Mt Father's House / George J. Dance

[George J. Dance]

My Father's House

This is my father's house, although
The man died thirteen years ago.
They said it would be quite all right
To take a drive to see it now.

Dad laid those grey foundation blocks
And built the whole thing (from a box),
Toiling after each full day's work.
I helped, though I was only six.

Look, here's the back door I would use
And here's where I'd remove my shoes
To enter; there I'd leave my things
And, when allowed, climb up these stairs.

In this room I'd wash many a dish,
Gaze out this window, and I'd wish
To be so many other places.
(Wishy-washy? Oh, I guess!)

Outside, the garden that he grew
Where I would work the summers through,
While watching my friends run and play
Mysterious games I never knew.

That room's all changed; oh, where is it,
The one chair I was let to sit?
(For boys can be such filthy things.)
Which, the corner where boys were put?

Oh ... down that hall there is a room
Where I'd be shut (as in a tomb)
After the meal, to make no noise,
To read or play alone, and then

Lights out: in bed by nine each night,
Some nights wanting to pee with fright,
Face and pyjama bottoms down
As for my father's belt I'd wait.

Oh, if I were a millionaire
I'd buy my father's house, and there
I'd build a bonfire, oh so high
Its flames would light up all the air.

~~
George J. Dance
from Logos and other logoi, 2021

[General-Zod]

That's pretty funny coming from NancyGene, who thinks London, home of John Dunne and Robert F. Stillings, is in Ireland... ha ha.

What was even funnier, for me, was that just after announcing the Yeats
exhibit in London, Ireland, Prof. NG suddenly took a month-long
"sabbatical" from the group. I spent a couple of amusing hours imagining
them roaming around Ireland looking for London. (Of course, not being a
troll, I never posted about it.)

That's okay Corey I know how you have great difficulty in answering questions... ha ha.

Likewise, I’m sure.

I don't have any problems answering questions....

[W.Dockery]

Post by George J. Dance
My Father's House
This is my father's house, although
The man died thirteen years ago.
They said it would be quite all right
To take a drive to see it now.
Dad laid those grey foundation blocks
And built the whole thing (from a box),
Toiling after each full day's work.
I helped, though I was only six.
Look, here's the back door I would use
And here's where I'd remove my shoes
To enter; there I'd leave my things
And, when allowed, climb up these stairs.
In this room I'd wash many a dish,
Gaze out this window, and I'd wish
To be so many other places.
(Wishy-washy? Oh, I guess!)
Outside, the garden that he grew
Where I would work the summers through,
While watching my friends run and play
Mysterious games I never knew.
That room's all changed; oh, where is it,
The one chair I was let to sit?
(For boys can be such filthy things.)
Which, the corner where boys were put?
Oh ... down that hall there is a room
Where I'd be shut (as in a tomb)
After the meal, to make no noise,
To read or play alone, and then
Lights out: in bed by nine each night,
Some nights wanting to pee with fright,
Face and pyjama bottoms down
As for my father's belt I'd wait.
Oh, if I were a millionaire
I'd buy my father's house, and there
I'd build a bonfire, oh so high
Its flames would light up all the air.
~~
George J. Dance
from Logos and other logoi, 2021

Again, excellent poetry, as all apparently agree.

🙂

[W-Dockery]

Post by George J. Dance
My Father's House
This is my father's house, although
The man died thirteen years ago.
They said it would be quite all right
To take a drive to see it now.
Dad laid those grey foundation blocks
And built the whole thing (from a box),
Toiling after each full day's work.
I helped, though I was only six.
Look, here's the back door I would use
And here's where I'd remove my shoes
To enter; there I'd leave my things
And, when allowed, climb up these stairs.
In this room I'd wash many a dish,
Gaze out this window, and I'd wish
To be so many other places.
(Wishy-washy? Oh, I guess!)
Outside, the garden that he grew
Where I would work the summers through,
While watching my friends run and play
Mysterious games I never knew.
That room's all changed; oh, where is it,
The one chair I was let to sit?
(For boys can be such filthy things.)
Which, the corner where boys were put?
Oh ... down that hall there is a room
Where I'd be shut (as in a tomb)
After the meal, to make no noise,
To read or play alone, and then
Lights out: in bed by nine each night,
Some nights wanting to pee with fright,
Face and pyjama bottoms down
As for my father's belt I'd wait.
Oh, if I were a millionaire
I'd buy my father's house, and there
I'd build a bonfire, oh so high
Its flames would light up all the air.
~~
George J. Dance
from Logos and other logoi, 2021

I like George's poem.
It's a sad poem but bold and unaffected.
I read it again.
Keep it up, George.

Agre

Sounds like

Not at all, Zod was just extending a friendly welcome.

:)

[General-Zod]

Post by W.Dockery

Post by George J. Dance
My Father's House
This is my father's house, although
The man died thirteen years ago.
They said it would be quite all right
To take a drive to see it now.
Dad laid those grey foundation blocks
And built the whole thing (from a box),
Toiling after each full day's work.
I helped, though I was only six.
Look, here's the back door I would use
And here's where I'd remove my shoes
To enter; there I'd leave my things
And, when allowed, climb up these stairs.
In this room I'd wash many a dish,
Gaze out this window, and I'd wish
To be so many other places.
(Wishy-washy? Oh, I guess!)
Outside, the garden that he grew
Where I would work the summers through,
While watching my friends run and play
Mysterious games I never knew.
That room's all changed; oh, where is it,
The one chair I was let to sit?
(For boys can be such filthy things.)
Which, the corner where boys were put?
Oh ... down that hall there is a room
Where I'd be shut (as in a tomb)
After the meal, to make no noise,
To read or play alone, and then
Lights out: in bed by nine each night,
Some nights wanting to pee with fright,
Face and pyjama bottoms down
As for my father's belt I'd wait.
Oh, if I were a millionaire
I'd buy my father's house, and there
I'd build a bonfire, oh so high
Its flames would light up all the air.
~~
George J. Dance
from Logos and other logoi, 2021

Again, excellent poetry, as all apparently agree.

It's pathological, not poetic.

In your opinion, you mean.

Exactly, opinions, that's all any of us have, as poetry, like art, is subjective....

[W.Dockery]

Post by W.Dockery

Post by George J. Dance
My Father's House
This is my father's house, although
The man died thirteen years ago.
They said it would be quite all right
To take a drive to see it now.
Dad laid those grey foundation blocks
And built the whole thing (from a box),
Toiling after each full day's work.
I helped, though I was only six.
Look, here's the back door I would use
And here's where I'd remove my shoes
To enter; there I'd leave my things
And, when allowed, climb up these stairs.
In this room I'd wash many a dish,
Gaze out this window, and I'd wish
To be so many other places.
(Wishy-washy? Oh, I guess!)
Outside, the garden that he grew
Where I would work the summers through,
While watching my friends run and play
Mysterious games I never knew.
That room's all changed; oh, where is it,
The one chair I was let to sit?
(For boys can be such filthy things.)
Which, the corner where boys were put?
Oh ... down that hall there is a room
Where I'd be shut (as in a tomb)
After the meal, to make no noise,
To read or play alone, and then
Lights out: in bed by nine each night,
Some nights wanting to pee with fright,
Face and pyjama bottoms down
As for my father's belt I'd wait.
Oh, if I were a millionaire
I'd buy my father's house, and there
I'd build a bonfire, oh so high
Its flames would light up all the air.
~~
George J. Dance
from Logos and other logoi, 2021

Again, excellent poetry, as all apparently agree.

It's pathological, not poetic.

In your opinion, you mean.

[General-Zod]

Post by W.Dockery

Post by George J. Dance
My Father's House
This is my father's house, although
The man died thirteen years ago.
They said it would be quite all right
To take a drive to see it now.
Dad laid those grey foundation blocks
And built the whole thing (from a box),
Toiling after each full day's work.
I helped, though I was only six.
Look, here's the back door I would use
And here's where I'd remove my shoes
To enter; there I'd leave my things
And, when allowed, climb up these stairs.
In this room I'd wash many a dish,
Gaze out this window, and I'd wish
To be so many other places.
(Wishy-washy? Oh, I guess!)
Outside, the garden that he grew
Where I would work the summers through,
While watching my friends run and play
Mysterious games I never knew.
That room's all changed; oh, where is it,
The one chair I was let to sit?
(For boys can be such filthy things.)
Which, the corner where boys were put?
Oh ... down that hall there is a room
Where I'd be shut (as in a tomb)
After the meal, to make no noise,
To read or play alone, and then
Lights out: in bed by nine each night,
Some nights wanting to pee with fright,
Face and pyjama bottoms down
As for my father's belt I'd wait.
Oh, if I were a millionaire
I'd buy my father's house, and there
I'd build a bonfire, oh so high
Its flames would light up all the air.
~~
George J. Dance
from Logos and other logoi, 2021

Again, excellent poetry, as all apparently agree.

It's pathological, not poetic.

I like George's poem.
It's a sad poem but bold and unaffected.
I read it again.
Keep it up, George.

Thank you for reading and for commenting, Dennis; and let me welcome you
to appc, too.
I don't like a lot of confessional poetry, but there are some that are
done well (many of Plath's, eg) that I've enjoyed; and this poem is to
some degree confessional, as the speaker's roughly based on me in my
much younger days. But it's not really confessional, but a dramatic
monologue; the speaker's not me, and I've modified facts (leaving out
some, exaggerating others) for the sake of the goal, to give the reader
a look into the mind of the speaker.
I am really glad that you liked it, and even more so that you liked it
that much, enough to write and tell me.

Well put, G.D....!

[General-Zod]

Post by George J. Dance
My Father's House
This is my father's house, although
The man died thirteen years ago.
They said it would be quite all right
To take a drive to see it now.
Dad laid those grey foundation blocks
And built the whole thing (from a box),
Toiling after each full day's work.
I helped, though I was only six.
Look, here's the back door I would use
And here's where I'd remove my shoes
To enter; there I'd leave my things
And, when allowed, climb up these stairs.
In this room I'd wash many a dish,
Gaze out this window, and I'd wish
To be so many other places.
(Wishy-washy? Oh, I guess!)
Outside, the garden that he grew
Where I would work the summers through,
While watching my friends run and play
Mysterious games I never knew.
That room's all changed; oh, where is it,
The one chair I was let to sit?
(For boys can be such filthy things.)
Which, the corner where boys were put?
Oh ... down that hall there is a room
Where I'd be shut (as in a tomb)
After the meal, to make no noise,
To read or play alone, and then
Lights out: in bed by nine each night,
Some nights wanting to pee with fright,
Face and pyjama bottoms down
As for my father's belt I'd wait.
Oh, if I were a millionaire
I'd buy my father's house, and there
I'd build a bonfire, oh so high
Its flames would light up all the air.
~~
George J. Dance
from Logos and other logoi, 2021

I like George's poem.
It's a sad poem but bold and unaffected.
I read it again.
Keep it up, George.

Wtf is “sad but bold and unaffected” supposed to mean? Sounds like bullshit to me.

Sounds like a good review to me....

Okay. Good for you.

Hi there Corey....!!

Go team.

Buffalo Bills....

[General-Zod]

Post by George J. Dance
My Father's House
This is my father's house, although
The man died thirteen years ago.
They said it would be quite all right
To take a drive to see it now.
Dad laid those grey foundation blocks
And built the whole thing (from a box),
Toiling after each full day's work.
I helped, though I was only six.
Look, here's the back door I would use
And here's where I'd remove my shoes
To enter; there I'd leave my things
And, when allowed, climb up these stairs.
In this room I'd wash many a dish,
Gaze out this window, and I'd wish
To be so many other places.
(Wishy-washy? Oh, I guess!)
Outside, the garden that he grew
Where I would work the summers through,
While watching my friends run and play
Mysterious games I never knew.
That room's all changed; oh, where is it,
The one chair I was let to sit?
(For boys can be such filthy things.)
Which, the corner where boys were put?
Oh ... down that hall there is a room
Where I'd be shut (as in a tomb)
After the meal, to make no noise,
To read or play alone, and then
Lights out: in bed by nine each night,
Some nights wanting to pee with fright,
Face and pyjama bottoms down
As for my father's belt I'd wait.
Oh, if I were a millionaire
I'd buy my father's house, and there
I'd build a bonfire, oh so high
Its flames would light up all the air.
~~
George J. Dance
from Logos and other logoi, 2021

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx trolling snipped xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Where I grew up, a 13-14-year old who was regularly drinking, getting high, and banging other children would have been thought of as trash

Yet you seem to have no problem with grown men such as Edgar Allan Poe and Jerry Lee Lewis having sex, and marrying, 13-year-old girls....
http://www.todayifoundout.com/index.php/2014/05/26-year-old-edgar-allan-poe-married-13-year-old-cousin/
********* As if his stories weren’t occasionally disturbing enough, it turns out Edgar Allan Poe’s love life was more than a little creepy as well. *****************
********** Poe met his bride-to-be, Virginia Clemm, when she was 7 years old, and he was 20 *******
“Poe secretly married Virginia . . . on September 22, 1835. He was 26 and she was 13, though she is listed on the marriage certificate as being 21.”
Jerry Lee Lewis, a very similar tale....
Yet Pendragon appears to accept and condone this, while hypocritically attacking young Doc, himself just a boy at the time, not a grown man of 26 like Poe was....

Pendragon is a hypocritical troll, what else would you expect?

That is one thing that never seems to change here....!

[W-Dockery]

I'm sure George Dance hasn't run away, Pendragon, but, again, I'll let George speak for himself.

As for Edgar Allan Poe, it seems to be a historical fact that he was an alcoholic, was suspected of being a drug addict who married his thirteen year old cousin.

Are you trying to deny these historical facts about Edgar Allan Poe, Pendragon?

[W.Dockery]

I see I left out the most important point.

<snip>

-- Michael Pendragon, "Hicksville," from A Year of Sundays, July 2020.

If you'd like to compare your poem to one of Eliot's, then doing so

**by opening a new thread**.
would probably get you more attention. Even if not: Do not hijack other people's poetry threads to promote your own. That's the kind of shit I'd expect from a relative newbie like the Ashtroll, but I'd hoped that you'd know better.

Yes, Pendragon was spamming that every time I mentioned what a delusional fuckwit he appears when he posts that he's a better poet than T.S. Eliot.

As his comparison shows, even a lesser T.S. Eliot poem is still 1,000 better than a Michael Pendragon poem.

🙂

[General-Zod]

Post by George J. Dance
My Father's House
This is my father's house, although
The man died thirteen years ago.
They said it would be quite all right
To take a drive to see it now.
Dad laid those grey foundation blocks
And built the whole thing (from a box),
Toiling after each full day's work.
I helped, though I was only six.
Look, here's the back door I would use
And here's where I'd remove my shoes
To enter; there I'd leave my things
And, when allowed, climb up these stairs.
In this room I'd wash many a dish,
Gaze out this window, and I'd wish
To be so many other places.
(Wishy-washy? Oh, I guess!)
Outside, the garden that he grew
Where I would work the summers through,
While watching my friends run and play
Mysterious games I never knew.
That room's all changed; oh, where is it,
The one chair I was let to sit?
(For boys can be such filthy things.)
Which, the corner where boys were put?
Oh ... down that hall there is a room
Where I'd be shut (as in a tomb)
After the meal, to make no noise,
To read or play alone, and then
Lights out: in bed by nine each night,
Some nights wanting to pee with fright,
Face and pyjama bottoms down
As for my father's belt I'd wait.
Oh, if I were a millionaire
I'd buy my father's house, and there
I'd build a bonfire, oh so high
Its flames would light up all the air.
~~
George J. Dance
from Logos and other logoi, 2021

PING G.D... this posted on JLA...????

[W.Dockery]

Post by George J. Dance
My Father's House
This is my father's house, although
The man died thirteen years ago.
They said it would be quite all right
To take a drive to see it now.
Dad laid those grey foundation blocks
And built the whole thing (from a box),
Toiling after each full day's work.
I helped, though I was only six.
Look, here's the back door I would use
And here's where I'd remove my shoes
To enter; there I'd leave my things
And, when allowed, climb up these stairs.
In this room I'd wash many a dish,
Gaze out this window, and I'd wish
To be so many other places.
(Wishy-washy? Oh, I guess!)
Outside, the garden that he grew
Where I would work the summers through,
While watching my friends run and play
Mysterious games I never knew.
That room's all changed; oh, where is it,
The one chair I was let to sit?
(For boys can be such filthy things.)
Which, the corner where boys were put?
Oh ... down that hall there is a room
Where I'd be shut (as in a tomb)
After the meal, to make no noise,
To read or play alone, and then
Lights out: in bed by nine each night,
Some nights wanting to pee with fright,
Face and pyjama bottoms down
As for my father's belt I'd wait.
Oh, if I were a millionaire
I'd buy my father's house, and there
I'd build a bonfire, oh so high
Its flames would light up all the air.
~~
George J. Dance
from Logos and other logoi, 2021
PING G.D... this posted on JLA...????

Yes, it did. I'm replying to the copy on JKA right now.
http://www.jlaforums.com/viewtopic.php?p=660786594#660786594

Well that's a good start.

We may have to change our approach to posting as the new era of Usenet develops.

[William Price]

Post by W.Dockery
We may have to change our approach to posting as the new era of Usenet develops.

There is no new era of Usenet, you pissbum tards have ruined it.

[W.Dockery]

Post by William Price

Post by W.Dockery
We may have to change our approach to posting as the new era of Usenet develops.

There is no new era of Usenet, you pissbum tards have ruined it.

Says the Usenet troll.

😔

[W.Dockery]

Post by George J. Dance
My Father's House
This is my father's house, although
The man died thirteen years ago.
They said it would be quite all right
To take a drive to see it now.
Dad laid those grey foundation blocks
And built the whole thing (from a box),
Toiling after each full day's work.
I helped, though I was only six.
Look, here's the back door I would use
And here's where I'd remove my shoes
To enter; there I'd leave my things
And, when allowed, climb up these stairs.
In this room I'd wash many a dish,
Gaze out this window, and I'd wish
To be so many other places.
(Wishy-washy? Oh, I guess!)
Outside, the garden that he grew
Where I would work the summers through,
While watching my friends run and play
Mysterious games I never knew.
That room's all changed; oh, where is it,
The one chair I was let to sit?
(For boys can be such filthy things.)
Which, the corner where boys were put?
Oh ... down that hall there is a room
Where I'd be shut (as in a tomb)
After the meal, to make no noise,
To read or play alone, and then
Lights out: in bed by nine each night,
Some nights wanting to pee with fright,
Face and pyjama bottoms down
As for my father's belt I'd wait.
Oh, if I were a millionaire
I'd buy my father's house, and there
I'd build a bonfire, oh so high
Its flames would light up all the air.
~~
George J. Dance
from Logos and other logoi, 2021

Again, one of your best.