tag:luigicoppola.blog.co.uk,2009-11-22:/I started this blog just to have a quick and easy place to put my poetry online. Not in any particular order, just as and when I write new poems, or edit old ones. Any comments, criticism or opinions are welcome.MokoFeed2009-11-22T03:39:51+01:00tag:luigicoppola.blog.co.uk,2009-09-05:/2009/09/05/one-last-confusing-thought-for-andrew-6896487/luigicoppola2009-09-05T11:17:40+02:002009-09-07T20:16:19+02:00 <p>One evening by the fire, one last confusing question for Andrew -<br> his chest shouldering an ache into a waiting cushion.<br> Did Dr Punja tell you when? said Ann, squinting at the photo on the mantle.<br> Smile, it said to her, smile like you did in that confetti flash,<br> holding his hand, the hired ferris wheel in the background<br> with those couples spun high, brightly blurred against a penciled in sky<br> while the ones scraping the dirt are hidden behind Andrew's solid, suited chest. </p> <p> <small> <a href="http://luigicoppola.blog.co.uk/2009/09/05/one-last-confusing-thought-for-andrew-6896487/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>tag:luigicoppola.blog.co.uk,2009-09-05:/2009/09/05/a-list-of-stuff-in-my-garage-6896481/luigicoppola2009-09-05T11:16:55+02:002009-09-05T11:16:55+02:00 <p>A bike, thick treads on both tires<br> A tire repair kit, unopened<br> A bike pump, white rust around the nosel's rim<br> A helmet, taunt strap<br> A pair of riding gloves, fingerless</p> <p>A mirror, no frame<br> A box, sealed with black tape<br> A picnic rug, rolled up tight, string tied tightly<br> A cd rack, filled with cd cases<br> A fire place front, cracked along the glass front</p> <p>5 tins of chocolates, used for wrappers and nails<br> 4 packs of red scented candles<br> 3 flower pots, dried earth around<br> 2 letter writing kit, missing no ink cartridges<br> 1 single mattress </p> <p> <small> <a href="http://luigicoppola.blog.co.uk/2009/09/05/a-list-of-stuff-in-my-garage-6896481/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>tag:luigicoppola.blog.co.uk,2009-08-31:/2009/08/31/the-boy-that-spoke-in-morse-code-6863170/luigicoppola2009-08-31T21:15:32+02:002009-09-01T10:07:33+02:00 <p>After the tong and pull<br> the blood tapping from the ear<br> he was born to a two sound world</p> <p>The dot - pinch, prick<br> bite, stab, the needle<br> through the eye</p> <p>And the dash - the skid mark,<br> smear, stitches, the ka-smack!<br> of a follow through fist<br> the slide of a knife<br> around a wrist</p> <p>Home was a chessboard<br> streets a jazz club<br> school a blotted note<br> the syllables and spit<br> black on white on blue</p> <p>So passing the yellow line<br> of a grey platform, the long and short<br> stride of a light through smoke<br> takes him through that last grinding dash<br> all the way to a slowly blinking,<br> shrinking, distant dot. </p> <p> <small> <a href="http://luigicoppola.blog.co.uk/2009/08/31/the-boy-that-spoke-in-morse-code-6863170/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>tag:luigicoppola.blog.co.uk,2009-08-30:/2009/08/30/the-rat-the-pigeon-just-before-dawn-6854724/luigicoppola2009-08-30T16:48:25+02:002009-08-30T16:48:25+02:00 <p>He doodles up a melting tiger on her fingertips<br> plums her ear to the rug pissing on a man<br> as his meteor shrinks against a penny cobweb<br> just some of all that he doesn't want to say slipping<br> through his teeth's wire fence, down his cheery overall,<br> mixing with marshmallow roots in a pot of pink sweat,<br> that swirls the sponge and iron tongue talkin-Stop!<br> she says, Stop! Why this queen dove chat, she says,<br> I'm just a pigeon, she says, and your just a rat -<br> lets just listen to the aurora between us. </p> <p> <small> <a href="http://luigicoppola.blog.co.uk/2009/08/30/the-rat-the-pigeon-just-before-dawn-6854724/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>tag:luigicoppola.blog.co.uk,2009-08-28:/2009/08/28/your-porn-name-6840916/luigicoppola2009-08-28T13:44:53+02:002009-08-28T13:44:53+02:00 <p>Think of the name of a childhood pet -<br> perhaps the cat that purred against<br> your heel or the puppy that drooled<br> on the floor from its mouth and eyes<br> or the goldfish that glanced<br> through the green glass</p> <p>Your childhood pet's name is<br> the Christian name of your porn name</p> <p>Now celebrate your mother's maiden name<br> turn her lost trail from a word<br> on a registry, from password prompt<br> to a label for famous flesh, a show-reel<br> for the oldest profession, a new media pusher,<br> the page turner for lonely boys and lying men</p> <p>Your mother's maiden name is<br> the surname of your porn name</p> <p>My porn name is Bruno Franco -<br> a butch, mustached and leathered<br> Italian bisexual porn star name</p> <p>What's your porn name?<br> What does it say about you? </p> <p> <small> <a href="http://luigicoppola.blog.co.uk/2009/08/28/your-porn-name-6840916/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>tag:luigicoppola.blog.co.uk,2009-07-29:/2009/07/29/primary-colours-6611766/luigicoppola2009-07-29T15:35:35+02:002009-10-02T07:50:28+02:00 <p>We got two guinea pigs that were just<br> for Christmas. Both were a patchwork</p> <p>of grey and brown and beige<br> cushion fur, musk scent, pinprick eyes.</p> <p>They nibbled our lawn enough that moving<br> the hutch could have kept the mower useless.</p> <p>By Boxing day the foxes got to the pigs -<br> cuts of hair clung to half chewed grass</p> <p>while tiny blood paw prints branded the path.<br> We wore gloves to bury the gnawed</p> <p>spinal cords and burst skulls<br> - those Marigolds staining to a warm orange. </p> <p> <small> <a href="http://luigicoppola.blog.co.uk/2009/07/29/primary-colours-6611766/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>tag:luigicoppola.blog.co.uk,2009-07-29:/2009/07/29/free-house-6611749/luigicoppola2009-07-29T15:32:36+02:002009-08-28T13:18:56+02:00 <p>I slip past the regulars, zig<br> zag the drunks - they want me</p> <p>by their fire, but the heat<br> from hand and glass is too much.</p> <p>The pub is like the one I used to take her to,<br> with a leaking roof that drools onto the floor</p> <p>and leaning, creaking tables<br> that I could wring to make up a round.</p> <p>I lean against the soaked bar<br> look left, right at the pros</p> <p>with their straights, doubles, rocks<br> and order a beer, knowing</p> <p>that with my green tongue,<br> I have lots to learn again. </p> <p> <small> <a href="http://luigicoppola.blog.co.uk/2009/07/29/free-house-6611749/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>tag:luigicoppola.blog.co.uk,2009-07-29:/2009/07/29/trust-6611738/luigicoppola2009-07-29T15:31:13+02:002009-08-13T19:33:42+02:00 <p>My school wasn't into rugby or cricket<br> and the boys were only ever soccer soloists<br> or lampposts on a pitch as pitted<br> as our faces, the football ever so slightly deflated.</p> <p>So I'd go off and play with the girls<br> with their sticks and rolled up socks.<br> Hockey was the thinking woman's game<br> and a boy's chance to play in a team<br> that played like a team.</p> <p>So I was never quite sure why my dad built me half<br> a basket ball court out back - a board and loop, complete<br> with red paint square and string vest net.</p> <p>I'd dribble and dodge, jam and jump,<br> try to dunk when lay ups would do.</p> <p>One time a passer by asked for a shot,<br> over the wall of our garden.<br> I stood like a solitary street light,<br> fearing I'd pass the ball<br> and never see it again.</p> <p>But I did, he got three points<br> and I got a chance to watch,<br> give a cheer and get a cheers.</p> <p>Trust is like a ball thrown,<br> bowled, kicked or hit with a stick -<br> whatever it takes to give it to someone. </p> <p> <small> <a href="http://luigicoppola.blog.co.uk/2009/07/29/trust-6611738/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>tag:luigicoppola.blog.co.uk,2009-06-25:/2009/06/25/stair-six-6387949/luigicoppola2009-06-25T14:44:55+02:002009-06-25T14:45:36+02:00 <p>Stair six spirals<br> down like a drill</p> <p>you can stare up<br> the centre to see</p> <p>others above<br> - reach the peak</p> <p>and you can spit<br> on who you were </p> <p> <small> <a href="http://luigicoppola.blog.co.uk/2009/06/25/stair-six-6387949/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>tag:luigicoppola.blog.co.uk,2009-06-25:/2009/06/25/notice-6387943/luigicoppola2009-06-25T14:44:19+02:002009-06-25T14:44:19+02:00 <p>You don't notice<br> I'm carving<br> into the oak</p> <p>or the pause to<br> think of what<br> to etch</p> <p>You don't notice<br> my knife<br> and its beat</p> <p>on the bark<br> the sound of symbols<br> or the sound</p> <p>it makes when<br> it reaches sap </p> <p> <small> <a href="http://luigicoppola.blog.co.uk/2009/06/25/notice-6387943/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>tag:luigicoppola.blog.co.uk,2009-06-25:/2009/06/25/mixer-6387937/luigicoppola2009-06-25T14:43:39+02:002009-06-25T14:43:39+02:00 <p>The boy of me loved squash<br> watered down to water</p> <p>Later the frizz of cola<br> the can's spark</p> <p>that opened later<br> to rotting apples</p> <p>sugar and spirit<br> crushed barley then</p> <p>finally to wine<br> sweet wine</p> <p>I was a slow alchemist<br> a plodding, wannabe Jesus </p> <p> <small> <a href="http://luigicoppola.blog.co.uk/2009/06/25/mixer-6387937/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>tag:luigicoppola.blog.co.uk,2009-06-25:/2009/06/25/value-added-6387928/luigicoppola2009-06-25T14:42:32+02:002009-07-29T15:29:50+02:00 <p>A man walks into a forest<br> Takes a tree to the mill<br> The wood goes to the factory<br> The table goes to the shop<br> The shop sells the table to the man<br> The man takes the table to his house<br> The house has a tree in the garden<br> Each branch a pendulum in the wind and dust </p> <p> <small> <a href="http://luigicoppola.blog.co.uk/2009/06/25/value-added-6387928/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>tag:luigicoppola.blog.co.uk,2009-06-25:/2009/06/25/the-eyes-of-cows-6386235/luigicoppola2009-06-25T10:00:21+02:002009-06-25T10:00:21+02:00 <p>I'm looking through the shop window<br> at the filled rows, glass boxes and walls.<br> Did I mention the smell? Was there one?<br> Yes, it was musk, warmth, dust, alcohol<br> infusing this high street zoo of frozen frames.<br> Trim and pimped on quiet pedestals-<br> from open field, wood, stream to shelved<br> herd, flock, shoal of distant cousins.</p> <p>I'm staring at the cow head, its pert ears<br> pointless satellites, its nose a dried oyster<br> glued back on at slightly an off angle,<br> and its eyes, in their wide blackness<br> reflecting each blade, fence, muddied machine,<br> and that final hollowing out by prod, then pistol. </p> <p> <small> <a href="http://luigicoppola.blog.co.uk/2009/06/25/the-eyes-of-cows-6386235/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>tag:luigicoppola.blog.co.uk,2008-09-22:/2008/09/22/if-adam-s-eyes-were-blue-4764082/luigicoppola2008-09-22T19:34:06+02:002008-09-22T19:34:06+02:00 <p>Not many people know this, but God played pool.<br> Back in the days before war and extinction<br> the animals and the stars would watch God<br> chalk the tip, stroke his cue, sink the black.</p> <p>All were awed by Him, except for Monkey,<br> who would try but never beat Him.<br> Monkey would jump and shout, throw and break<br> when he lost, God’s humble smiles infuriating more.</p> <p>On the sixth day they played again, God cleaning up from break.<br> Monkey jumped and shouted, threw and broke the cue -<br> God's heart, solid with trust, saw nothing, heard nothing.</p> <p>Monkey smiled and spat and patted to hide it,<br> binding it together again with a black hair from his arse,<br> then handed it back to God and grunted “Re-match.”<br> He lifted the cue high, the blue of the sky now chalk.</p> <p>The crowd, bodies and dust, watched as Monkey stood and God<br> broke, the cue snapped, splintered, shattered again<br> and cut with laws unto itself eternal hands.</p> <p>The blood hit the white of the cue ball in tiny red snakes<br> as the sky’s blue chalk stamped its circle<br> branding the Monkey’s black hair<br> that had curled into a dot from shame.</p> <p>And with a tear, from cut or betrayal no one knew,<br> God soaked the white ball, its red snakes,<br> its blue stamp, its black dot, as it rolled<br> into a pocket, into a socket.</p> <p>As Monkey laughed, pissing and drinking,<br> the animals and stars went back to their shadows,<br> for they all knew God would never play again.</p> <p>He threw the other balls into the cosmos.<br> He planted the broken wood into the ground,<br> rooting with forgotten rules. And he left the table,<br> pink from wear, to its own devices, blinking. </p> <p> <small> <a href="http://luigicoppola.blog.co.uk/2008/09/22/if-adam-s-eyes-were-blue-4764082/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>tag:luigicoppola.blog.co.uk,2008-09-22:/2008/09/22/my-life-crawled-in-front-of-my-eyes-4764076/luigicoppola2008-09-22T19:33:30+02:002008-09-22T19:33:30+02:00 <p>and I had to look away from that misty screen.</p> <p>Scratching the tire track across my chest<br> I looked around the rest of the cloud<br> the others waiting in line were bored stiff<br> the angels were humming and giggling<br> and God was yawning.</p> <p>Apparently, I wasn’t going to hell - hadn’t been naughty enough.<br> I wasn’t going to limbo, it was full, and now in heaven<br> it seemed that no one wanted me here.</p> <p>I realised at that excruciatingly slow moment of revelation<br> that my life and I had been really, really boring.</p> <p>I sat there thinking about all my special and unique<br> and good things and how I didn't feel I was any of those things.<br> The heavens must have been watching lives like mine<br> for infinity, just average, just normal, nothing special -<br> I imagined having to sit through an endless run of American<br> Based on a True Story made-for-TV films.</p> <p>I turned my back to it all, too preoccupied<br> with my own life’s monotony to watch the movie of it.<br> But I couldn’t not hear, couldn’t get away<br> from that dull soundtrack.</p> <p>I listened to the last few seconds -<br> a busy street, cars and people, horns and then a screech,<br> people screaming, a woman crying, then silence.<br> I turned to watch the final scene - a baby crawling<br> back into her mother's arms, then a fade to black.</p> <p>I couldn’t remember what had happened,<br> but then I heard a choir of cheers and what looked like eyes<br> being wiped but staying wet. The others were all applauding<br> the angels patted me on the back, and among all the handshakes<br> I said to myself ‘I don’t understand’.</p> <p>God put his hand upon my shoulder<br> He smelt clean, new, like a big bearded baby<br> and He said ‘Let me show you around.’ </p> <p> <small> <a href="http://luigicoppola.blog.co.uk/2008/09/22/my-life-crawled-in-front-of-my-eyes-4764076/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>tag:luigicoppola.blog.co.uk,2008-09-22:/2008/09/22/pitch-4764069/luigicoppola2008-09-22T19:32:53+02:002008-09-22T19:32:53+02:00 <p>someone<br> goes somewhere<br> and meets someone else<br> and they do something – they fall in love<br> then they argue for some reason<br> don’t talk for sometime<br> but get back together<br> somehow<br> same old<br> story </p> <p> <small> <a href="http://luigicoppola.blog.co.uk/2008/09/22/pitch-4764069/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>tag:luigicoppola.blog.co.uk,2008-09-22:/2008/09/22/the-harvester-4764021/luigicoppola2008-09-22T19:25:11+02:002008-09-22T19:25:11+02:00 <p>There is a darkness coming<br> a little at first, just ahead of the rest</p> <p>His breath is a slow yawn<br> it draws in a shade<br> a cold and a rustling<br> everything sleeping, drying </p> <p>An idiot-ox striding<br> His March drawing blood from flower<br> herb from mouth</p> <p>The stampede lasts for months</p> <p>He is the Harvester<br> hoof and horn<br> giggling and dribbling</p> <p>with the sun on his back<br> and snow in his mouth </p> <p> <small> <a href="http://luigicoppola.blog.co.uk/2008/09/22/the-harvester-4764021/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>tag:luigicoppola.blog.co.uk,2008-09-22:/2008/09/22/time-4764017/luigicoppola2008-09-22T19:24:45+02:002008-09-22T19:24:45+02:00 <p>It held my gaze with new eyes<br> at least to mine</p> <p>Over the years I had seen<br> in dreams and mirrors<br> how Time could personify itself<br> into a wealth of shapes and sizes<br> clichés and surprises</p> <p>Like an apple, or an old man leaning on a crutch,<br> the hooded skeleton with a cold hand, or a bunch<br> of keys, an hour glass, draining away its sand<br> - some easy, some not so easy to understand</p> <p>But this time Time came to me<br> as a calf puzzled by its weak legs<br> licking its own blood off </p> <p> <small> <a href="http://luigicoppola.blog.co.uk/2008/09/22/time-4764017/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>tag:luigicoppola.blog.co.uk,2008-09-22:/2008/09/22/title-4764010/luigicoppola2008-09-22T19:24:08+02:002008-09-22T19:24:08+02:00 <p>Father would shout “Boy!”<br> And Boy would come running<br> Just like a dog</p> <p>When he first came into the house<br> Blooded from the accident<br> Mother still wanted him<br> Father cursed the drink and the car<br> But tolerated</p> <p>At first he was wet and loud<br> Mother drying and soothing<br> While Father’s frown could be seen<br> Hard through the paper he read<br> Letting slip the occasional sheet</p> <p>Once or more<br> For no reason a hand would rush<br> Into Boy no reason<br> no reason Mother would say<br> Rubbing her baby’s head</p> <p>Yelps and whining were heard<br> Echoes from nothing<br> First through the house<br> Then the basement</p> <p>Then the box in the garden<br> The only thing Father made for Boy<br> Where he would lick his wounds<br> Watching Mother at the window </p> <p> <small> <a href="http://luigicoppola.blog.co.uk/2008/09/22/title-4764010/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>tag:luigicoppola.blog.co.uk,2008-09-22:/2008/09/22/the-left-behind-4764003/luigicoppola2008-09-22T19:23:05+02:002008-09-22T19:23:05+02:00 <p>the cockroach, that shining brown-beast,<br> seems to me repentant of its sins.</p> <p>would it scurry otherwise<br> hide in cracks and crevices<br> eat our waste and squelch<br> “Thank you. Thank you, sir.”<br> when you step on its life?</p> <p>it must be repenting<br> it must be in disgust of itself.<br> the spreader of sickness<br> a symbol of decay</p> <p>or perhaps it’s waiting<br> praying for Armageddon<br> knowing it will laugh last<br> in the aftermath. </p> <p> <small> <a href="http://luigicoppola.blog.co.uk/2008/09/22/the-left-behind-4764003/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>tag:luigicoppola.blog.co.uk,2008-09-22:/2008/09/22/self-portrait-4764000/luigicoppola2008-09-22T19:22:16+02:002008-09-22T19:22:16+02:00 <p>Out of sync I move<br> with the twitching light bulb<br> trying to remember him<br> how he stood and sounded<br> the shadow he cast<br> how the air tasted around him</p> <p>Delving through boxes and bags<br> I found all that was left, hidden away</p> <p>I tried on his clothes<br> the socks fitting<br> but the rest too small<br> faded in colour and style</p> <p>I opened his diary<br> breaking the lock with the wrong key<br> and read aloud forgotten fictions<br> and scenes more true than memories</p> <p>Then I found his ponytail<br> wrapped in newspaper<br> cut at the base and still tied with a band<br> smelling clean and new<br> and not grey and old<br> not even dead at the roots </p> <p> <small> <a href="http://luigicoppola.blog.co.uk/2008/09/22/self-portrait-4764000/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>tag:luigicoppola.blog.co.uk,2008-09-22:/2008/09/22/peel-4763982/luigicoppola2008-09-22T19:19:27+02:002008-09-22T19:19:27+02:00 <p>I lay on the floor<br> it stares down at me<br> from the bowl</p> <p>I have had enough<br> of its insults.</p> <p>It mocked me<br> with its simplicity<br> taking pride in its nature<br> its symmetry<br> its serenity of black souls<br> in a white heart<br> within an emerald armour</p> <p>Even bruised it shone</p> <p>And it would cut<br> cut so completely<br> no blood, no pain</p> <p>I have had enough<br> I swallow it whole and wait </p> <p> <small> <a href="http://luigicoppola.blog.co.uk/2008/09/22/peel-4763982/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>tag:luigicoppola.blog.co.uk,2008-09-22:/2008/09/22/our-evolution-4763910/luigicoppola2008-09-22T19:06:51+02:002008-09-22T19:06:51+02:00 <p>Before dawn the pool dried into a million drops<br> and by Darwin I had found myself next to you<br> smooth and tense, thoughtless</p> <p>We waited until the morning to be born<br> Our siblings buzzing around for a few hours<br> all dying wet, blunt, while we glided through the gauze</p> <p>By midday we had caught the tide again<br> the river carrying us by our scales and tails<br> I remember how you bit the third gill on my right<br> anxious like the air</p> <p>Mud around our ears, the afternoon saw us dry on the earth<br> our new hair an embarrassing economy<br> my feet hurt but I pretended I didn’t have any</p> <p>In the evening you fought as I made you climb the tree<br> you tore at the branches, and threw a banana at my groin<br> we stroked and picked each other’s fur to make up</p> <p>And that night, we lay inside one another<br> no fruit more a temptation<br> leaves not enough to keep our innocence</p> <p>You spoke before you slept, I only understood the words<br> so I tapped your teeth and gazed into your mouth</p> <p>I saw how the world had changed us<br> and how we had changed for each other. </p> <p> <small> <a href="http://luigicoppola.blog.co.uk/2008/09/22/our-evolution-4763910/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>tag:luigicoppola.blog.co.uk,2008-09-22:/2008/09/22/old-man-walking-4763903/luigicoppola2008-09-22T19:06:12+02:002008-09-22T19:06:12+02:00 <p>The aisle smiled stoic underneath my weight.<br> Without the bars support my hips would creak<br> and I could feel the heavy grind of slate<br> on bone on crumbling cartilage. This weak<br> and worn down form – I once would bang my chest<br> and strike down men or anyone that stood<br> against my strength or spirit. Who would test<br> the man I was? But now these arms are good<br> for nothing but to free the air of flies,<br> half finger swear the prison guards, or grip<br> that chair, while lisping rats and all their lies<br> their bloody lies that now will burn my lip<br> and melt my heart. Forgive, forgive? Oh lord<br> I try, but hate is all these bones afford. </p> <p> <small> <a href="http://luigicoppola.blog.co.uk/2008/09/22/old-man-walking-4763903/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>tag:luigicoppola.blog.co.uk,2008-09-22:/2008/09/22/my-father-s-buried-in-his-garden-bed-4763891/luigicoppola2008-09-22T19:05:01+02:002008-09-22T19:05:01+02:00 <p>and, despite his wasted buried fate,<br> it was to me that all his dreams were passed;<br> before I understood, they tried to last,<br> but now I understand his life too late. </p> <p>Instead of dreams, my father’s life lived through<br> his garden. Years of afternoons he spent<br> turning and weeding, once he earned the rent;<br> and God he worked till countless flowers grew. </p> <p>When made to help I’d scream and try to run.<br> He’d point to the seeds, soil - <i>Now try to see<br> the soul and spirit</i>; holding, teaching me,<br> <i>without the faith, no flowers grow, my son.</i></p> <p>At planting season, sweating, he would say<br> no more, just stand, then crouch and then not stand<br> until each seed was gifted to the land -<br> the dust was angel skin, the earth his clay.</p> <p>He could have been an athlete, teacher or<br> a farmer, or a florist at least.<br> Perhaps some kind of poet, or a priest.<br> He should have been a sculptor, builder, more.</p> <p>The day he died I couldn’t be with him.<br> But years later his garden had me stand,<br> then crouch, and then not stand, to hold a seed<br> and hold the soil, as I’d have held his hand. </p> <p> <small> <a href="http://luigicoppola.blog.co.uk/2008/09/22/my-father-s-buried-in-his-garden-bed-4763891/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>tag:luigicoppola.blog.co.uk,2008-09-22:/2008/09/22/licking-hearts-4763883/luigicoppola2008-09-22T19:03:37+02:002008-09-22T19:03:37+02:00 <p>I collect them for you<br> stamps<br> the other kids laugh<br> but I don’t care</p> <p>I buy some everyday<br> and keep the most pretty<br> the dark ones I use<br> on letters to your dad</p> <p>I’ve got one that tastes funny<br> a bit like sherbet and dust<br> it’s only half licked<br> do you want to try it?</p> <p>I also make them<br> from card and hair gel<br> don’t lick them though<br> they made my cat ill</p> <p>But this one tastes nice<br> a little like cherryade<br> You can have it<br> I cut it this shape for you </p> <p> <small> <a href="http://luigicoppola.blog.co.uk/2008/09/22/licking-hearts-4763883/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>tag:luigicoppola.blog.co.uk,2008-09-22:/2008/09/22/if-i-were-to-give-you-a-flower-now-4763866/luigicoppola2008-09-22T19:02:05+02:002008-09-22T19:02:05+02:00 <p>If I were to give you a flower, now,<br> it would still be a rose;<br> dried and pressed,<br> in an envelope,<br> second class,</p> <p>But it would only be the petals,<br> the bright, beheaded petals.</p> <p>The stem I would keep to defend me,<br> All the pollen I would frame and hang.</p> <p>Any thorns I would swallow,<br> to give this pain a reason,<br> while the leaves would be bandage<br> to the wounds that would heal<br> tomorrow.</p> <p>And of the roots,<br> the roots and bits of dirt,<br> I would make a meal of</p> <p>and I would not share it. </p> <p> <small> <a href="http://luigicoppola.blog.co.uk/2008/09/22/if-i-were-to-give-you-a-flower-now-4763866/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>tag:luigicoppola.blog.co.uk,2008-09-22:/2008/09/22/fish-eyes-4763862/luigicoppola2008-09-22T19:01:21+02:002008-09-22T19:01:21+02:00 <p>drying on a boat<br> a fish thinks on its passed life<br> its most favourite times</p> <p>seeing the bubbles of an oyster's first breath<br> the million movements of its shoal<br> its family there and lost in the currents<br> that near-miss of a shark's vanity</p> <p>and of the sea itself<br> its yearning, parenting<br> its endless voice and ever-presence</p> <p>the fish doesn’t think of what it sees now<br> through those drying eyes -</p> <p>the men that starve the abyss<br> the fish's old home</p> <p> <small> <a href="http://luigicoppola.blog.co.uk/2008/09/22/fish-eyes-4763862/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>tag:luigicoppola.blog.co.uk,2008-09-22:/2008/09/22/calendar-girl-4763858/luigicoppola2008-09-22T19:00:51+02:002008-09-22T19:00:51+02:00 <p>Everyday I sneak a peek<br> gawp and stare, fantasise.</p> <p>She changes from page to page,<br> her hair, clothes, company, mood.</p> <p>But she is always beautiful,<br> always sexy,</p> <p>and always only ever has eyes<br> for me, that follow as I get closer.</p> <p>But it is just as much about<br> what she has got, as what she holds –</p> <p>a calendar of the days, the months,<br> of the years to come. </p> <p> <small> <a href="http://luigicoppola.blog.co.uk/2008/09/22/calendar-girl-4763858/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>tag:luigicoppola.blog.co.uk,2008-09-22:/2008/09/22/and-the-earth-moved-4763851/luigicoppola2008-09-22T19:00:20+02:002008-09-22T19:00:20+02:00 <p>The Mountain raised itself<br> left the earth and paved a way<br> walked and strayed<br> a Titan reborn</p> <p>but as The Clouds it touched railed<br> and The Trees that were tenants fell<br> The Mountain knew a hell<br> how could it walk away?</p> <p>So it caved in eyes<br> sent quakes through its limbs<br> and drew a breath the size of itself<br> then gasped again for Her kiss</p> <p>Kneeling he suckled every drop and rock<br> and became a plain<br> asking for nothing<br> but to calm The Clouds<br> and to once again home The Trees</p> <p>who only laughed and remained ungrateful</p> <p> <small> <a href="http://luigicoppola.blog.co.uk/2008/09/22/and-the-earth-moved-4763851/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>