bullying certified captains to his will.
The Dry Dock workshops loom over me
On the last half mile. High and dark
They menace all who pass by.

I turn into the last stretch passing the
Ship chandler’s buildings, just a collection
Of wooden shacks covered in tar to make
Weatherproof. Dennis, Dad's helper, burned
them down when re-tarring
He forgot tar and fire mix only too well.
Dennis moved fast that day,
the flames licked at the paint store door.

SivaRamanathan
Posts: 1169
Joined: 14 May 2011, 20:30

Re: The Dry Dock Road

#2 Post by SivaRamanathan » 07 Aug 2012, 10:23

Frank
I have been reading this and I need to read this more to be able to comment.


Siva

SivaRamanathan
Posts: 1169
Joined: 14 May 2011, 20:30

Re: The Dry Dock Road

#3 Post by SivaRamanathan » 08 Aug 2012, 19:44

(Once) (a)Again I’m cycling the Dry Dock Road[.]
(t)The alarm rattles in its tin
creating bedlam for a moment in the darkness
Dispair(despair) at the early call
longing to stay in the warm

I dress hurridly in the damp air(,)
make Nescafe in a flask, add sugar
[and] heave Dad's home-guard haversack
over my back and peddle down the path(.)

I remember his steel helmet with a plastic cover
to stop(slant) the rain, or was it shrapnel,
falling on his neck[.](?) His gas mask
that I practised in, not knowing what gas was
or it(s) effect[s](.)Lucky me.

I remember the ack-ack guns at the rear
of our house, manned, how does one
say womanised(womanized) by WACK's
(i)In imitation nylons, just stain
(of)[and] luscious lips(?)

I still see the Italian internees in the camp
trundling the town in long coats
returning at dusk to lock themselves in
(l)Like chickings bedding down from the fox.

We used his bayonet to cut kindling
sticks for the fire, rusty and battered
by hammer blows. It never saw a German gut
no paratroopers, Nazi or otherwise
fell near us.

I peddle past the steel company hopital
always lights on there(.)
Dad almost died after his stomach was
removed, save for one small corner.
Sister shouted at him when he gave up,
'Its up to you now, live or die.'
He survived, eating eight tiny meals every day
for the rest of his life.

Over Newbridge Road [only] it isn’t new(.)
It is barred to (all)[any] vehicles(.)
I wonder if it will give way as I cross(.)
Two years earlier [and] we dived from its ramparts
(a)An expensive diving platform(----)
Now(,) my route over the river to my work(.)

I draw level with the Dry Dock outlet
(a)And the weir. The sewer outfall expels
(i)Its filth(,)[ and] a vile stink hangs on the river mist(.)
Seagulls guard the mud-banks contemplating
(t)Their fragile existence, forlorn of any comfort
(o)Other than preened feathers(with) [and] the odd morsel
(f)Floating in on the rising tide.

A tug boat blasts its raucous cry from the lock
(e)Expecting a ship - to push and batter into position(.)
Llew Evans bellows on his horn
‘Belay that, lego aft!’
Llew, a drama queen
(b)Bullying certified captains to his will.
The Dry Dock workshops loom over me
(o)On the last half mile. High and dark
(t)They menace all who pass by.

I turn into the last stretch passing the
(s)Ship chandler’s buildings, just a collection
(o)Of wooden shacks covered in tar to make
(w)Weatherproof. Dennis, Dad's helper, burned
them down when re-tarring(.)

He forgot tar and fire mix only too well.
Dennis moved fast that day,
the flames licked at the paint store door.

SivaRamanathan
Posts: 1169
Joined: 14 May 2011, 20:30

Re: The Dry Dock Road

#4 Post by SivaRamanathan » 09 Aug 2012, 10:37

Frank
I think a re-ordering of the stanzas will be able to bring out the pathos.To begin with the flames that lick ,and then to carry the story forward will make it more involving.

FrankDyer
Posts: 227
Joined: 17 May 2011, 06:28

Re: The Dry Dock Road

#5 Post by FrankDyer » 10 Aug 2012, 03:14

My Thanks to Siva for her attention to detail,suddenly I am aware of my own shortcomings. I have been lazy in not changing the caital placed by the automatic editor. I prefer it that way but am not too sure of the convention.

It is usful to know if the reader enjoyed the poem or made any sense of it, pssibly identifying with its mood or experience. Americans use the 'z' a lot where we Brits use a 's'.

SivaRamanathan
Posts: 1169
Joined: 14 May 2011, 20:30

Re: The Dry Dock Road - edit 1

#6 Post by SivaRamanathan » 10 Aug 2012, 03:23

Frank
I am thinking.As a long narrative poem we are led into the story.But if you looking for impact then a shorter version of this would hit the reader,pat.

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