Photo by Edwyn Parry I am lost.
I'm looking for something.
It's like those repeated dreams I have of teaching, wandering in a strange school (often dressed only in pants or dressing-gowns.....Freudians, don't respond! ), searching for the class I should be teaching, totally unprepared.
(With the exception of the garb, much like I was when in education then!)
I'm lost, as the dandelions keep growing up between every crack, even as I turn my back; as the front lawn turns into a green trampoline of moss ; as the patio's year-long dark pollution (exported from Ffos-y-fran?) won't be shifted, no matter how hard I brush and whistle the Sorcerer's Apprentice.
A fan when the season's finished, like a twitcher underwater glimpsing a few cormorants diving for fish. I go into a state of transfer speculation , of reluctant summertime hibernation.
It's not just the thrill of games I miss, but the whole ritual (especially remembering the right routes to take, so we win again) : the pre-match pints of hoptastic ale, the banter and discussion with the infamous Pompeii and the boyz and my regular refusal to make any predictions.
What can possibly replace the excitement of the game itself?
Cricket I long since abandoned as turgid and , anyway, why do Welsh players need to play for England?
I enjoy Wimbledon and I would certainly reach for my racket, if I could find a willing partner with equally dodgy eye-sight and lack of fitness.
But it's the atmosphere of the Cardiff City stadium I miss.
There is nothing like watching live footie. I've been to a rugby international and wanted to leave because it rained piss (literally!). I've even been to club rugby games way back when our matches were called off and they make mowing the lawn seem an out-of-this-world experience!
In the end, it's the difference between watching a band in concert and listening to the cd or download, except in the case of Bob Dylan where his gigs are as uplifting as reading a train timetable.
I love the crowd: the shouting ,joking and swearing. I love the chanting raising the team and , above all, the sheer ecstasy of scoring when you jump, leap and scream and lose yourself completely.
What can I possibly do with my Saturdays now (answers confined to haiku, please)?
Fill them with dust and flour, which easily blows away?
Shine them till they sparkle, yet never look at my reflection?
Or walk, doggedly and away, hoping that distance will mean I forget where I should be, where I'm lost in another way....... and belong.
EMPTY SATURDAYS
Empty Saturdays
out of season :
wishing it was head of ale
not froth of car shampoo
I cut the lawn
but it's not the pitch
I'd watch, I'd stand
for the team to emerge
from the tunnel ;
television in the evening,
talent show karaoke kings
fame ruling everything
flowers the colours of teams
bluebell and rose both ours,
reminding of the clash
and wanting to hack down
empty Saturdays
full of shopping
and cardboard chasms
of aisle after aisle
when I was young every wall
was a goal, an aim ;
now brick upon brick
the cells of my brain.
I'm looking for something.
It's like those repeated dreams I have of teaching, wandering in a strange school (often dressed only in pants or dressing-gowns.....Freudians, don't respond! ), searching for the class I should be teaching, totally unprepared.
(With the exception of the garb, much like I was when in education then!)
I'm lost, as the dandelions keep growing up between every crack, even as I turn my back; as the front lawn turns into a green trampoline of moss ; as the patio's year-long dark pollution (exported from Ffos-y-fran?) won't be shifted, no matter how hard I brush and whistle the Sorcerer's Apprentice.
A fan when the season's finished, like a twitcher underwater glimpsing a few cormorants diving for fish. I go into a state of transfer speculation , of reluctant summertime hibernation.
It's not just the thrill of games I miss, but the whole ritual (especially remembering the right routes to take, so we win again) : the pre-match pints of hoptastic ale, the banter and discussion with the infamous Pompeii and the boyz and my regular refusal to make any predictions.
What can possibly replace the excitement of the game itself?
Cricket I long since abandoned as turgid and , anyway, why do Welsh players need to play for England?
I enjoy Wimbledon and I would certainly reach for my racket, if I could find a willing partner with equally dodgy eye-sight and lack of fitness.
But it's the atmosphere of the Cardiff City stadium I miss.
There is nothing like watching live footie. I've been to a rugby international and wanted to leave because it rained piss (literally!). I've even been to club rugby games way back when our matches were called off and they make mowing the lawn seem an out-of-this-world experience!
In the end, it's the difference between watching a band in concert and listening to the cd or download, except in the case of Bob Dylan where his gigs are as uplifting as reading a train timetable.
I love the crowd: the shouting ,joking and swearing. I love the chanting raising the team and , above all, the sheer ecstasy of scoring when you jump, leap and scream and lose yourself completely.
What can I possibly do with my Saturdays now (answers confined to haiku, please)?
Fill them with dust and flour, which easily blows away?
Shine them till they sparkle, yet never look at my reflection?
Or walk, doggedly and away, hoping that distance will mean I forget where I should be, where I'm lost in another way....... and belong.
EMPTY SATURDAYS
Empty Saturdays
out of season :
wishing it was head of ale
not froth of car shampoo
I cut the lawn
but it's not the pitch
I'd watch, I'd stand
for the team to emerge
from the tunnel ;
television in the evening,
talent show karaoke kings
fame ruling everything
flowers the colours of teams
bluebell and rose both ours,
reminding of the clash
and wanting to hack down
empty Saturdays
full of shopping
and cardboard chasms
of aisle after aisle
when I was young every wall
was a goal, an aim ;
now brick upon brick
the cells of my brain.
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