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Luigi Coppola Male, 35, United Kingdom (6/19/2004 5:46:00 PM)

Ok, again lol, just to get the ball rolling. I usually have titles in bold, and the 'Hello' in stanza 3 in italics (anyone know if that's possible here?): not important in this case though.

Please be as critical and honest as you like; even if you hate it. Terminology note; fluff you might know as lint (I'm in England, just so you know...)

Best,

Luigi
__________________________

Loving

The smallest thing I ever loved was a pebble:
Springtime. Seemed ordinary enough, until he winked
at me through the splashing sea. Then the sun grew
darker, my footprints sank into the sand, leaving it
wetter, firmer. One stretch and he was mine.

No one would miss him; the mermaids had their pearls
and sunken treasures. I had my pebble, melted smooth
through the ages and changes of land and sea;
snug in my hand in my pocket of my jacket,
my fingers protecting him from the world, but not the fluff.

I’ve loved lots of small things. I hide them
for their safety – Malcolm the magnet in a drawer,
Colin the coin in a shoebox under my bed, and Victor
the video I wrap in brown paper and mail to myself;
hugging him home every four days later like an old friend – Hello!

But the pebble took longer to name: Paul, Patrick, Percy?
I wrote them on tissue, kissed each one, put them in
the shoebox (Colin didn’t mind the company) and drew out –
Penelope… I don’t remember writing that one down;
the things I love always seem to surprise me.

Loneliness. Sometimes I’m so lonely I close my eyes
and imagine a party. A party with all my friends;
all my real friends. The ones I find. The ones that find
me.
What time’s tea, mum? Can I have fish fingers again?

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Replies for this message:

Aldo Kraas (2/10/2007 9:30:00 PM) Post reply
This is realy terrible
Bournemouth Lass (8/13/2006 3:06:00 AM) Post reply
Wow. You have expressed a wonderful thing here. I get a sense of abject isolation from the human world but a contact with things that are infinately more real than the petty concerns of everyday human life.

I don't think the poem is to long, sometime we need to read/writer longer poems to express the music in our soul. This is getting a favourite.: -)
Scarborough Gypsy (4/1/2005 10:18:00 AM) Post reply
I thought this was absolutely fan-bloody-tastic.I have been strugling to get my head and pen around free style and I just can't seem to get it right. Would love to post this on my 'favourite' list and will now look to see if you have more poetry on here. If you get the chance at all, would really appreciate your suggestions on the 'free style' poems I have written. They are 'The Decorator', 'Love In A Tea Cup' and 'Lost Love'.

Nice to meet you
Kind Regards
Gypsy
David Blaine (12/23/2004 11:56:00 AM) Post reply
L, your first line really grabs the reader, so important. I also like the way you end that stanza, 'one stretch and he was mine'

I would make a suggestion that you try to compress this poem and see if you like it any better that way. I'll show you what I mean, just with the first paragraph.

The smallest thing I ever loved was a pebble:
Springtime. Seemed ordinary enough, [until] {H}e winked
at me through the splashing sea. [Then] {T}he sun grew
darker, my footprints sank into the sand, [leaving] {left} it
(that one is more for making this all past tense)
wetter, firmer. One stretch and he was mine.

I feel that the way your piece is written now, it borders on prose.
If you condense it, it sounds more poetic. It's all personal preference. I'm not saying one of us is wrong or the other right, just an alternative to look at.

later mate,
Dave
Norina Geniston (11/26/2004 8:58:00 PM) Post reply
i loved the poem so much! Talented. From the heart.
THe best part was the lesson that you taught us all that i still can't find
in your poem but i will be reading it everyday... :)
Rajashree Balaram (11/8/2004 4:28:00 AM) Post reply
I think it's a beautiful poem. The meter, the fragile nuances are exquisite. To me, it's filled with the wide-eyed wonder of childhood. Of those times long ago, when each of us had heroes to look up to and demons to figh wih. When toys actually came to life and when the rainbow was not just a play of light, but an exquisite miracle.

Of course, that's wholly my interpretation.
I am sure you'll have your own reasons to disagree.
Karen Corcoran Dabkowski (10/24/2004 8:23:00 PM) Post reply
hi, luigi. i like this poem, and would very much like to include it in the upcoming edition of 'The Blue House' ezine. it has a young child's innocence, but it's the part of us we never lose no matter how old we grow-those secret totems and special memory things locked away in cigar boxes everywhere.

kindly send some others so that i may choose a total of 3 poems to publish under your name. kindly respond to
aloneinbadcomp@cs.com

and visit 'the orphaned poets' as well. post some things there-
http: //s8.invisionfree.com/The_Orphaned_Poets/index.php

all best to you.- karen
Tanza Scotney (10/15/2004 10:48:00 AM) Post reply | Read 1 reply
i really enjoyed this poem! made me smile :)
i can see how it could be Carol Ann Duffy like..
made me smile how 'Boy' does.
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