So many people seem to like this that I wonder if there is something wrong
with me but I find it well below your best, Bob. The repetitions of 'Let
there', and 'Let' make me think of first Nat King Cole's 'Let there be love'
and second I am minded of ' Let there be light'. Whether those connotations
are intended I am not sure but I find that they dominated my response and
reading. I can see that there is a bubbling excitement underneath and can
see there is a reason for it but the ejaculatory 'Oh'of the title is too
rapturous for me and I enjoy a bit of rapture. Someone has mentioned the
grammar of the dog and two men being confusing and it made me stumble I must
admit. Should 'tipple' be 'stipple'? You have 'gleam' and 'gleaming' very
close together and there is no rule that says this cannot be so but it hints
at a hurried approach. The line breaks appear to occur because you were
after lines of pretty much the same length but I could be wrong there.
So the thought and direction of the poem I can applaud but it requires
crafting. Regards Arthur.
----- Original Message -----
From: "Bob Cooper" <[log in to unmask]>
To: <[log in to unmask]>
Sent: Thursday, March 27, 2003 9:06 AM
Subject: Oh Let There Be Blossom
What, already another for your C & C?
Guess so, (after months of almost drought)
and the glyphs between *'s are in italics...
Oh Let There Be Blossom,
let the Malteser packets, Walkers crisp packets, bon bon wrappers,
with all the brightness of their colours get hidden by the suddenness,
let the Sainsbury polybag trees bud and turn cherry pink or white
and hedges whose blackthorn starkness seems aggressive
tipple themselves with the palest of green. Let there be blossom
so even the two old men who silently pad along together -
one with a dog as withdrawn as each other - pause and talk
quietly about something that makes them smile as they look.
Let the refuse trucks rust and orange slab sides gleam with petals,
the woman who tries to sweep them from her path stop and start to grin.
Let there be blossom that flavours the air like chillie powder
flavours what bubbles in pans in kitchens still gleaming with sunlight
while the radio plays love songs and mothers sing, revealing
to themselves such secrets that are coloured in such lyrics
while they stir, tap the rim with a rhythm they're hardly aware of
as they mouth every *Aaah,* every *Oh,* then smile to themselves.
Bob Cooper
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