On Sunday, June 18, 2023 at 9:15:09 PM UTC-4, W-Dockery wrote:
> Michael Pendragon wrote:
>
> > On Friday, June 16, 2023 at 3:54:57 PM UTC-4, Michael Pendragon wrote:
> >> On Wednesday, June 14, 2023 at 4:50:17 PM UTC-4, W-Dockery wrote:
> >> > On Mulberry Drive
> >> >
> >> > On Mulberry Drive
> >> > walking in the Spring rain.
> >> This is not a sentence. It lacks both a subject and a verb.
> >>
> >> A sentence would be: "I was on Mulberry Drive, walking in the Spring rain.."
> >>
> >> A better sentence would be: "I was walking on Mulberry Drive in the Spring rain," or "I was walking in the Spring rain, on Mulberry Drive."
> >> > Except for signs of a driveway
> >> > nothing else remains.
> >> Nothing remains of *what*???
> >>
> >> Contextually, this sentence would be directly referring to the previous (non-)sentence. This would mean that the street named "Mulberry Drive" no longer exists.
> >>
> >> You need to indicate that you're writing about a house *before* you allude to.
> >> > They took it all away
> >> > the house and the hill.
> >> This needs some stronger punctuation at the end of the line break.
> >>
> >> You should switch quasi-sentences 2 and 3 around:
> >> They took it all away,
> >> the house and the hill.
> >> Except for signs of a driveway
> >> nothing else remains.
> >> Of course, part of the reason for your fragmented, inverted semi-sentences is that you've attempted to employ a loosely metered form of near-rhyme.
> >>
> >> Don't.
> >>
> >> You are not up to writing in rhyme.
> >>
> >> In order to write rhymed sentences, you first need to know *how* to write sentences.
> >>
> >> And nothing sounds worse than a poorly written poem that's set in rhyme.
> >>
> >> One of the reasons free verse has become the predominant form of poetry is that it's extremely difficult to screw it up. As long as one can write a sentence, one can chop it up into an acceptable example of free verse.
> >> > That spot we shared in '78
> >> > all the love and thrills.
> >> This is not a sentence as it lacks a verb. The spot you shared did what? Or, more probably, what was done to the spot you shared?
> >> That spot we shared in '78
> >> is gone with the love and thrills.
> >> > Oblivion is coming
> >> > it's written in the stone.
> >> Death may travel fast, but oblivion would appear to be stationary.
> >>
> >> Oblivion is not an *event* like death; it is a state of being (or, more correctly, of not being).
> >>
> >> An apocalypse might be coming (although the demolition of an old apartment building doesn't justify the comparison), but oblivion is not.
> >>
> >> Equally bad is your claim that "it's written in the stone."
> >>
> >> People say that something is "written in stone," which is how you probably latched onto the idea without fully understand what it means. This is a reference to the stone tablets on which God wrote the Ten Commandments. To say that something is "written in stone" means that it cannot be changed.
> >>
> >> As in your poem, it is often used in conjunction with an ironclad prediction of the future.
> >>
> >> However, people do not say that something is "written in the stone."
> >>
> >> First off, if it were written in the stone, it would necessarily have to be *inside* of the stone.
> >> Second, since we cannot write anything inside of a stone, we do the next best thing: we write *on* it.
> >>
> >> You can, therefore, you can either say that something is "written in stone" or that it is "written on the stone." You cannot say that it is "written in the stone" (unless you're Balki Bartokomous or his cousin, Ilya Shambat).
> >> > It really starts out
> >> > on the day that you're born.
> >> What really starts out on the day that you're born?
> >>
> >> Oblivion?
> >>
> >> Actually, the exact opposite happens.
> >>
> >> I think you mean that the moments of your life start ticking away the moment that you're born -- that isn't even close to what you've written.
> >> > Live every second
> >> > dance what you've captured.
> >> What does this even mean?
> >>
> >> If you catch a squirrel for dinner, you should immediately break into a squirrel dance?
> >> > Shadowville Mythos...
> >> > is on the last chapter.
> >> I thought that "Shadowville Mythos" was supposed to mean the mythic life of Will Donkey and friends in the underbelly of Phenix City.
> >>
> >> And how is another on the last chapter?
> >>
> >> Do you mean that your collected poetry is about the end of life? I beg to differ -- it seems mostly about the drugs and skank hos that you've done.
> >>
> >> If not, we say that something is *in* the final chapter.
> >> > On Mulberry Drive
> >> > on another mystery play.
> >> This is not a sentence as it lacks a verb.
> >>
> >> On Mulberry Drive there was
> >> another mystery play.
> >>
> >> *I have no idea what the second "on" is doing there.
> >> > Almost fifty years ago
> >> > still seems like yesterday.
> >> You're rambling again. Yes, we all remember the past as if it just happened... but what has this common observation got to do with the Mulberry Drive "mystery play"?
> >>
> >> Do you know what a mystery play is?
> >>
> >> They're a far cry from Agatha Christie:
> >>
> >> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mystery_play
> >> > That long driveway
> >> > now goes into space.
> >> Not really. It's still on the ground.
> >>
> >> Try rewording this.
> >> > We thought we'd live forever
> >> > not dead and disgraced.
> >> You're living dead and disgraced?
> >>
> >> Seriously? Because that's what you've actually written.
> >> > Darkness is falling
> >> > archived in a book.
> >> You can't archive something until *after* it has taken place. If darkness is *in the act of falling,* you have to wait until it has fallen in order to archive it.
> >> > It really gets smaller
> >> > the closer you look.
> >> What does? Darkness?
> >>
> >> Darkness seems like it would be limitless.
> >>
> >> Do you understand that contextually, "it" refers to the subject that immediately preceded it?
> >> > Breathe deeply my darling
> >> > smoke them if you have to.
> >> Let's throw in a few clichés to pad this out.
> >> > Shadowville Mythos...
> >> > is on the last chapter.
> >> See above.
> >> > On Mulberry Drive
> >> > now the hail's coming down.
> >> Awkwardly inverted, but I've got a bus to catch.
> >> > Taps on the umbrella
> >> > as I'm walking around.
>
> > I'm guessing that you mean the hail taps on your umbrella. If you don't want to repeat "the hail" again, you could at least make use of an "it."
>
> >> > I remember that fireplace
> >> > I remember her smile.
> >> > I remember Edgewood Park
> >> > where we'd laugh for a while.
>
> > The above is an example of what "sing-song" poetry actually means.
> Of which you're definitely an expert since all of your poetry uses dreary rhymes.

"Sing-song" doesn't mean "rhyme," Donkey. It refers to a specific type of forced and/or painfully obvious attempt at rhyming, where the rhyme has become the focus rather than the thought. "Where we'd laugh for a while" is an obvious piece of filler, serving no purpose other than to provide a rhyme with "smile."

BTW, it should be "where we laughed for a while."

> >> > In the living room
> >> > I heard a ghost moan.
> > switch this sentence with the one about Edgewood Park. The memories inside the house should be kept together
> Perhaps.
> >> > As I talked with the Cavalier
> >> > on a land line telephone.
>
> > Since no one but you has any idea who the "Cavalier" is
> Those who know the Shadowville Mythos will know.

No one knows the "Shadowville Mythos" except for possibly General Stink.

If your poetry cannot be understood without one's having read your entire collection, you've got a problem. A poem should be able to stand on its own..

Either run it all together into a single, unbearably long, and totally incoherent "epic," or drop all the meaningless call-outs to friends.

> >> > Relive every second
> >> > these memories you've captured.
>
> >
> >> > Shadowville Mythos...
> >> > is on the last chapter.
>
> > This "refrain" sounds even
> So it went over your head, no surprise there.

It's a matter of incoherent writing, Donkey.

"Shadowville Mythos... is on the last chapter."

The closest thing to a meaning I can wring out of it is that your poetry... is apocalyptic.

But there's nothing apocalyptic about your poem. It's basic the garbled memory fragments of a past love affair triggered by your discovery that the apartment you'd shared is long gone.

> >> > -Will Dockery (3-27-23)
> >> >
> >> > ----
> >> > From the Shadowville Mythos poetry blog:
> >> > https://shadowville-mythos.blogspot.com/2023/03/on-mulberry-drive.html?m=0
> I'll get back to this later, thanks again for reading and commenting, Pendragon.
>
> 🙂