Reading 'If'

I sit down and watch Mike Bassett recite
Rudyard Kipling’s ‘If’ in the face of adversity
and hostility from the butchers that are the
British football press. The fact this film is
a work of fiction makes no difference
as I listen to the fight in his voice and
the will to keep going, even when all
hope was lost in the typical mediocrity
of his side’s lacklustre performances.
Then I remember an old possession of mine,
so I go upstairs and dust off the poetry book
a friend who shares my birthday bought
for me when we both turned 21. I flick through
the pages, searching for Kipling’s much
acclaimed ‘If’, and I read that poem
- and all the promises it makes in exchange
for courage, wisdom and patience - and I
come to realise that the ifs he speaks of
are cannots for me. It is then I walk to
the bathroom, all alone in the overbearing
heat of my house, and splash water on my face,
wanting to be both realistic and optimistic,
but failing to find a balance between the two like
Kipling did in writing his poem and Basset did in
reading it before the media hounds - salivating at his
apparent demise - with such resolute determination.
And it is then I meet my own gaze in the
bathroom mirror and goad the self I see -
an irritable shadow of the figure I once was -
in a futile attempt at reverse psychology:
“I dare you to be happy.”

The Long Walk Home

Every rustling leaf,
Every light, flickering,
Every noise is a threat,
My own footsteps frighten me,
Echoes all around,
Walking alone through the area
With the reputation,
I catch movements
Out of the corner of my eye,
But nothing is there,
I walk through the green
Where he was shot dead,
Such a sinister silence I have
Never experienced,
A wind blows,
Almost everything encourages me
To quicken my pace,
In the distance they stand,
Huddled and suspicious,
Too far away to hurt me,
But close enough to provide the threat,
Face forward again,
My heart skips a beat,
An old man, staggering, asks how I am,
Drunken and disorderly, he stumbles away,
My pace doubles,
Just like the beating in my chest,
A youth with a balaclava cycles by,
Giving me the eye,
But does nothing to follow it up,
Thirteen year olds loiter and doss,
No threat there,
But still I just want to be home,
Every screeching car offers fear,
Every wailing siren brings wonder,
Approaching the garden now,
One car screeches by,
Nothing doing,
I open the gate,
It slams shut behind me,
I lock the porch,
Close the door,
And am met with the sounds
Of Early Days and Centuries…

I am home.

(this poem interests me because it all happened as I wrote it, even the end when I opened my front door and my CD player had - I would find out the next day - turned itself on, almost as if to greet me coming in the door; Early Days and Centuries is a song by Guillotines, made up of Gary White, Gav White and Brian 'Bry' O'Reilly).

Hope is Lost

I have now lost all hope,
Why, I do not know,
I have suddenly been overcome a feeling,
A feeling that says,
I shall never have you.

A friend who is close to you,
Tells me I might have a chance,
Another friend you do not know,
Tells me impossible is nothing.
Jesters the pair of them!

Gut instinct has never been my strong point,
But right now it is saying,
I am too immature and weak,
To be worthy of your heart,
Unfortunately, I would have to agree.

My eyes are filled with tears,
My heart feels like it has been smashed to pieces,
Obviously, you didn't mean it,
You aren't even aware you have done it,
But one realisation has come with another.

Now I know I can never have you,
I also know I shall never love another,
They say it's better to have loved and lost
Then to have never loved at all,
But it would have been nice had you been mine to lose...

Because I would have made sure I didn't!

(Gav White would put music to a version of this poem which we sang just once - he did most of the singing, to be fair - as a duo heroically called Orwellian Fear; we could have set the world ablaze)