New York Pitch Reviews, Algonkian Writer Conferences, Poetry

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 Post subject: Trunk Call
PostPosted: 03 Jun 2018, 13:57 
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Joined: 02 Mar 2016, 18:07
Posts: 1121
Location: Between the mountains and the sea
'The drifting clutter of low voices
like a poorly tuned radio.'
Bernard Henrie,
Dwindling Warmth and Comfort of Our Days,
Nov 2017 The Writer's Block

A warm wet wind washes the forecourt,
condappana palms sway in Old Bombay;
lithe dresses on a line. Droplets splatter the
dwarapalaka, he dances round the puddles,
a jet faced shaker - fakir; Raj ribbons rattle,
medals from an unmentionable age.

Guards in Empire Khaki wave
me through, heads wag as Hindus do.
The lift groans to a stop,
a braying recalcitrant.

I climb the stairs to the third.
Saturdays, packed with accolades,
Chivas Regal tipplers and the
exquisiteness of Shamshad Begum.

My trunk call to 's-Hertogenbosch rings.
My neighbour waves from across the hall,
beckons. Music and aroma flood
from his suite, redolent of Gulf cuisine.
His Indian bride peeks - timing.

I take the call, her voice sweetens
my day. The lights flicker, then fail.
I see by the beam of a street lamp.

Across the buildings, in the light
of a room framed by darkness,
a young man sits; so close I can touch,
fussed over, caressed by a mother.

I become a voyeur, watch
young women weave around
him dressed in splendid silk
saris that arouse desire;
the monsoon tail slashes
the window.

'Are you there?'
'Yes, I'm here.'

Music undulates down the line
from a fading radio,
a voice sings 'I am calling
from the home upon the hill',
I covet her well-modulated English.

My diary entry: Hiraeth: an inconsolable
heartache for home. Mam in her kitchen a dusting
of flour, Welshcakes by the fire. A mist lifting
off the crag. A fresh wind chasing down the valley
shaking chimney pots. Rooks rush past, arrows
from a bow. Winberries from the hill. A window
of sunshine lights up a meadow. A Fado
of Lisbon, my heart breaks .


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PostPosted: 03 Jun 2018, 20:28 
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Joined: 30 Jul 2015, 11:14
Posts: 752
Frank---


jittery with creative fervor. existential anguish. this hotel parked just outside hell.

A warm wet wind washes the hotel forecourt,
condappana palms sway in Old Bombay;


(fantastic)


these visions...

...lithe dresses on a line.

...medals from an unmentionable age.

...Droplets splatter


the guests...

---My neighbour waves from across the hall,

---His Indian bride peeks in the background

---a young man sits; so close I can touch,

exotic smells and place names:


---Hertogenbosch (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H4fjZBzDPY4)

---redolent of Gulf cuisine.


the closing circle of dis paring passion...


I become a voyeur, watch
young women weave around
him dressed in silk splashed
saris arousing desire;
the monsoon tail slashes
at the window,


takes away my breath.


the narrator, stripped and purloined:


I write in my diary: Hiraeth, an inconsolable
heartache for home.



the poems aesthetic denouement:


Welshcakes by the fire, a mist lifting
off the crag, a fresh wind chasing down the valley
shaking the chimney pots. Crows rush past
like arrows from a bow. Winberries collected
from the west side of the hill,



exuberant and overshadowed by a vague feeling of dread and irredeemable loss. as though Hieronymus Bosch was a poet rather than a painter.




bernie


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PostPosted: 03 Jun 2018, 21:26 
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Joined: 02 Mar 2016, 18:07
Posts: 1121
Location: Between the mountains and the sea
Haha, you are generous to a fault Bernie, but I
love it. This is an old one as you know and you
were just as generous with the slightly more
prosaic version. I have added a diary ending
as in your 2nd placing last month in the IBPC
in your marvellous Japanese poem about WW2
and I feel it brings something to the poem
i.e. a comparison of two cultures. I have not put
this out for publication because I am hoping some
board will use it for the IBPC, this may seem
egocentric of me, but the old version has had over
500 views, possibly because of your blessing
in your earlier critique.

Loved the video on Holland, marvellous.


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PostPosted: 03 Jun 2018, 21:42 
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Joined: 03 Jun 2016, 21:03
Posts: 700
The poem keeps getting better and better...

Love the details, such as:

Droplets splatter the
dwarapalaka, he dances round the puddles,
a jet faced shaker - fakir; Raj ribbons rattle


The poem can use some pruning...to increase the impact...

but a lovely poem is emerging


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PostPosted: 04 Jun 2018, 13:55 
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Joined: 02 Mar 2016, 18:07
Posts: 1121
Location: Between the mountains and the sea
Thank you Bob
great encouragement
how to shorten,
I shall try.


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 Post subject: Re: Expatriate
PostPosted: 08 Jun 2018, 00:14 
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Joined: 01 Jun 2008, 09:17
Posts: 566
Frank. I agree about compressing or pruning.


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