Dowd's Wharf (revision)

[Matty11]

revision

The mud's a grey unhealthy skin
where the neap tide lingers. This Usk
can never clean, though its mud gleams,
the glitter balls  have found their graves.
This river wharf bites colder than home.

The ship holds a belly of scab coal.
Up river, rumour says the Usk
boasts a healthy trout. There's mud
in Birmingham, but not like this.
Why are the spring tides higher? I ask.

They shrug.
They have mud hands like mine.
The air shivers with an easterly chill.

After the shift my fingers cramp
so cold I hear that rack of regret.
Daft I know. The Usk gathers bones.
I take the short-cut back. He's there,
the younger me, kicking a ball
against the door.

                            I pick a scab -
my voice calling pass, pass the ball.



original

The mud's a grey unhealthy skin
where the neap tide lingers. This Usk
can never clean, though its mud gleams,
the glitter balls  have found their graves.
This river wharf bites colder than home.

The ship bloats a belly of scab coal.
Up river, rumour says the Usk
boasts a healthy trout. There's mud
in Birmingham, but not like this.
Where's the sea of tranquillity? I ask.

They shrug.
They have mud hands like mine.

After the shift my fingers cramp
so cold I hear that rack of regret.
Daft I know. The Usk gathers bones.
I take the short-cut back. He's there,
the younger me, kicking a ball
against the door.

                            I pick a scab -
my voice calling pass, pass the ball.

[indar]

I will continue to study this one Phil,

I am surprised there have been no comments on such a fine write. I spent a little time on Wikipedia figuring out where Usk is and how it relates to the context of your poem and I will continue to puzzle it out because that's how poetry is meant to be read if you ask me (which no one did). I'll be back to this one.

[Colm Roe]

A well written and foreboding piece Phil.
There's a sense of being trapped in that mud, that far away fields are greener (with clean water full of trout) and the language is quite dark.
Were the 'scab' and 'ball' repeats intentional?
Anywho, you finished it well, I felt the boy was more of a ghost than a memory, like the N realising he'll never be able to escape.
Nice read.

[Tracy Mitchell]

AS usual, Phil, the poem exhibits a mature sense of craft - diction and cadence. Favorite phrase – “The Usk gathers bones.”

I am puzzled by the sea of tranquility – not capitalized, but still seemingly referencing the moonscape. Too much forest for the tree? Seems vastly out of place.

S.1 L.5 – “This river wharf’s chill bites worse than home”. Just a thought.

I like the shift to viewing N’s younger self at the end, with shady origins of what might have triggered it.

Mud covers everything.

Rich, deep poem. “.. . glitter balls have found their graves.” Yes.

[Matty11]

Thanks Linda, Colm, T. I thought I'd make a contribution to the 'labour' genre poem

Usk is and how it relates to the context of your poem

It was where I worked for a couple of years Linda. It has one of the world's highest tides, and the tide dictated when you off-loaded a ship, but mostly I remember how cold it was on the wharf in the early hours.

Were the 'scab' and 'ball' repeats intentional?

Yes,they were Colm. Just playing. I got made redundant from that job, not that it was the healthiest...the cafe did an excellent artery hardening breakfast, and when the boat wasn't in, a few hours in the pub!

I am puzzled by the sea of tranquility – not capitalized, but still seemingly referencing the moonscape. Too much forest for the tree? Seems vastly out of place.

Fair point T. It was there for distant aspirations, but on reflection, a bit of a cliche, though asking questions is a way to get out of 'the mud'.

all the best
Phil

[Tracy Mitchell]

Good revision -- I like it.

[Matty11]

Thanks for comng back with the thumbs up T. and for the original nudge. Appreciated. I also now know the meaning of syzygy!

cheers

Phil

[indar]

To my read, the main theme of this write is about one whose life appears to be locked into a spirit-killing work life. As do many in this situation the N fantasizes about a miraculous way out. As is often the case the miracle is somehow becoming a:

rock star
movie star 
football/basketball/soccer star

Also as often is the case the N probably can't envision a step-by-step plan to a better situation, maybe because there isn't one.

As to the memory of the younger by the older N, I would like to know more about Einstein's proclamation that time is not linear because I once drove to a house I lived in at a much younger age and had an overwhelming experience of the presence of that 15 year old "me" to whom I made a promise (of course I know better) I even wrote a poem about it back in the MWC days.

We certainly are a composite of everything we've been. Love this poem.

[Dave]

I was struck by a couple of things while reading the poem. The first is the fact the first half is a series of quite static statements that on the one hand mirror the nature of the mudflats and on the other hand read somewhat flatly. This is not meant as critcism but observation:
 The mud's a grey unhealthy skin
where the neap tide lingers. This Usk
can never clean, though its mud gleams,
the glitter balls  have found their graves.
This river wharf bites colder than home.
While each of these produces verbs/actions-lingers, gleams,clean, found bites - tonally the dominance arises from the nouns.

The last stanza on the other hand comes more alive with strong verbs and preponderance of hard sounds:
After the shift my fingers cramp
so cold I hear that rack of regret.
Daft I know. The Usk gathers bones.
I take the short-cut back. He's there,
the younger me, kicking a ball
against the door.

                            I pick a scab -
my voice calling pass, pass the ball.
In this pqssqge there qre strong S sounds too: This for me is an interesting transition. While I prefer this latter part, there is a sense of transition from stasis to movement. 
I would suggest though changing calling to call and dropping 'my voice' - what else should call even if the idea is to disembody the voice and make it a remembered voiced rather than an actual and current one.
Dave

[Tracy Mitchell]

Indar -- Cottonwoods -- stunning poem, still brings a tear. Easily one of the 5 best poems ever posted at MWC.