This Poem was Submitted By: Thomas Edward Wright On Date: 2004-11-09 10:22:32 . . . Click Here To Mail this Poem to a Friend!

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This Guy Walked into the Dover Beach Starbuck's

        Sophocles long ago           Heard it on the Aegean, and it brought           Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow           Of human misery; we           Find also in the sound a thought,           Hearing it by this distant northern sea.                               Matthew Arnold                               Dover Beach             Thinking of all the wine and enormous beds           And blandishments in French and the perfumes.                               Anthony Hecht                               Dover Bitch And said, “He’s dead.” I had seen the obituary, And knew for fact that he was gone. The odor of coffee permeated us. The blue sky back-dropped it in. Six customers consumed  blocks of latte religion- all cellular connections humming.   Nanny-talk, lovers (of late) titillating, while   three in black with face rings murdered napkins.   The Suit WiFi’s the web. His cell 'Ode to Joy’s' us. Suede. It is still chique.  I see - I think that was the point of "Anthony Hecht is dead." As if someone stole the Mona Lisa from - “Put it back, put it back,” they screamed. In her absence they yammer on. The poets nail him to  the cross. But he will not be held there by nails. Skim milk steam rising  Rising like Christ from The Tomb There in the light  on a Thursday afternoon. Illness took him home to Mr. Arnold's poodle pisses on a tire;  steaming, the big black Cadillac backs out, (the cardboard liner protects him from the heat), heads down toward the beach. No one is so distraught; and they go on with their lives. Dover.  An eye on France. Remember what that’s like? He reminded me of that, and then left. That was all he could have hoped for, given what he had to work with. Did I mention the bottle of Nuit d' Amour? In the bottom of the bottle was a proposition, Preceded by a long slow wave of demolition. What he was saying -  One Juvenal knoweth that what he sayeth was at once true, though somewhat  burnt on the outside, not unlike the Guatemalan  roast  with which I slink away.

Copyright © November 2004 Thomas Edward Wright


This Poem was Critiqued By: Elaine Marie Phalen On Date: 2004-12-02 10:40:01
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
Tom, what a grand tribute to a cynical but grittily-real parody! Its fortuitous combo of Starbuck's and Dover Beach is a killer. I like the way you've presented the discussion of Hecht's passing as a somewhat-fragmented conversation. The "latte religion" seems a poor substitute for Hecht's personal agonies in the camps and afterwards. Yet you bow to his humor - the Nuit d'Amour that becomes the poor girl's reminder of lost chances out by the Channel, while her poetic lover is going on about the gathering dark and being true to one another. You give the nod to his accessible diction, in which ordinary people speak in human tongues without gods hovering above their shoulders. Yet there's an austere quality to his work, which you've chosen not to duplicate, and I think that's wise. Hecht's formal tone would not suit your style at all - not for this piece, anyhow. As if someone stole the Mona Lisa from - “Put it back, put it back,” they screamed. In her absence they yammer on. The poets nail him to the cross. But he will not be held there by nails. Remarkable passage. Once someone is gone, we tend to want to compartmentalize him, capture his essence in a box, nail him up for inspection. But how do you manage this with Hecht? His voice is unstoppable even after death. "Dover Beach" is probably one of my favorite poems in the world, by the way. That Hecht chose to satirize it is like taking on an icon and changing the paint job. That you, in turn, deliver your own form of parody is brave and glorious - also funny, in a subtle way. This is cool, dude. VERY cool, in fact. I love it!! Brenda


This Poem was Critiqued By: James Edward Schanne On Date: 2004-11-29 10:40:03
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.53846
this poems perculating with ideas, after a couple of readings I'm not sure of anything I would filter out. Maybe after I have a bit more caffine something will drip into my grounds and wake up a mindfull critique. Thanks for letting me read and comment.
This Poem was Critiqued By: Tony P Spicuglia On Date: 2004-11-13 11:20:52
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.80000
Thomas, first and foremost this is a brilliant satirical piece. I believe Mr. Hecht would have read it, and subsequently wrote a satirical piece in response. As with Anthony Hecht, and it has long been my personal feelings on the matter, his satire of Matthew Arnold revealed not so much an understanding of the formality and allusions that Matthew Arnold wrote with, but more his personal inability to understand the foundations within that Mr. Arnold wrote from, which in years to come became the absolute foundation for many poets that Anthony Hecht would have believed cutting edge. That said, this is a brilliant piece. From the moment of your title, to the postulate of Matthew Arnold and the response of Anthony Hecht, you caught me in a web of seriousness and frivolity all at once. I wish I could write satire as you, and also Mark Steven Scheffer are able to write. It is a form I have little expertise with. This piece, as does each of Marks, inspires me to attempt the craft again. “I had seen the obituary, And knew for fact that he was gone.” – I believe as much as anything else in this verse, this line caused me to think, and smile. The dryness of British humor would not have been lost on the poets of the past. Possibly you did not mean such dry humor, but Anthony Hecht, I believe, would have smiled. Your personal contributions to the inane motif of society were brilliant: blocks of latte religion- Nanny-talk, lovers (of late) titillating The Suit WiFi’s the web. His cell 'Ode to Joy’s' us I believe each of the poets of the day, and those with the subtle distrust for the foundations of an amoral society today would relish those allusions. You have a relative antithesis, of Anthony Hecht crucified and then the unmitigated gall of those who have questioned his vision to actually eulogize him with the palm fronds where his feet have walked. I am not sure that is “fair”, but then again, each of us who write of today, particularly those who are critical of modern heroes, never do know what our final legacy will be. It is the matter of the craft. Ask Matthew Arnold, ask Lenny Bruce, ask Walt Whitman, ect. you have well characterized this duality attached to those who speak. What remains with me, beyond the duality of the “slinking away”, the trivializing of Sophocles’s reality concerning the ocean, the satire of Mathew Arnold (and subsequently each great poet who found a foundation in Mr. Arnolds poetry), is that this is one magnificent satire, one cutting edge thesis on Mr. Hecht himself, and a piece of poetry that, I believe, Anthony Hecht would have relished reading, just before his next satire. Wonderful, wonderful, wonderful, and I am glad to have read it. It will take a very good piece to make me “reorder my list” and drop this out of #1. Thank you for making me think, and when I attempt the “form” again, I will let you know so you can judge my “success”
This Poem was Critiqued By: Joanne M Uppendahl On Date: 2004-11-09 12:56:46
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
Tom: I admire your addition of the final three lines. As the speaker 'slinks away' with his Guatemalan roast, it is with a mournful step. One who wrote "true, though somewhat burnt on the outside" has passed, with no replacement possible. Juvenal's satiric style, with his cursing, dining habits, et al, "burnt on the outside" but revealing much more than a surface reading might yield parallels Hecht, I think you're demonstrating. Other poets with a crusty 'outside' appeal, truly. What I take from this is not to hurry away offended at seeming violations of Victorian-age sensibilities, but to linger with the writer to see what may be offered by one wearing the guise of curmudgeon. This poem offers a glimpse of the speaker, and Anthony Hecht’s "Dover Bitch" -- parody of of Matthew Arnold’s well-known "Dover Beach." I like it; though I must admit I'm not familiar with Hecht's work, I shall now hasten to become better acquainted. It's a treat having you back. ;) Cheers! (Hoisting a grande) Joanne
This Poem was Critiqued By: Rachel F. Spinoza On Date: 2004-11-09 10:52:27
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 1.00000
Tom! Tom! what a great tribute! And said, “He’s dead.” OH ! I didn't know, I didn't know - thank you for telling me - that it is so I had seen the obituary, And knew for fact that he was gone. 'least what is "fact" in modern press The odor of coffee permeated us. The blue sky back-dropped it in. Six customers consumed blocks of latte religion- yep yep all cellular connections humming. Nanny-talk, lovers (of late) titillating, while three in black with face rings murdered napkins. The Suit WiFi’s the web. His cell 'Ode to Joy’s' us. Suede. It is still chique. I see - WONDERFUL _ I always get a cold chill hearing snippets of great music from cell phones - what a great ironic message you have captured - i hate you for writing about it before I did! I think that was the point of "Anthony Hecht is dead." yes..dead and still dead As if someone stole the Mona Lisa from - “Put it back, put it back,” they screamed. [WOW} In her absence they yammer on. The poets nail him to the cross. But he will not be held there by nails. [whew!} Skim milk steam rising Rising like Christ from The Tomb There in the light on a Thursday afternoon. Illness took him home to Mr. Arnold's poodle pisses on a tire; steaming, the big black Cadillac backs out, (the cardboard liner protects him from the heat), heads down toward the beach. takes us smash into the cardboard moment of our throw away age spins us and deposits us on Dover beach. god i hate you - No one is so distraught; and they go on with their lives. Dover. An eye on France. Remember what that’s like? He reminded me of that, and then left. That was all he could have hoped for, given what he had to work with. hmmmm Did I mention the bottle of Nuit d' Amour? In the bottom of the bottle was a proposition, Preceded by a long slow wave of demolition. What he was saying - One Juvenal knoweth that what he sayeth was at once true, though somewhat burnt on the outside, not unlike the Guatemalan roast with which I slink away. i would go after you but my head is bursting with images! You MUST submit this to this website which is looking for coffee-house poems - if you win - you win this picture from the Icelandic artist Thorberg – a turn of reward which Hecht would have found vastly amusing http://www.thorberg.is/poetry_contest.html Rach – green with envy – salutes you
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