The Green Field

He was left back I was right back,

on opposite sides of The Green Field,

we defended the same attacks.

Not only from the pace of wingers,

but from the peer-pressure of the game.

Most days we controlled the ball, letting nothing inside the guard.

But sometimes I would dread those early Sundays, the macho ways,

and the ball would drift beyond my control, as puberty froze me

like an unknown breath behind me.

And as he began to lead, with such vitality,

he played for the joys of pain and injury.

I remember playing for the same bruises and muddy results,

only on the day my granddad died.

And there was some great difference between him, and me:

him with focus, me with a wondering interest

in other games off The Green Field.

He however, remained focused on one interest.

He’d turn flip back pages, skipping the rest.

He’d check results religiously.

His manly passions were as same as the next.

This was not for me.

I remember seeing his poor father

attempting to pass on these ceremonial ways,

whilst his child sat in the stands playing on a Gameboy.

His still soon learnt the ways of secularity. 

I saw him yesterday on a corner,

Saying hello to the cigarette that scorched him, I smiled at him

but he didn’t reply.

He just stared at the ground as if there was nothing to do but stand on street corners.

Looking as his father did, unknowingly scorned by animalisms.

Modern Art poem

Here is a poem of mine entitled Modern Art which was published in the first issue of Hum-Drum magazine.  You can check out issues of the magazine at http://www.hum-drum.com or http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=4549172459&v=wall

Modern Art

The glistening knives, spatulas and spoons,

Beneath the murky waters of the sink,

Hold their own like the stones

Thrown throughout my youth.

They hold their own, decaying knowingly,

Shining noticeably still after all these years.

Supplying empty mouths with food,

Before returning to the drawer.

And as they distract me from my chores,

I imagine the many occasions they’ve witnessed.

The celebratory birthdays and family around table,

When five seats were warmed,

Five sets of you prepared.

(Though mine were always held

The wrong way round).

And my moreish uncle became a member

Of the clean plate society,

Can you help me return to the same security?

Can you hold this digital image of

Youth on my retina?

Before it has all collapsed!

The decaying of the old table,

Into smaller separate ones.

Or the meals on laps,

Each with plate and cutlery, separate worries.

Beginning the dips in conversation,

The TV buzzing...

The glistening knives, spatulas and spoons,

Beneath the murky waters of the sink,

Hold their own like the stones

Thrown throughout my youth.

A Few Poems...

Here are a few poems which i recently rediscovered under my bed.  They were published in TADEEB magazine back in 2008.  You can view TADEEB publications online at http://www.tadeeb.com/  Enjoy:

‘The need’

Would it have made a difference?

If the implement I reached was not black but blue.

To sum up your beauty through words,

and jump-start ‘the need’ to continue.

All those miniscule moments,

that keep us in contact,

as if our love being special, betters all that has past.

We kissed eyes open, then collapsed,

‘The need’ to bring it back.

And sum up why these things,

make me alive.

Through a truth unlike the other poems.

Written for ego reasons to impress,

to show off my intellect.

But for now, the zenith of your beauty cannot be peaked.

For now, I can’t write like Brooke or Tennyson.

Although I’ll adamantly try, with this line and that line

                                                                                      

Because I love you,

and I’m scared it won’t be enough,

                                                                                                      

Never enough… 

Computer Games

It seems my generation abuse few words,

button-clicking through days,

exchanging love letters for emails,

joining best friends through wires,

triggering them all to dead.

But this daily death match was my life.

I managed to cope in the time-trials,

spending hours perfecting my racing lines

to a pixelated goal.

And since I’ve failed to match such achievement,

in a pubbing or clubbing environment,

in this real world where another race seems to matter,

being the fastest pint-downer or comedic one-liner.

Those friends and me were left at the bend,

discussing next-gen’s possibilities,

talking up the future we can comprehend,

like Orwell predicting next year’s men.

And on this double bed, as minute as a single polygon,

I lie doing the same.

Existing in an outdated disc, with friends passing by.

Here I can naturally and robotically function,

but in the real world I die…

Polling Station

There were no voters my age,

leaving the grey-haired heroes to tick recurrently.

With the same pen they’d grew up with.

They placed ticks instantly, without contemplation

though through glasses party names blur into one.

Then dropped the slips eagerly into the box,

folding ten times, pretending secrecy. 

But it’s ‘outside the box’ where secrets are held,

I could never guess the beliefs of my friends,

I don’t know the truth behind war,

I don’t know why the prisons are full

But I say ‘burn’ to them all,

bring back capital punishment.

Though my freedoms are slowly eroding

under the mask of the tabloid media.

As I know where Beckham shops for clothes,

yet I don’t know the latest passed laws.

Have they changed the one when an intruder enters your home?

Or can you still only use reasonable force?

And what the hell happened to chicken flu?

Are you, controlling the switch of global panic through exaggeration?

Are you working to scaremonger us all through terrorism?

Take responsibility for the terrorists right here in Britain,

the white scum on the streets with no beliefs.

It is them, who wind up the county’s minorities,

it was them who bullied me into believing the world is rotting, more each day.

And you ask why nationalism is steadily growing

into its own illegal immigrant minority?

Turning our flag to the cross of crucifixion,

to the red cross of football hooliganism.

And it’s my generation; they’ll attribute this downfall.

Where are they now as the votes are counted?

They could have reversed it all for good, 

a sweet revolution.

Maybe they’ve used the postal vote. 

MORE POETRY SOON...

BBC Any Questions a Childish Pantomime

BBC 4 Be Entertained or Avertained

I was pretty excited last week to hear that I managed to get two free tickets for BBC Radio 4's program Any Questions 27/8/2010.   I was sure that the radio 4 version would have more in depth discussion on important political issues than the TV version Question Time whose content I feel it largely diluted to fit the fast-paced TV format.  

Before the show was due to air in The Assembly Rooms in Newcastle a BBC representative came out to get the crowd 'warmed up'.  For his first warm up he read out a number of small political comments and asked the audience to respond in agreement or disagreement.   He read 'I am happy with the current direction of the coalition government', A load of boos echoed across the hall.   He then stated 'The North East of England is the best place to live in the country'  of course a cacophony of cheers followed immediately.

Although I can understand that the microphones and sound levels may need to have been checked before the start of the show, warming up the crowd in this manner reminded me of being in the crowd for Stars In The Eyes and A Question Of Sport when I was younger.  Should a political 'debate' show follow the same guidelines of these entertainment shows? Although there were no signs held up saying 'cheer now' or 'silence please' the BBC's pre-show prompts established a pantomime like atmosphere in the hall.  

When the show finally began I looked forward to a wide range of questions relating to serious political policy all of which the panel 'had no sight of before the show'.  As the show progressed, however, the questions became increasingly childish in nature and none of the 8 questions that were asked strayed from the popular tabloid issues of the week.  The pick of the bunch was one question selected by a lady who asked 'what politician, public figure or policy would you put in the wheelie bin?' referring to the national reports of a lady who put a cat in a wheelie bin earlier in the week.  All of the panel members answered the England Team or The FA, 7minutes of the 48minute show was then taken up by football discussion.  Then this question was followed by a man who asked if the panel had a Twitter page?  A further 5 minutes of the show was taken up having a laugh and joke about how some of the panel were too old and clumsy to use computers.   

There were some juicier questions asked such as questions on the future of the NHS, the public or private health care debate and also another question relating to the Coalitions planned cuts in all areas.  However I focus on the Twitter and Wheelie Bin questions because these questions were clearly chosen to provide some light hearted relief from the rest of the show.  Although I’m not saying that humour has no place on debate shows it really shows the state of our 24hr entertainment society that even the longest running BBC Radio 4 talk show aimed at the well-educated minds has to dumb down its content to ensure that no one is upset and that every has a jolly good time listening to it.

If it was entertainment I was looking for I would have been much better off going to the Theatre Royal to see the latest production of Aladdin.