Grey David

[Keith exD]

This is a story I'm trying to get together, but it's boring me, rather like David himself, so I made him into a poem, which is probably boring as well.



David is sixty-eight and grey.
In the Jolly Farmers
Traycee-the-barmaid pours
a pint for a pensioner
with brown hair - medium length,
two if David feels flush. She never
remembers him coming in
or leaving. Nobody ever does.

To a request to describe
David she might say, ‘We get
so many here, I can’t recall
their faces.’ And when a punter
pushes open the door marked
Saloon, she’d shout across
the crowded space, ‘Fuckin’ ‘ell
Stan, ain’t seen you in here
for a twelve-month. Still
a pint of Stella and black is it?’

Now the empty seat where
David sat, vacant in the minds
of the drinkers when he occupied
his daily place, is grey
dust, never seen or sat upon.

[TJW]

I don't know who David is, but that didn't keep me from getting the feel of this, reminded me of Richard Cory, E.A. Robinson, I think, or Robertson, anyway, much obliged for the read, man, it ain't boring.

[WendyPratt]

Interesting portrait of a boring man!

The first stanza confused me a little (I'm easily confused ) Is David the pensioner and is The Jolly Sailors a pub, it might be better italicized.

Enjoyed

Wendy

[Keith exD]

Hi Jack, Thanks for reading this. I remembered Richard Cory from the Simon and Garfunkel song, but I looked up the poem. It's great (in a morbid way).
Grey David is just that, grey (Okay gray ) Not his hair, but all of him. His life is just grey (as in empty) and it weighs him down. Because of that he makes no impression wherever he goes. At the end, he could be dead or simply going to a different pub (where he won't be noticed either) that doesn't matter. I want to give the impression he leaves a bit of greyness in the places he's been.

Thanks Wendy Actually it's The Jolly Farmers (just a coincidence as I started writing this before Brett posted his farmer poem). I think my explanation to Jack should help.

Cheers
K

[Messiah]

Traycee only knows him as "a pensioner", not by his name.
I got from this that David is/was a nobody, who nobody noticed until he wasn't there in his usual seat.

Don, I'd suggest (assuming such things are still aloud!) that you type this out as prose, so as to better address your punctuation, then turn it back into a poem once you are happy that it reads proper like. The last stanza, with a curious semi-colon, and just the one comma - when perhaps three would serve better(?) - is a good example of where you need to tidy things up.
That said, the image I got from your poem was clear as day. Whether I got the correct image is another matter entirely. However, it worked for me.
All the best,
aka Steve.

[Messiah]

Ah, we were typing our comments at the same time. Now I look like a twat, for simply repeating that which the author has already pointed out.
Ho-hum! It could be worse; I could have my work stuck up my ass!

[Keith exD]

I hope you don't look like a twat physically I have no problems with you sussing it out. It's better than having to explain it (like it was a bad joke). I think I was trying to be too clever with the punctuation, I'll look at it.
This is taken from the first draft of a short story I'm trying to write. I got stuck, hence the poem.

Don't worry about having things stuck up your jacksy (metaphorically of course). I used to stay regularly in a hotel in Scotland which had a putting green out front. People used to bring there kids for a round on nice days. One time a guy asked the owner if he could bring his kid into the bar. The owner refused, at that time it was illegal. The father told the boss to stick his hotel up his arse. As the hotel owner was walking away, the man asked him to bring out a coke for his boy.
He replied, 'Sorry, I'm in the process of sticking my hotel up my arse ... wait a minute though, if you stuck your son up your arse he could come in the bar.'

[Ben Allen]

Works well as a poem, Keith. It moves quietly in, says its piece and then disappears again. I don't mean that in a boring way, just that it goes with the subject of the poem. I don't have my own seat down the pub, I just sit anywhere, usually in the way of one of the regulars...

Ben

[WendyPratt]

Sorry you had to explain it to me 'like a bad joke' Keith, just offering my opinion. Guess I'm just a bit thick.

[Keith exD]

Hi Wendy,
I wasn't referring to you. You already said it was a portrait of a boring man, so you got it really. I was explaining to Jack, my thinking behind David's life. As I mentioned I'm trying to get this into a story which, if I ever get it going, goes deeper into why he is like he is. The trouble is, I can't decide how to progress his story.

Hello Ben, thanks for taking a gander at this. I'm pleased you think it works as a poem. I'm still struggling with the story (indecisive as ever!).

Cheers
K