Making My Mark
I may
not have kept on my feet in life’s rolling maul,
but I
was always calm under the high dropping ball.
taken in hand in time,
I might now be
But, of course, no-
one bothered: my torso,
without clothes, is
a loose float of spare ribs;
for want of meat
my shoulders almost meet;
and in my back
two wandering wing-bones flap.
enough to be a jockey:
my neck is thick,
and my thighs wouldn’t lack grip,
above the waist. Can’t wait
to mount my pride
to find my legs astride
some unknown hack
from off the beaten track,
the fancied field
in my stride spread-eagled.
When royalty
is presented to me -
on level pegs -
I’ll shake hands with my legs.
I thought you wanted everyone to laugh,
but it was an American smile,
all welcoming and teeth.
And when you said, ‘Little boy,
that wasn’t meant to be funny’,
and two thousand people laughed,
I thought, ‘He’s talking to me’.
Those days everything was black and white.
The newsreel footage showed you running with hares
in a desert of oil wells
and tufts of vegetation and a tin can.
You were a cross between
Bob Hope and the young Brando.
I reckoned you could do anything
and faster than anyone. And you could.
I knew you called your mother ‘Mom’,
and were both a Cowboy and an Indian,
rounded up wild horses for your father,
and your supply of apple-pie never ran out.
I knew your childhood sweetheart
was June Allyson, and the recurrent rings
of the Olympic Games were smoke signals
from your own personal Colchester 49.
I knew what chance I had of growing up
was in your hands - you who picked me out
of the crowd to gently mock - for as you left the hall,
leaping up the steps two at a time, you winked at me.
Running home that evening
I was faster than the wind,
and jumped the garden gate
without breaking a leg. Wasn’t I proud?
Coming of Age
1984
Most of my growing up had been done.
I loved him like a father would his son.
Of course, the life I gave him was sporting.
Old tennis-partner, I would let you win.
You who despised the drop-shot and topspin.
I could have killed the game with serve and smash.
But lobs and baseline rallies, made to last,
kept the ball live between us on the ash.
I knew that you were dying from your play.
And I was growing strong. I kept at bay
the urge to take advantage. Now today
twenty years later I’m once more your son
missing the cider you bought me when you won.
Measuring Up and Down
My
father could jump his height -
five
foot ten.
I
could long-jump three times mine –
five
foot nine.
But
my father could take flight
to
a plane
where
ideas could divine
what
is right.
.
While
my flatfoot leap of faith
lands
in line
with
the earth, can’t even gain
the
upright.
My
father didn’t hesitate.
With
a blithe
spirit,
straddled heaven’s gate.
I
remain
stuck
in sand. Still, I await
the
sublime’s
global-tilt
to elongate
what’s
on high.
Thus,
the sky,
on
the horizontal plain
allows
me jump my own height
with
a flight
that’s
side-ways. And it comes
right.
Sprinting:
100
metres final,Olympics,Atlanta,1996
one step forward
2. Dead-eyes fixed inwardly to a previous existence,
hardly human
3. Flicker of rage as rival slow to settle
disturbs an eyelash
4 Pyramids of muscle ankle-deep in starting blocks
bury feelings
5 Respond to the pistol-shot, each as though the gun was
to the head
6 (False starts can be bypassed as human weakness,
the sensor detects)
7 Stampede of raw flesh wobbles off, eating up
the asphalt with spikes
8 Straighten up to unbolt zombies like zephyrs,
eyes rolling in the skulls
9 Lunchboxes swing from side to side, what’s in them
obviously works
10 Ten seconds is a long time to live with
locked in what went wrong or right
Flying
Up Mountains
Your
last climb was the hardest.
Beyond
the clouds to a moon-
surface
of infinite thirst,
for you
could no longer spin
like a mountain snipe on your bike
till the
spokes begin to sing.
Now you
leave the world behind,
and the
gap is an earthquake
swallowing
the roads you climbed.
The
streets weep with bicycles.
Each
alone as an egret.
Sad the
music of their wheels.
Da Vinci
looks to the sky,
Icarus
on reflections
down
below. We saw him fly.
Marco
ascends
into
heaven
on
a
wing
and
a
prayer.
He
doesn’t
need
air.
Maradona
has marred his don.
Still his
sacred legs stagger on,
though
hamstrung by loss of form,
at the edge
of the box. He’s not
going to
turn and hit the net.
A penalty
is his best bet.
Or an own
goal. It’s him that’s shot.
But as the
final whistle blows
for full
time, the fat man steps back
and nets
the ball, the last attack
in the
game, and the crowd rose
to their
feet. El Diego lives.
Only
a
miracle could explain
the sleight
of foot: his left hand raised,
a back
pedal, and a toe in pain.
While the
Ref’s devil advocate
in Rome
reviews action replays,
I’m already
sure, heaven be praised,
grace of
Pantani, Diego’s mate.
When Marco
was cold-shouldered, the sole
big name at
his internment
was El. So,
justice has been done.
The saint
of climbs achieved his goal.