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football2010-07-10 04:30 pm
frangipani) wrote in football2010-07-10 04:30 pm
Entry tags:
Sporting poems
The Guardian newspaper today published a selection of poems about sport, including football.
Carol Ann Duffy: The Shirt
Afterwards, I found him alone at the bar
and asked him what went wrong. It's the shirt,
he said. When I pull it on it hangs on my back
like a shroud, or a poisoned jerkin from Grimm
seeping its curse onto my skin, the worst tattoo.
I shower and shave before I shrug on the shirt,
smell like a dream; but the shirt sours my scent
with the sweat and stink of fear. It's got my number.
I poured him another shot. Speak on, my son. He did.
I've wanted to sport the shirt since I was a kid,
but now when I do it makes me sick, weak, paranoid.
All night above the team hotel, the moon is the ball
in a penalty kick. Tens of thousands of fierce stars
are booing me. A screech owl is the referee.
The wind's a crowd, forty years long, bawling a filthy song
about my Wag. It's the bloody shirt! He started to blub
like a big girl's blouse and I felt a fleeting pity.
Don't cry, I said, at the end of the day you'll be back
on 100K a week and playing for City.
Ann Gray: The wonder of you
On Highbury Hill we took in bins
and boarded up our windows.
I knitted a romper suit
in red and white Quickerknit
and had a girl. Maureen's Grandma
washed their strip. There's her photo
leaning on the clothes' pole,
a row of empty shorts on the line.
We took our kids to see the horses,
heard the roar for Charlie George,
Bob Primrose Wilson. Football's faith,
like you can't eat pork, you can't
talk to Phil when Everton are losing.
It's DNA, it's where you come from.
My DNA's a mess. My dad demands respect
but watches Charlton. One sister's lot
are Hammers, the other married Liverpool.
My brother and his barber walk to Chelsea.
My boy went to Spurs. I took Beth
when they were playing Wigan, we saw
you know who from Big Brother
Have you seen the size of her diamond?
Did you see her shoes?
Daws, Di-mi-ta Ber-ba-tov. Beth had
his match shirt. I bought Baby Grace
a treasure box for her first red curls.
The only things in it are a programme
and her first match ticket, 9 months old.
Football's your wild child, you take out
at week-ends, and you sing
while the Gods perform their rituals;
touch this boot first, touch that wall,
touch the cross to the lips.
The ref holds them back like horses,
till you're wrung out, strung out,
waiting for them to run out
to Elvis, the wonder of you.
Do you know other football poems? What're your favourites? I can't think of one now off the top of my head, but I vaguely recall reading one a few months ago.
Carol Ann Duffy: The Shirt
Afterwards, I found him alone at the bar
and asked him what went wrong. It's the shirt,
he said. When I pull it on it hangs on my back
like a shroud, or a poisoned jerkin from Grimm
seeping its curse onto my skin, the worst tattoo.
I shower and shave before I shrug on the shirt,
smell like a dream; but the shirt sours my scent
with the sweat and stink of fear. It's got my number.
I poured him another shot. Speak on, my son. He did.
I've wanted to sport the shirt since I was a kid,
but now when I do it makes me sick, weak, paranoid.
All night above the team hotel, the moon is the ball
in a penalty kick. Tens of thousands of fierce stars
are booing me. A screech owl is the referee.
The wind's a crowd, forty years long, bawling a filthy song
about my Wag. It's the bloody shirt! He started to blub
like a big girl's blouse and I felt a fleeting pity.
Don't cry, I said, at the end of the day you'll be back
on 100K a week and playing for City.
Ann Gray: The wonder of you
On Highbury Hill we took in bins
and boarded up our windows.
I knitted a romper suit
in red and white Quickerknit
and had a girl. Maureen's Grandma
washed their strip. There's her photo
leaning on the clothes' pole,
a row of empty shorts on the line.
We took our kids to see the horses,
heard the roar for Charlie George,
Bob Primrose Wilson. Football's faith,
like you can't eat pork, you can't
talk to Phil when Everton are losing.
It's DNA, it's where you come from.
My DNA's a mess. My dad demands respect
but watches Charlton. One sister's lot
are Hammers, the other married Liverpool.
My brother and his barber walk to Chelsea.
My boy went to Spurs. I took Beth
when they were playing Wigan, we saw
you know who from Big Brother
Have you seen the size of her diamond?
Did you see her shoes?
Daws, Di-mi-ta Ber-ba-tov. Beth had
his match shirt. I bought Baby Grace
a treasure box for her first red curls.
The only things in it are a programme
and her first match ticket, 9 months old.
Football's your wild child, you take out
at week-ends, and you sing
while the Gods perform their rituals;
touch this boot first, touch that wall,
touch the cross to the lips.
The ref holds them back like horses,
till you're wrung out, strung out,
waiting for them to run out
to Elvis, the wonder of you.
Do you know other football poems? What're your favourites? I can't think of one now off the top of my head, but I vaguely recall reading one a few months ago.