Tag Archives: soccer

World Cupoetry 3 (Lionel Messi)

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Lionel Messi

I saw him once at Camp Nou
playing for Barcelona against Girona
he looked..what’s the word…unprepossessing
like a clerk in a 1950’s black and white movie
with an office in the basement of a New York skyscraper
the one who tells the hero that the books don’t balance.

On the other hand

there was something otherworldly about him
it occurred to me
that he might be an extraterrestrial
a bit far-fetched I know
but for the first 15 minutes
he seemed detached
in the game but not in the game
the full back passed the ball to him
he passed it back
the full back passed the ball to him
he passed it back
then suddenly as if receiving a signal from somewhere
he passed the ball inside to the midfielder Busquets
took off on a diagonal run
took the return pass
laid the ball off to the striker, Suarez
took the return pass from Suarez
and then passed the ball with the inside of his foot into Girona’s goal.

It took a matter of seconds
It was poetry in motion

and ever since I’ve wondered
what signal did he get
what made him take off
did he sense some structural misalignment
in the opposing team’s defense
some lack of attention
was it a message from the mother ship
or was it just pure instinct
like a migratory bird
sensing the headwinds are just right
to start that journey south?

ROB (The Lad’s Poetry Project 3)

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Rob

Me and the lads are in the Beagle
carbo-loading after the game
we’ve got pitchers of pale ale
plates of chicken wings
nachos topped with something
that looks suspiciously like cat food.
It’s pulled pork, I’m told,
which seems somehow apt
as I look around the table.
It’s the usual conversation
goals scored, goals missed
an unresolved conflict lingering
like a fart in an elevator.
Two of the lads are saying nothing
engrossed in stroking and poking
small rectangular tablets
as if expecting a message
that will change their lives
a revision to the ten commandments, perhaps,
one that sanctions the pulling of pork.
Whatever it is,
they can’t leave those little slabs alone.
Opposite me, Rob, an uncompromising centre half
with little skill and a liking for the long ball
is tucking head down into a plate of poutine,
fries covered in cheese curd and gravy,
suddenly with uncharacteristic speed and accuracy
he fires a gravy covered fry at the phone boys
“put down your fucking phones”, he says quietly,
and out of nowhere I’m consumed by a wave of emotion
and I realise this is my community
and this is why I come here,
the level of discourse,
this is why I come here.

The challenge from Sarah Connor over at dverse:

This week, I’d like you to think about that balance between the individual and the community. Where do you stand on the spectrum between lone wolf and team-player? How does your community support you? What are the communities you’ve chosen? What are the communities that have been thrust upon you? Can we be human without other humans? What are the threads that stitch us into place? They may be good or bad, or somewhere in between, but they are certainly there.

This is poem number 3 in  a series of poems called The Lad’s Poetry Project. The goal of the series is to give space to a subject that is not normally encountered in poetry, Lad Culture. The only guidelines are: 1) The poem must begin with the phrase, “Me and the lads” 2) The tone must be somewhat less than elevated.

 

 

 

Top Posts 2019 #2: The Beautiful Game (The Lads’ Poetry Project 2 )

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I’m including this one mainly because the subject matter of the poem – sport and the level of discourse associated with it – is somewhat neglected in the world of poetry. When you read the poem you may conclude that that is actually a good thing.

The Beautiful Game

Me and the lads are warming up
for our Sunday morning kickabout,
the weather’s not so good:
a black cloud loiters over head
spitting occasionally;
there’s a chill in the air.
Not that we care.
We are here for that moment of magic:
those three short passes
that raise life above the ordinary.
It’s all going well.
We’re stretching, squatting
sprinting, jogging, popping
Esther and Abi*
when up steps Paul
all sanctimonious-like
and starts to rattle on
about how this is a family park
and we should watch our language
and surely we can play a game of football
without accusing each other of onanism.
The lads are confused, gobsmacked even.
My face adopts an expression
which would later be described as quizzical
Onanism, I inquire,
what is that wanker talking about?

 

*Esther and Abi (Ofarim): rhyming slang for ibuprofen, a popular anti-inflammatory. Esther and Abi Ofarim, an Israeli singing duo, had a hit with “Cinderella Rockefella” in 1968.

The Beautiful Game (The Lads’ Poetry Project 2 )

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It’s Open Link night over at dVerse, so I thought I would link this post from a few days ago, mainly because the subject matter of the poem – sport and the level of discourse associated with it – is somewhat neglected in the world of poetry. When you read the poem you may conclude that that is actually a good thing.

The Beautiful Game

Me and the lads are warming up
for our Sunday morning kickabout,
the weather’s not so good:
a black cloud loiters over head
spitting occasionally;
there’s a chill in the air.
Not that we care.
We are here for that moment of magic:
those three short passes
that raise life above the ordinary.
It’s all going well.
We’re stretching, squatting
sprinting, jogging, popping
Esther and Abi*
when up steps Paul
all sanctimonious-like
and starts to rattle on
about how this is a family park
and we should watch our language
and surely we can play a game of football
without accusing each other of onanism.
The lads are confused, gobsmacked even.
My face adopts an expression
which would later be described as quizzical
Onanism, I inquire,
what on earth is that wanker talking about?

 

*Esther and Abi (Ofarim): rhyming slang for ibuprofen, a popular anti-inflammatory. Esther and Abi Ofarim, an Israeli singing duo, had a hit with “Cinderella Rockefella” in 1968.

The Daily Jolt Returns for a Day

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The Daily Jolt Returns for a Day

And the Jolt word of the day is: “frumpet”.

This word comes courtesy of Eilene Lyon and is an actual word, she explains it all in her excellent post “La Concion es la Cosa” .

The challenge is to use the word in a post, make up a meaning for it if you like, for example:

A Soccer Hooligan’s Diary

11p.m., a pub somewhere in England

Kev says he fancies a bit of frumpet
says he’s tired of skinny fit girls
says they’re all angles, bone and gristle;
comfort is what Kev wants, comfort.

 

Daily Jolt Update

Response to the last jolt world, “brattitude”, did not exceed my expectations, although the incomparable Steve Simpson did inadvertently use it in a comment on the post. “Incomparable”, see that’s the kind of publicity you get if you participate in The Daily Jolt. So muster up a bit of brattitude and give it a go.

Link your post to this blog or post a comment  with a link to your post, if you like.

Birds,Wires etc/ Why Ireland Failed to Qualify for World Cup 2018

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Why Ireland Failed to Qualify for World Cup 2018

On the day my brother and I
organized a soccer game
on the playing fields
of Oatlands College,
Mount Merrion, Dublin,
an assault of Christian Brothers
descended from the big house
like a murder of crows
their black soutanes flapping
in the wet winter breeze
descended with one aim
and one aim only –
to remove the scourge
of this foreign game
from the green Catholic fields
of Ireland.

 

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Open Mic at Words and Feathers

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I am participating at the open mic at Words and Feathers with my poem “Auto”.

This is unusual for two reasons:

  1. It’s the first time my flat Dublin accent (filtered through a number of years in western Canada) has been heard in a recording. I apologise for any suffering this may cause.
  2. For those soccer/football fans out there (Mr. Zoolonaudio), it’s probably the only poem written that name checks a member of Manchester City’s porous defence.

Check it out plus the other good stuff at Words and Feathers.

Poet’s Corner 12 – Slim’s Advice Part 3

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In which, Slim ignores his own advice. See Slim’s Advice Part 2.

A Clear Day in Late October

 A clear day in late October

is like a call from the Governor,

a stay of execution.

It is just such a day,

the leaves on the trees bordering the soccer field

have abandoned that chlorophyll thing

and are leaking yellows and reds

like a paint store catalogue;                                                         

on the side lines, the soccer dads

bark and pace like chain-linked hounds

like dogs locked in parked cars on a sunny day,

while in the bushes, Thwarted Ambition

waits to join them

on the long journey home.

Photo: Chlorophyll molecule (Chlorophyll-a-3D-vdw, licensed under public domain)