Salt River Station

[Peter Brooks]

It's a very long weekend coming here, so I thought that a weekend poem
might offer some cheer:

"
Salt River Station
Autumn Morning

By
Peter Brooks


Rosy mountains high overhead, in the cool still sweet morning scent,
A high, soft, slow cricket beat dancing.

Distant hill shapes behind the bright yellow haze framed by gantry
tracery pierced by sharp golden shafts of sun, spiking the eyes.

A luminous green-jacketed policewoman laughs a joke easily across two
platforms to a friend in the still, warm air.

The puppy-eager Cyclops-beaming trains eel swiftly, purposely,
smoothly, in purple-tipped tails aglow, strutting to a halt; exuding
the light foot, near dancing, happy, throng - it's Friday!

The wide, dark stairs fill with a bobbing undulating carpet, upwards.
Pig-tailed schoolgirls, gleaming white-toothed smiles flashing joy to
each other, skip in sea-green uniforms.

The train lunges out, a grunt, a shrieking jerk, enthralled to the
mother city ahead.

Suddenly empty, the platform's swept with neon blue nylon brush into
the homemade dustpan - evenly, gently. Prepared for later risers.

Figures wait, a chuckling survey taker asks their travel secrets,
their walk to the station even.

I am one with the workday flow, we all await the ebb - eagerly.

Weekend ignites us Kaapenaars.

30/3/2007
"

[Moira de Swardt]

Post by Peter Brooks
It's a very long weekend coming here, so I thought that a weekend poem

You're a very talented person. :-)

Post by Peter Brooks
"
Salt River Station
Autumn Morning
By
Peter Brooks
Rosy mountains high overhead, in the cool still sweet morning scent,
A high, soft, slow cricket beat dancing.
Distant hill shapes behind the bright yellow haze framed by gantry
tracery pierced by sharp golden shafts of sun, spiking the eyes.
A luminous green-jacketed policewoman laughs a joke easily across two
platforms to a friend in the still, warm air.
The puppy-eager Cyclops-beaming trains eel swiftly, purposely,
smoothly, in purple-tipped tails aglow, strutting to a halt; exuding
the light foot, near dancing, happy, throng - it's Friday!
The wide, dark stairs fill with a bobbing undulating carpet, upwards.
Pig-tailed schoolgirls, gleaming white-toothed smiles flashing joy to
each other, skip in sea-green uniforms.
The train lunges out, a grunt, a shrieking jerk, enthralled to the
mother city ahead.
Suddenly empty, the platform's swept with neon blue nylon brush into
the homemade dustpan - evenly, gently. Prepared for later risers.
Figures wait, a chuckling survey taker asks their travel secrets,
their walk to the station even.
I am one with the workday flow, we all await the ebb - eagerly.
Weekend ignites us Kaapenaars.
30/3/2007
"

[Peter H.M. Brooks]

Post by Moira de Swardt

Post by Peter Brooks
It's a very long weekend coming here, so I thought that a weekend poem

You're a very talented person. :-)

Thank you! - and you're a very kind person...

[Peter Brooks]

Yes, I know that it's bad form to reply to your own posts, but, for
some strange reason, posting this today has inspired me to have
another look at the poem and see what a bit of brushing up might do. I
did, when I took my first notes, have the intention of producing a
sonnet, and that's a possible, but unlikely, end that I might achieve.

For the moment, though, I've got it all down to fourteen lines without
any loss of meaning or atmosphere, I think. Naturally, it is denser
and less tractable to a first reading, but that's the nature of the
beast, really, isn't it.

The move from word to Usenet buggered the layout somewhat, I've tried
to correct that. Here is the next draft:

"
Salt River Station
Autumn Morning

By
Peter Brooks


Rosy mountain shield, in cool sweet morning scent; soft, cricket
tango,
gantry framed, distant hills shape yellow haze; gold-speared.

Luminous green jacketed policewomen laugh
a friendly, easy joke across warm, still, airy, platforms.

Pupeager cyclopsian trains eel; purple-tipped tails aglow;
strutting halts; exuding light-foot, near-dancing, Friday-happy,
throngs.

Wide, dark, stairs bob into undulating, bright carpet; upwards.
Pig-tailed schoolgirls, Smiles sharing joy, skip in sea-green
uniforms.

Grunt: shrieking jerk: train exit; in thrall to Mother City.

Empty platform's neon blue nylon brush-swept
into homemade dustpan - evenly, gently:
Later risers' sparkling mat.

A chuckling surveyor seeks our travel secrets: Even the home to
station walk.

Workday flow, we Kaapenaars, weekend ignited, eagerly anticipate ebb.

27/4/2007
"

[Rob]

Post by Peter Brooks
Yes, I know that it's bad form to reply to your own posts, but, for
some strange reason, posting this today has inspired me to have
another look at the poem and see what a bit of brushing up might do. I
did, when I took my first notes, have the intention of producing a
sonnet, and that's a possible, but unlikely, end that I might achieve.
For the moment, though, I've got it all down to fourteen lines without
any loss of meaning or atmosphere, I think. Naturally, it is denser
and less tractable to a first reading, but that's the nature of the
beast, really, isn't it.
The move from word to Usenet buggered the layout somewhat, I've tried
"
Salt River Station
Autumn Morning
By
Peter Brooks
Rosy mountain shield, in cool sweet morning scent; soft, cricket
tango,
gantry framed, distant hills shape yellow haze; gold-speared.
Luminous green jacketed policewomen laugh
a friendly, easy joke across warm, still, airy, platforms.
Pupeager cyclopsian trains eel; purple-tipped tails aglow;
strutting halts; exuding light-foot, near-dancing, Friday-happy,
throngs.
Wide, dark, stairs bob into undulating, bright carpet; upwards.
Pig-tailed schoolgirls, Smiles sharing joy, skip in sea-green
uniforms.
Grunt: shrieking jerk: train exit; in thrall to Mother City.
Empty platform's neon blue nylon brush-swept
Later risers' sparkling mat.
A chuckling surveyor seeks our travel secrets: Even the home to
station walk.
Workday flow, we Kaapenaars, weekend ignited, eagerly anticipate ebb.

It's an improvement with fewer distracting concrete brevities to
interrupt the adjectives.

There's still a slight trace of intelligible interest you might want to
eliminate.

Rob

[Peter H.M. Brooks]

Post by Rob
It's an improvement with fewer distracting concrete brevities to
interrupt the adjectives.

Thank's Rob. I think that we could discuss the relative imporance of
concrete, metaphorical and simply anjectival contributions. I've tried
for a balance. It, I think, given the subject, should be towards the
concrete.

Post by Rob
There's still a slight trace of intelligible interest you might want to
eliminate.

Ok. I'll take that as humour.

I think, though, that that is an important tension in any written
work, prose included. Word provides a 'readability' index based on
various measured indices.

Thank you, though for affording intelligbile interest to my first
version. I appreciate that.

If, though, intelligibility, were the only criterion, we'd be pretty
fucked. A poem can be dense, unless it's only aim is ubiquity

[Moira de Swardt]

"Peter Brooks" <***@gmail.com> wrote in message ...

Peter, register for www.reporter.co.za as they have a poetry section. That
way you can become a published, and a paid, poet. :-) Your writing is as
good as any I've read there and better than nearly all of it.

Moira

Post by Peter Brooks
Yes, I know that it's bad form to reply to your own posts, but, for
some strange reason, posting this today has inspired me to have
another look at the poem and see what a bit of brushing up might do. I
did, when I took my first notes, have the intention of producing a
sonnet, and that's a possible, but unlikely, end that I might achieve.
For the moment, though, I've got it all down to fourteen lines without
any loss of meaning or atmosphere, I think. Naturally, it is denser
and less tractable to a first reading, but that's the nature of the
beast, really, isn't it.
The move from word to Usenet buggered the layout somewhat, I've tried
"
Salt River Station
Autumn Morning
By
Peter Brooks
Rosy mountain shield, in cool sweet morning scent; soft, cricket
tango,
gantry framed, distant hills shape yellow haze; gold-speared.
Luminous green jacketed policewomen laugh
a friendly, easy joke across warm, still, airy, platforms.
Pupeager cyclopsian trains eel; purple-tipped tails aglow;
strutting halts; exuding light-foot, near-dancing, Friday-happy,
throngs.
Wide, dark, stairs bob into undulating, bright carpet; upwards.
Pig-tailed schoolgirls, Smiles sharing joy, skip in sea-green
uniforms.
Grunt: shrieking jerk: train exit; in thrall to Mother City.
Empty platform's neon blue nylon brush-swept
Later risers' sparkling mat.
A chuckling surveyor seeks our travel secrets: Even the home to
station walk.
Workday flow, we Kaapenaars, weekend ignited, eagerly anticipate ebb.
27/4/2007
"

[Amadeus Jinn]

"Wading Through Heron Legs"(TM)

The sizzling energy of jacketed coil winds whine
in the tangoing crickets, and the sweet, poetic scent
of the distant golden-yellow manifolds.

Wide, dark, luminous cables take charge
from the eel-purple 'clopsian distributor.

You, my plug, spitteth a bright streaking neon
sheen on a gap that waits his lush, pitted mistress.

The rest we leave to the birds of the air.
--
-------------------------------------------
AJ - http://ClitIns.Com e In.
(800 folders. -- kiddie-filtered -- FREE,
Usenet Porn.)

Peter, register for www.reporter.co.za as they have a poetry section. That way you can become a published, and a paid, poet. :-)
Your writing is as good as any I've read there and better than nearly all of it.
Moira

Post by Peter Brooks
Yes, I know that it's bad form to reply to your own posts, but, for
some strange reason, posting this today has inspired me to have
another look at the poem and see what a bit of brushing up might do. I
did, when I took my first notes, have the intention of producing a
sonnet, and that's a possible, but unlikely, end that I might achieve.
For the moment, though, I've got it all down to fourteen lines without
any loss of meaning or atmosphere, I think. Naturally, it is denser
and less tractable to a first reading, but that's the nature of the
beast, really, isn't it.
The move from word to Usenet buggered the layout somewhat, I've tried
"
Salt River Station
Autumn Morning
By
Peter Brooks
Rosy mountain shield, in cool sweet morning scent; soft, cricket
tango,
gantry framed, distant hills shape yellow haze; gold-speared.
Luminous green jacketed policewomen laugh
a friendly, easy joke across warm, still, airy, platforms.
Pupeager cyclopsian trains eel; purple-tipped tails aglow;
strutting halts; exuding light-foot, near-dancing, Friday-happy,
throngs.
Wide, dark, stairs bob into undulating, bright carpet; upwards.
Pig-tailed schoolgirls, Smiles sharing joy, skip in sea-green
uniforms.
Grunt: shrieking jerk: train exit; in thrall to Mother City.
Empty platform's neon blue nylon brush-swept
Later risers' sparkling mat.
A chuckling surveyor seeks our travel secrets: Even the home to
station walk.
Workday flow, we Kaapenaars, weekend ignited, eagerly anticipate ebb.
27/4/2007
"

[Frank Langella]

I've just started looking at Usenet poetry. I have to say that it is all
pretty bad, but this poem is some of the most Christawful tripe I've ever
read. Anywhere.

Frank Langella

[Peter H.M. Brooks]

Post by Frank Langella
Frank Langella

Well, that is rather sweet, thank you! I don't think that it would
have been Dracula's favourite poem - a good review from him might be
less of a compliment than it seemed. And for him to come out of his
tomb gracing me with his very first Usenet post has to be somebody
wanting to make me laugh.

Though, on second thoughts, being the subject of his very first post
would suggest that he has a particularly keen interest in me...

[Baba Mung]

Post by Peter Brooks
It's a very long weekend coming here, so I thought that a weekend poem
"
Salt River Station
Autumn Morning
By
Peter Brooks
Rosy mountains high overhead, in the cool still sweet morning scent,
A high, soft, slow cricket beat dancing.
Distant hill shapes behind the bright yellow haze framed by gantry
tracery pierced by sharp golden shafts of sun, spiking the eyes.
A luminous green-jacketed policewoman laughs a joke easily across two
platforms to a friend in the still, warm air.
The puppy-eager Cyclops-beaming trains eel swiftly, purposely,
smoothly, in purple-tipped tails aglow, strutting to a halt; exuding
the light foot, near dancing, happy, throng - it's Friday!
The wide, dark stairs fill with a bobbing undulating carpet, upwards.
Pig-tailed schoolgirls, gleaming white-toothed smiles flashing joy to
each other, skip in sea-green uniforms.
The train lunges out, a grunt, a shrieking jerk, enthralled to the
mother city ahead.
Suddenly empty, the platform's swept with neon blue nylon brush into
the homemade dustpan - evenly, gently. Prepared for later risers.
Figures wait, a chuckling survey taker asks their travel secrets,
their walk to the station even.
I am one with the workday flow, we all await the ebb - eagerly.
Weekend ignites us Kaapenaars.
30/3/2007
"

Hey! Thank you, Peter. I only recently returned to England after several
months spent in Cape Town. Your poem is very evocative.

Baba

[Peter H.M. Brooks]

Post by Baba Mung
Hey! Thank you, Peter. I only recently returned to England after several
months spent in Cape Town. Your poem is very evocative.

Thank you very much - I'm pleased you enjoyed it. You should have got
in touch, we could have had a beer together.

[Rob]

Post by Peter Brooks
It's a very long weekend coming here, so I thought that a weekend poem
"
Salt River Station
Autumn Morning
By
Peter Brooks
Rosy mountains high overhead, in the cool still sweet morning scent,
A high, soft, slow cricket beat dancing.
Distant hill shapes behind the bright yellow haze framed by gantry
tracery pierced by sharp golden shafts of sun, spiking the eyes.
A luminous green-jacketed policewoman laughs a joke easily across two
platforms to a friend in the still, warm air.
The puppy-eager Cyclops-beaming trains eel swiftly, purposely,
smoothly, in purple-tipped tails aglow, strutting to a halt; exuding
the light foot, near dancing, happy, throng - it's Friday!
The wide, dark stairs fill with a bobbing undulating carpet, upwards.
Pig-tailed schoolgirls, gleaming white-toothed smiles flashing joy to
each other, skip in sea-green uniforms.
The train lunges out, a grunt, a shrieking jerk, enthralled to the
mother city ahead.
Suddenly empty, the platform's swept with neon blue nylon brush into
the homemade dustpan - evenly, gently. Prepared for later risers.
Figures wait, a chuckling survey taker asks their travel secrets,
their walk to the station even.
I am one with the workday flow, we all await the ebb - eagerly.

It needs more concatenated adjectives. There was the odd dangerous
moment when the poem might have stopped telling and could have been
forced to lapse into showing.

Consistent English would also have been nice.

Rob

[Peter H.M. Brooks]

Post by Rob
It needs more concatenated adjectives. There was the odd dangerous
moment when the poem might have stopped telling and could have been
forced to lapse into showing.

Nicely oblique. The value you put on what you call 'showing' and what
you call 'telling' isn't clear.

It's, I suppose, a fashionably post-modernist position to make your
criticism so oblique as to prevent it allowing for improvement.

Let me, please, ask a direct question (at the risk of exposing you to
the horror of a direct answer).

Where, exactly, did the poem exhibit these dangerous moments, and why
where they dangerous??

Post by Rob
Consistent English would also have been nice.

Happy to oblige. Just let me know where your saw inconsistencies, and
your wish is my command.

[Peter Brooks]

OK.

I'm sorry.

I'll give the background. I met somebody in Melbourne who was really
keen on Bukowski, and thought him a poet. I investigated him, and read
a lot of his stuff, it seemed a load of arse to me. So I tried, on
Usenet to find out if there was anything actually worth while. I found
nothing.

I did find the groupnalt.books.bukowski, so I lookendd to see if there
was any value there and, understandably, there was none, apart from
one post:

"

Okay Peter, so why not come to where the /real poets/ are?
http://groups.google.com/group/alt.arts.poetry.comments?lnk=li&hl=en
And while you're at it, post some original poetry and/or critique?
On behalf of my fellow poets, we'd be honored to have you join us.

Thank you for the kind invitation. I might well drop in!
"

Now that I've had a little look here, I understand the invitation a
little better.

Still that was't that bad, really, was it?

Can you forget why I'm here, and, rather see that I am here?

[Will Dockery]

Post by Peter Brooks
OK.
I'm sorry.
I'll give the background. I met somebody in Melbourne who was really
keen on Bukowski, and thought him a poet. I investigated him, and read
a lot of his stuff, it seemed a load of arse to me. So I tried, on
Usenet to find out if there was anything actually worth while. I found
nothing.
I did find the groupnalt.books.bukowski, so I lookendd to see if there
was any value there and, understandably, there was none, apart from
"

Okay Peter, so why not come to where the /real poets/ are?
http://groups.google.com/group/alt.arts.poetry.comments?lnk=li&hl=en
And while you're at it, post some original poetry and/or critique?
On behalf of my fellow poets, we'd be honored to have you join us.

Thank you for the kind invitation. I might well drop in!
"
Now that I've had a little look here, I understand the invitation a
little better.
Still that was't that bad, really, was it?
Can you forget why I'm here, and, rather see that I am here?

Yeah, I remember you now, about a year ago, right? Glad you finally
made it over, Peter.

--
"The Ride (Combat Zone)":
http://www.myspace.com/shadowvilleallstars

"Wobble":
http://www.myspace.com/willdockery