Gone West - poem

[Sir_Nigel]

He’s calling his dog

in the high moorland fog

where folks climb the pathway

to ramble and jog

 

Shouting its name with a growing despair

his voice falling flat

in the deadening air

 

Comes across me,

wonders where it could be

and tells me the cost

of this rare pedigree.

 

Up here you can stroll

and not see a soul.

But you nod when you do

‘cos they’re up here

like you.

 

But this beer-belly chap

in his Adidas cap

just brings it to crap.

Leaving copious piles

over treacherous miles

 

And you don’t get a nod

from the ignorant sod.

 

Somewhere out there

where the track rises steep

He let it go crapping

and snapping at sheep.

 

So, All Poop, No Scoop,

with your dog in pea soup.

Try not to worry

but you may have to hurry

for your dog may alarm a

cantankerous farmer.

And likely as not

could be callously shot.

 

 

Now he heads west

unsuitably dressed.

Westwards is harsh -

just tussock and marsh.

I helped him decide;

It went that way, I lied.

[Mantaspook]

Hi Sir_Nigel,

 

Very good. I really like this.

 

Good use of imagery to conjure up the damp moor land vista & I especially like the surreptitious comment in the last line, class.

 

The four line stanzas with the odd five line stanza worked well, but I think the two line stanza looked out of place; it could do with a few lines adding there.

 

Some of the lines may benefit from a few minor tweaks, just to make the rhyme flow a little better, apart from this I thought the poem was excellent & very funny, I like this droll humour, I'd be tempted to re-title the piece "Westward Ho!" because this would be funny in an incongruous way, contrasting with the flat, restrained tone of the narrator. What do you think?

[maidinsheff]

Hi Sir Nigel

 

I loved this poem - made me smile

 

I agree with Mantaspook about the name 'Westward Ho!' would be so tongue in cheek!

 

I wish I could get to grips with the review blinking thing on my version of Word but I can't. I have made some suggestions which I think would help the poem to flow better. You can tell me to sod off if you like (I'm a Northern lass - I can take it!) If you read the poem out loud you may see what I mean.

 

He’s calling his dog

in the high moorland fog

where folks climb the pathway

to ramble and jog

 

He’s shouting its name

with growing despair

his voice falling flat

in the deadening air

 

He comes across me;

wonders, where can it be?

and tells me the cost

of this rare pedigree.

 

Up here you can stroll

and see not a soul.

But you nod when you do

‘cos they’re up here

like you.

 

But this beer-bellied chap

in his Adidas cap

just lets the dog crap.

Leaving copious piles

over treacherous miles

And you don’t get a nod

from the ignorant sod.

 

Somewhere out there

where the track rises steep

He let it go crapping

and snapping at sheep.

All Poop, No Scoop,

and **** like pea soup.

 

I tell him don’t worry

but you may have to hurry

your dog may alarm a

cantankerous farmer.

And likely as not

could be callously shot.

 

Now he heads west

unsuitably dressed.

Westwards is harsh -

just tussock and marsh.

I walk on with pride

I helped him decide;

“It’s that way.” I lied.