This is absolutely beautiful and evocative
Up until the last stanza, that is. I'm not sure how it happens but when you
stop looking around and start observing your own feet it seems as if the
poem falls a bit flat.
To be picky...
I want this doorstep to be [fine with this, excellent progression]
the moment I rise ever so slowly before I walk in, [do what? How do you
rise? I lose that sense of close observation and feel that this is vague and
incomplete]
kick off my shoes, [ok]
as you grin your imperfect English [super]
over my chocolates, bottle of wine, [boring, can't you give the girl
something less impersonal?]
their heaviness weighed in your hand [heavy? Is she greedy, weighing their
worth, or are these clichéd gifts supposed to have some gravitas? I'd like
this line better if the gifts were more interesting]
as I walk where you lead. [fine]
hope that helps
Terri )O(
-----Original Message-----
From: The Pennine Poetry Works [mailto:[log in to unmask]] On Behalf
Of Bob Cooper
Sent: 29 September 2006 16:11
To: [log in to unmask]
Subject: What I Want
All comments welcome:
(The indented lines are supposed to start immediately below where the
previous line ends! They do on my screen - I hope they do in yours!)
What I Want
I want this to be a city where men in overalls sat outside cafes
slide their sunglasses up to their hair, wrinkle their noses
when sipping beer, then close their eyes after licking their lips,
sigh a smile like in an advert and say, Aaaaah.
I want this to
be the place
where, on a quiet tram, the child in a sunhat, a dummy round her neck,
sits contented in a buggy never letting go of the small fluffy bear
while she stares at my stare, feeling OK with what she sees.
I want this tram stop to be where expectations gather with people
as, getting on and getting off, they sidle gracefully past each other,
I want others to cruise past slowly in cars.
I want this dusty
street corner
to be where ex-lovers meet with surprise, pleasure in their faces,
and after a brief peck on the cheek, they talk of the goodness
they feel belongs with them now as light glows in the sky.
I want this to be the street where, through an open window
too high to see into, faint saxophone riffs drift downwards
while quiet dogs who move their ears are walked past
as their owners talk to themselves.
I want this doorstep to be
the moment I rise ever so slowly before I walk in, kick off my shoes,
as you grin your imperfect English over my chocolates, bottle of wine,
their heaviness weighed in your hand as I walk where you lead.
Bob Cooper
|