I’m a writer. I write films, plays and performance poetry. I work independently and collaboratively. I work with communities. I write comedic work with a hint of pathos, and during these recession hit times, works of pathos with a hint of comedy. I work for Liverpool based writer's group 'The Windows Project' and lots of other North West creative organisations. I also teach creative writing at Bolton CC and Uni. You can find me on Linkedin and Twitter and About.me.com.
This is not just poetry... He would have rather been a footballer than a poet. In his school you got twatted just for knowing what a sonnet was and your sexuality was called into question if you used any kind of metaphor other than ‘Dickhead.’ Understanding iambic pentameters wasn't quite the same as knowing what the offside rules were. He just knew that he was offside - Outside Relegated from their team just for knowing a rhyme scheme. When he walked through a storm He’d get pissed wet through. He was generally on his own and holding his head up high was highly unlikely - Unless somebody else’s hand was around his neck Ramming his head up against a changing room door that was locked from the inside and crammed full of testosterone fueled spectators Speculating that someone would be getting a good kick in. Foul play Every day. But the noise from The Kop made it all just stop as the rhythm of Shankly’s “Pass move receive the ball Pass move receive the ball” brought him poetic justice with a four three three formation and for a ninety minute duration was enough to allow him to close his eyes and play keepy uppy With words. Tackling alliteration, Ducking Diving Dangerously Defending then driving forward Dribbling down towards the opponents goal. Out of his area he didn't care realistically he knew that his chances of scoring were nil. But the sound of The Kop Raised him up Made him want to sing at the top of his poetic lungs Stanza Sta anza Stanza Stanza. And chant at those on his opposing side “Come and write a poem if you think you’re bard enough!” But they wouldn't know what a bard was unless he had a number on the back of his shirt and it was a well known fact that Shakespeare was shite at team games. He would have rather been a footballer than a poet. As he grow older he would come to accept that he would never be in their league - That he was more Keats than Keegan. But back then it haunted him Like an own goal Back when it wasn't just a matter of life and death It was more important than that.
All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.
Viewed 1100 times since 12 Feb 2013
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