> Hello Frances,
                 Many thanks for your feedback on this one. I´m glad the description struck a chord.



best wishes,    Mike



> Lähettäjä: MF Kennedy <[log in to unmask]>
> Päiväys: 2004/03/15 ma PM 08:40:34 GMT+02:00
> Vastaanottaja: [log in to unmask]
> Aihe: Re: New sub: Soaked
> 
> Bob, Reading this poem provoked an extraordinary experience for me; while my
> reaction may be entirely personal it speaks for the universality of your
> recollection and the graphic way it is rendered.The first stanza provides
> context, and contains the 'rain streamed down in rods/shattered round our
> shoes' which strikes me as both a powerful and childlike observation.Fine
> work, Frances Kennedy
> ----- Original Message -----
> From: "Bob Cooper" <[log in to unmask]>
> To: <[log in to unmask]>
> Sent: Monday, March 15, 2004 9:12 AM
> Subject: Re: New sub: Soaked
> 
> 
> Hi Mike,
> Poems appeal for different reasons, I like the shape, the feel of this one!
> Brings back memories, this does!
> (Was it William Carlos Williams who described memory being the place where
> we find the whitest of white? The only place where things can become
> perfect?).
> I'd ditch the 1st stanza. It ain't needed in the poem. The 2nd stanza is so
> dramatic it works far better!
> Does "the blockage" mean a crowd of children in front of you? (the
> sense/metaphor is good - but not with the words you've used).
> Wet gabardine can only be smelt by a nose! (Miss off the nose phrase!)
> I'm also thinking the poem's good reminiscence/memory. Maybe a title with
> more than description in it might add to what's happening - for the writer
> and maybe more for the reader.
> Bob
> 
> >From: Mike Horwood <[log in to unmask]>
> >Reply-To: The Pennine Poetry Works <[log in to unmask]>
> >To: [log in to unmask]
> >Subject: New sub: Soaked
> >Date: Mon, 15 Mar 2004 14:09:55 +0200
> >
> >Soaked
> >
> >It was a wet morning in `61 or `2
> >when the rain streamed down in rods
> >from a grey sky and shattered round our shoes.
> >
> >There were jumping pockmarks on a ground
> >where we could not separate asphalt from puddle
> >on a day before we knew the word `torrential´.
> >
> >The playground was deserted and hazy,
> >the school entrance a frame for heaving backs
> >pushing the blockage in front, and wet, grey socks.
> >
> >The jostling mass carried me on to the cloakroom,
> >the muggy atmosphere full of the jabber of voices
> >and smell of wet gabardine heavy in my nose
> >
> >as I squirmed and squeezed along the line
> >of uniform navy-blue raincoats to the haven
> >of my familiar peg, determined by my rank
> >
> >in the height range of my class.
> >Then the struggle with belt and sleeves,
> >a residual dampness, single file, bang of desk-lids.
> >
> >
> >
> >
> >Mike
> 
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