Archive for the ‘Poem’ tag
That Man – A Poem
They asked me not to break things, first.
After I deconstructed their careful blockade.
They asked me not to eat them.
And I wouldn’t.
They asked me to have mercy.
Not that they needed to.
Whispers of ‘that man’.
Rang in negative ears.
Him, the naysayer.
Him, the irrepressible.
They pointed at me.
They asked me not to change them.
But I had at least to even the odds.
Break the bonds and
untie Potential.
Invite Belief
back to the fold.
Have a word with Power
just make sure he was on both sides.
When I, Inspiration, struck.
Boredom cowered.
Distraction frowned.
And the playthings of
Idle were sent to their corner.
‘There’s a time and a place’
I said. And, ‘you’ve had your fair share’.
And they asked Inspiration to be gentle.
And he just winked a smile.
The Beckham One [A Poem]
The Guardian website today (it was yesterday when I wrote this), covered the story of the Poet Laureate, Carol Anne Duffy, writing a poem about David Beckham. The poem follows:
Achilles, by Carol Ann Duffy
Myth’s river — where his mother dipped him, fished him, a slippery golden boy flowed on, his name on its lips.
Without him, it was prophesised, they would not take Troy.
Women hid him, concealed him in girls’ sarongs; days of sweetmeats, spices, silver songs…
But when Odysseus came, with an athlete’s build, a sword and a shield, he followed him to the battlefield, the crowd’s roar,
And it was sport, not war, his charmed foot on the ball…
But then his heel, his heel, his heel…
‘All well and good’, I thought, but it’s a bit unwieldy for me. All those parentheses and mismatched lines. What we need, I thought (and poets can disagree with the Poet Laureate, by the way) is a simple rhyme scheme with more straight forward meaning. So, in the comments of the Guardian post and (now) here, is my poem for David Beckham. I daren’t suggest it will achieve as much notoriety but well…in truth I prefer it:
Our Beckham, not a saint or god
But common man of common birth
Kicked balls on many sodden fields
With such skill none dared doubt his worth
But these thing happen, never cease.
Good fortune or a tragic blow
At home or on fields overseas
Can tackle harshly all heroes
And fringe or not, integral, bound
To squads of like-mind sporting types
His mind sincere, his focus found
On maybe realised dreams of pipes
He’ll not know now, nor strut his boots
On foreign lands where chancers play
A lucky few will score and shoot
Throughout to World Cup final day
But not our Becks, tackled with pain
(Achilles feels it through the years)
Instead he’ll roar support in games
And maybe shed the common tears.
‘Rupert’ – A Poem
Today a reporter died.
On the front line.
And I know soldiers do,
well it was a journo this time.
Does that make me despicable?
That it grabbed my attention?
See his honourable intention
was to break safe convention.
Report from the front and risk the
fatal shunts of bombs and bullets.
It’s almost too much for me to consider.
And I know that soldiers’ hearts quiver to stop more often,
than that of Rupert’s, which softened my ears.
But it brought it home once again.
The conflict, the wars that never disappear.
The complete waste of it all.
Kids with no two parents to call.
Just the one lucky enough to
be left, not killed, not cleft from
lives with the knives, guns,
small explosive suns that rise to die so quickly
that the day isn’t slow enough
to see the stuff of lives flash past.
To see the shadow it casts on those affected.
A single blast dissecting so many stifled shouts.
When loved ones hear ‘dear Rupert’ is no longer about.
But solace is taken
making what peace there ever can be.
He…did what he thought had to be done.
He. His parent’s son, with children of his own.
He disowned the danger.
Ranged further than my pen dares
In search of news from ground zero.
And to some, that might make him a hero.
But upon me, just a sadness falls.
Because Rupert, spelt anyway you like,
And called in any of the world’s languages.
Into any name that fell the same way.
Speaks to me about horrors,
and asks if we can stop.
Can we…
Make IED: Improvised Explosive Device
Mean IED: It Ended Definitely.
And for once be talking about
the death of a concept.
Than the death of life meaning more people,
without people.
Heard news and wept.
