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    poetry


    dots Submission Name: Miner for a Heart of Golddots
    --------------------------------------------------------





    Author: comradenessie
    Elite Ratio:    6.5 - 626/539/110
    Words: 235
    Class/Type: Poetry/Misc
    Total Views: 1335
    Average Vote:    No vote yet.
    Bytes: 1591



    Description:
       Tom Jones was born in Treforest and I believe has a share in Tom's Bar. Treforest is where my daughter Selina (Speacenik) went to University. She still lives in the area. This month I spent a great Birthday with Sel and her friends. All of whom have hearts of gold.

    I have tried to catch the feeling here but I think I am getting blind to the write. I'm aware that the ending could be stronger. Maybe a metaphor instead of a simile so his voice becomes a part of the Autumn and the town but I can't quite get it. Screams of frustration!!! Love to know what you think and any suggestions for improving warmly welcome as ever.


    Make the font bigger!! Double Spacing Back to recent posts.

    dotsMiner for a Heart of Golddots
    -------------------------------------------


    Outside, Tom's Bar
    Wood Road, Treforest
    dry heather on the hill turns mid-October brown
    and dirty concrete curdles, like stale cream
    on flat-roofed building blocks.

    Treforest was a mining town
    before the pits closed.
    You wouldn't know it now.
    Students are the main source of income
    and thirsty men go searching for jobs.

    Inside, there's Tom Jones on the wall,
    beer-stained tables and every Wednesday
    Open Jam night.
    There's tee-shirts
    tattoos and ponytails
    customers as worn out as the coal
    or the green grass billiard table.

    There's a mix of ages, locals and students,
    my daughter and friends gathered about the table,
    English and Irish accents merging
    and HAPPY BIRTHDAY to me
    sung in in the Cymru tongue,
    allowing me to ignore
    that I'm growing old.

    There's 'Death by Cider',
    magic tricks, laughter and a mix of music
    songs from the seventies
    Apple sweet, old Beatle numbers
    drunken loud mouths calling out requests.


    There are fingers strumming
    electric guitars beside the bar
    A nocturnal, Irish lad, hair dark as Guiness
    adjusts the amplifier, plays backup
    for a Welshman
    who's searching 'for a heart of gold'
    voice as rich as Treforest's
    autumn red leaves in the road outside.





    Submitted on 2006-10-20 08:22:00     Terms of Service / Copyright Rules
    Submissions: [ Previous ] [ Next ]

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    1: >_<
    2: I dunno...
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    5: Wow!




    ||| Comments |||
      Im bad at leaving really long comments. so ill just tell u what i think.
    It sounds really nice to me. and gives off a relaxed feeling.



    | Posted on 2007-02-26 00:00:00 | by WD-40 | [ Reply to This ]
      This reminds me of the places we went to in the Ozarks. Its no longer remote in some ways but there are places that serve food and drink and they are where communities share fun. As I think of this many of those places come to mind.

    I stopped in a small town along the Missouri river about noon one Saturday and it was near the feed store. Opening the door, I found the place was filled with mirth and activity, and folks visiting.

    So I think the idea of community needs to be accessible somewhere here. And I love how you've played Neil Young into the mix as a metaphor. I would use "amp" because we all know the meaning of the word. and it makes this more folk oriented. It tell us that life is art and the sharing of such is common, thank God.

    There are fingers strumming
    electric guitars beside the bar
    I'm wishing for 'Hotel California'
    but nobody plays it.

    I think I would delete the line about Hotel California and tack on the first line to the next strophe..why? because your sentiments have been amalgamated into the life here, and though they're real they seem to distract from the poem. That is not a criticism, mind you, but its all about the scene and it just doesn't seem to fit quite right.

    There are fingers strumming
    electric guitars beside the bar
    A nocturnal, Irish lad, hair dark as Guiness
    adjusts the amplifier, plays backup
    for a Welshman
    who's searching 'for a heart of gold'
    voice as rich as Treforest's
    autumn red leaves in the road outside.

    Now, I think the last strophe fits and ends up where it should.
    And your thoughts and images are gorgeous. You pulled up a lot of memories because I go to these jams often. In fact, "blue scapes ride 'til one" is about one such adventure. Great job, you make want to go there and visit, nessie!

    Love,

    Nan


    | Posted on 2006-11-08 00:00:00 | by nansofast | [ Reply to This ]
      ha... i only know the song "miner for a heart of gold" coz neil young sang it... i never associate anything with tom jones except for "cool baby... burning down the house" and yeah... not cool lol.

    anyways... you paint the whole scene well...
    its almost like im sitting at one of the tables scratching my name (or my lovers) into the table top with a dull object i found lying round and blowing tooth picks through a straw (like a peashooter) trying to get them to stick into the ceiling with very little success while listening to half conversations and singings and wondering whether anyone notices im alone or whether i actually am alone admist all the hustle and bustle...

    yeah... i dont really have any useful to say about this piece really except youve painted your imagery really really well.
    | Posted on 2006-10-20 00:00:00 | by Someones Epiphany | [ Reply to This ]
      As a story, it does its job-- and to inject oneself into it (I've already told you Happy Birthday) is something which affects the heart more fully when done so.

    This is a film sequence shared, and for that, it is what it is. Pub scenes like this are a dime a dozen, but it's in those details which make this enlivened and passionate.

    A few nitpicks (I always take the time with you lol):
    Beetles -- Beetles? Tsk tsk, you should know better lol.
    There's fingers strumming -- "There are", I think you mean. I always get caught up with this one myself, as it's a figure of speech embedded in the way we say things.
    whose searching 'for a heart of gold' -- "who's", tsk tsk again lol.

    That's all I've got for ye.

    Again, happy birthday Ness. I'd ask how old you are, but apparently that's impolite to ask a lady her age...

    Peace,

    Jase
    | Posted on 2006-10-20 00:00:00 | by alteredlife | [ Reply to This ]
      Outside, Tom's Bar
    Wood Road, Treforest
    dry heather on the hill turns mid-October brown
    and dirty concrete curdles, like stale cream
    on flat-roofed building blocks.

    Treforest was a mining town
    before the pits closed.
    You wouldn't know it now.
    Students are the main source of income
    and thirsty men go searching for jobs.

    Inside, there's Tom Jones on the wall,
    beer-stained tables and every Wednesday
    Open Jam night.
    There's tee-shirts
    tattoos and ponytails
    customers as worn out as the coal
    or the green grass billiard table.

    There's a mix of ages, locals and students,
    my daughter and friends gathered about the table,
    English and Irish accents merging
    and HAPPY BIRTHDAY to me sung in Welsh,
    allowing me to ignore
    that I'm growing old.

    There's 'Death by Cider',
    magic tricks, laughter and a mix of music
    songs from the seventies
    Apple sweet, old Beetle numbers
    drunken loud mouths calling out requests.

    There's fingers strumming
    electric guitars beside the bar
    I'm wishing for 'Hotel California'
    but nobody plays it.

    A nocturnal, Irish lad, hair dark as Guiness
    adjusts the amplifier, plays backup
    for a Welshman
    whose searching 'for a heart of gold'
    voice as rich as Treforest's
    autumn red leaves in the road outside.



    Somehow I knew Neil Young would make a guest appearence in a post so obviously an homage to one of his better known tunes. You and your daughter appear to have one thing in common concerning writing style; you both enjoy episodic storytelling and minute detailed descriptions ('dirty concrete curdles, like stale cream on flat-roofed building blocks,' for instance). Your description of her friends is very similar to the last post she left when she spoke of them as 'dreams.' An interesting observation, btw, that yothful exuberance brought life back (at least momentarily) to a slowly dying community and a certain comrade named nessie.

    I wish you'd left me some nits to pick, but such is not the case.
    Take care, Nessie
    Bill.

    | Posted on 2006-10-20 00:00:00 | by rws | [ Reply to This ]
      Hey that's really good. I'm from south wales too by the way.

    Linzi xx
    | Posted on 2006-10-20 00:00:00 | by Linzi | [ Reply to This ]


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