George Best
By David Park
Once I tried to pin him to the page
Tackle him with the heaviness of words
But with a sudden drop of one shoulder
And a slight shimmy of hips he was gone,
Leaving me stumbling off balance,
The page a withering wake of empty space,
His heels disappearing into the distance
Like some skipping dance of trickster light.
from Everything to Play For: 99 Poems about Sport (Poetry Ireland 2015).
Manager, Perhaps
By Brendan Kennelly
The first time I met Oliver Cromwell
The poor man was visibly distressed.
‘Buffún’ says he, ‘things are gone to the devil
In England. So I popped over here for a rest.
Say what you will about Ireland, where on
Earth could a harassed statesman find peace like
This in green unperturbed oblivion?
Good Lord! I’m worn out from intrigue and work.
I’d like a little estate down in Kerry,
A spot of salmon-fishing, riding to hounds.
Good Lord! The very thought makes me delighted.
Being a sporting chap, I’d really love to
Get behind one of the best sides in the land.
Manager, perhaps, of Drogheda United?’
from Everything to Play For: 99 Poems about Sport (Poetry Ireland 2015).
Originally published in The Essential Brendan Kennelly: Selected Poems (Bloodaxe Books 2011) www.bloodaxebooks.com
Pitch & Putt
By Conor O'Callaghan
It is the realm of men
and boys joined in boredom,
the way of life that sees
one day on a par
with the next and school breaks
dragged out too long.
Theirs is the hour killed slowly,
the turn for home
in diminishing threes and twos,
the provisional etiquette
of shared tees,
conceded defeat.
Theirs the loose end,
the nationality of ships
in the absence
of shop to talk,
the freedom to be hopeless
and still come back.
Theirs the blather
of the last twoball
accepting flukes
for what they are,
the greenkeeper collecting flags
and shadows in their wake.
from Everything to Play For: 99 Poems about Sport (Poetry Ireland 2015).
Originally published in Seatown (The Gallery Press 1999)
Ireland Is Changing Mother
By Rita Ann Higgins
Don’t throw out the loaves
with the dishes mother.
It’s not the double-takes so much
it’s that they take you by the double.
And where have all the Nellys gone
and all the Missus Kellys gone?
You might have had
the cleanest step on your street
but so what mother,
nowadays it’s not the step
but the mile that matters.
Meanwhile the Bally Bane Taliban
are battling it out over that football.
They will bring the local yokels
to a deeper meaning of over the barring it.
And then some scarring will occur –
as in cracked skull for your troubles.
They don’t just integrate, they limp-pa-grate,
your sons are shrinking mother.
Before this mother,
your sons were gods of that powerful thing. Gods of the apron string.
They could eat a horse and they often did,
with your help mother.
Even Tim who has a black belt in sleepwalking
and border lining couldn’t torch a cigarette,
much less the wet haystack of desire,
even he can see, Ireland is changing mother.
Listen to black belt Tim mother.
When they breeze onto the pitch
like some Namibian Gods
the local girls wet themselves.
They say in a hurry, o-Ma-god, o-Ma-god!
Not good for your sons mother,
who claim to have invented everything
from the earwig to the sliotar.
They were used to seizing Cynthia’s hips looking into her eyes and saying
I’m Johnny come lately, love me.
Now the Namibian Gods and the Bally Bane Taliban
are bringing the local yokels
to their menacing senses,
and scoring more goals than Cú Chulainn.
Ireland is changing mother
tell yourself, tell your sons.
from Everything to Play For: 99 Poems about Sport (Poetry Ireland 2015).
Originally published in Ireland Is Changing Mother (Bloodaxe Books 2011) www.bloodaxebooks.com
