COLLECTED POEMS Page 8

With Clive and Trevor

  Malcolm and Paul

  Or even without them

  Just me and a wall.

  My legs might be skinny

  My feet might be small

  But I get a kick

  Out of kicking a ball.

  Not punching a ball

  Or bashing a ball

  Serving a ball

  Or smashing a ball

  Not throwing a ball

  Or blowing a ball

  Not bowling or batting

  Or patting a ball

  Not pinging or ponging

  Or potting or putting

  But booting and shooting

  Yes, kicking, oh, kicking!

  Just kicking a ball

  A ball in the playground

  A ball on the grass

  A shot on the run

  A dribble, a pass

  A ball before breakfast

  A ball before bed

  A dream of a ball

  A ‘kick’ in the head.

  Don’t want a ball

  That’s odd or screw

  That you hit with a mallet

  Or a billiard cue.

  Don’t want a ball

  That’s made of meat

  I’d really rather

  Score than eat!

  Mothballs crumble

  Snowballs melt

  Give me a ball

  You can save – and belt!

  Not a ball-cock

  Or a ball-point

  Or a plastic ball-

  And-socket joint.

  Not a ball-bearing

  (Bit too small)

  But – putting it more or less

  Baldly – a ball.

  Kicking a ball

  Kicking a ball

  That’s surely the purpose

  Of life, after all.

  Not climbing a mountain

  In far Nepal

  Or diving for pearls

  In the Bay of Bengal.

  Not sailing a yacht

  On a tight haul

  In a sudden squall

  To Montreal.

  But kicking a ball

  Kicking a ball

  Kick, kick, kick, kick,

  Kicking a ball!

  And later on

  As the years pass

  I’ll still be running

  Across the grass

  Kicking a ball

  Kicking a ball

  With Clive and Malcolm

  Trevor and Paul.

  Not reading the paper

  Or having a shave

  But forcing the goalie

  To make a save.

  Not kissing the wife

  Or bathing the baby

  But kicking a ball

  And scoring! (maybe)

  Till baby toddles

  And tackles and then…

  Starts the ball rolling

  All over again.

  Yes, life’s a circle

  Endless and small

  And when all’s said and done

  The world’s a ball

  What I like best

  Yes, most of all

  In my whole life

  Is kicking a ball.

  In freezing cold

  Or blinding heat

  Ever and always

  A ball at my feet.

  Caked in mud

  Covered in sweat

  Scoring the goals

  I’ll never forget.

  With Paul and Malcolm

  Trevor and Clive

  Completely exhausted

  And really alive…

  And kicking, yes, kicking

  Oh, kicking!

  Wow! Kicking a ball

  7

  Scissors

  Teachers’ Prayer

  Slow Reader

  There’s a Fish Tank

  Glenis

  Mr Bloor

  Colin

  The Cane

  Scissors

  Complaint

  Picking Teams

  reading test

  The Runners

  Parents’ Evening

  Back to School

  Supply Teacher

  Headmaster’s Hymn

  The School Nurse

  Please Mrs Butler

  Teachers’ Prayer

  Let the children in our care

  Clean their shoes and comb their hair;

  Come to school on time – and neat,

  Blow their noses, wipe their feet.

  Let them, Lord, not eat in class

  Or rush into the hall en masse.

  Let them show some self-control;

  Let them slow down; let them stroll.

  Let the children in our charge

  Not be violent or large;

  Not be sick on the school-trip bus,

  Not be cleverer than us;

  Not be unwashed, loud or mad,

  (With a six-foot mother or a seven-foot dad).

  Let them, please, say ‘drew’ not ‘drawed’;

  Let them know the answers, Lord.

  Slow Reader

  I – am – in – the – slow

  read – ers – group – my – broth

  er – is – in – the – foot

  ball – team – my – sis – ter

  is – a – ser – ver – my

  lit – tie – broth – er – was

  a – wise – man – in – the

  in – fants – christ – mas – play

  I – am – in – the – slow

  read – ers – group – that – is

  all – I – am – in – I

  hate – it

  There’s a Fish Tank

  There’s a fish tank

  In our class

  With no fish in it;

  A guinea-pig cage

  With no guinea-pig in it;

  A formicarium

  With no ants in it;

  And according to Miss Hodge

  Some of our heads

  Are empty too.

  There’s a stock-cupboard

  With no stock,

  Flowerpots without flowers,

  Plimsolls without owners

  And me without a friend

  For a week

  While he goes on holiday

  There’s a girl

  With no front teeth,

  And a boy with hardly any hair

  Having had it cut.

  There are sums without answers,

  Paintings unfinished

  And projects with no hope

  Of ever coming to an end.

  According to Miss Hodge

  The only thing that’s brim-full

  In our class

  Is the waste-paper basket

  Glenis

  The teacher says:

  Why is it, Glenis,

  Please answer me this,

  The only time

  You ever stop talking in class

  Is if I ask you

  Where’s the Khyber Pass?

  Or when was the Battle of Waterloo?

  Or what is nine times three?

  Or how do you spell

  Mississippi?

  Why is it, Glenis,

  The only time you are silent

  Is when I ask you a question?

  And Glenis says:

  Mr Bloor

  There was a man named Mr Bloor

  Who liked to referee and score.

  He’d blow his whistle, swing his boot

  Beat half a dozen boys – and shoot.

  (He was a teacher in our school

  His favourite team was Liverpool.)

  He also loved to commentate

  ‘Bloor’s got the ball – Bloor’s going great!

  He’s beat his man, what rare control

  He’s round the full back now and – GOAL!

  His legs are strong, his brain is quick!’

  (Sometimes he’d let us have a kick.)

  But Mr Bloor the referee

&n
bsp; Was also fair, as you will see.

  He’d score a goal and strut with pride

  Then stop and rule himself offside.

  He’d cover back and tackle hard

  Yet give himself a yellow card,

  Bulldoze boys caught in his path

  And send himself for an early bath.

  On rare occasions I recall

  Our Mr Bloor would pass the ball,

  Leaving some kid, like Vinny Cole

  (who never scored), with an open goal.

  ‘It’s Vinny now, all full of dinner

  Dazzling footwork and – the winner!’

  Mr Bloor was short and wide

  He played with trousers tucked inside

  His ordinary socks and on his head

  He wore a bobble hat, bright red.

  Sometimes his girlfriend, Miss Levine

  (she taught us too), would run the line

  She’d stand there smiling, tall and slim

  And wave her little flag at him.

  Eventually his knees gave way

  And doctors said he shouldn’t play.

  Now Mr Bloor’s a mere spectator

  Oh yes of course and commentator.

  ‘He’s got the ball, what sweet control

  Deceives the goalie now and – GOAL!’

  Colin

  When you frown at me like that, Colin,

  And wave your arm in the air,

  I know just what you’re going to say:

  ‘Please, Sir, it isn’t fair!’

  It isn’t fair

  On the football field

  if their team scores a goal.

  It isn’t fair

  In a cricket match.

  Unless you bat and bowl.

  When you scowl at me that way, Colin,

  And mutter and slam your chair,

  I always know what’s coming next:

  ‘Please, Sir, it isn’t fair!’

  It isn’t fair

  When I give you a job.

  It isn’t fair when I don’t.

  if I keep you in

  It isn’t fair.

  if you’re told to go out, you won’t

  When heads bow low in assembly

  And the whole school’s saying a prayer,

  I can guess what’s on your mind, Colin:

  ‘Our Father… it isn’t fair!’

  It wasn’t fair

  In the Infants.

  It isn’t fair now.

  It won’t be fair

  At the Comprehensive

  (For first years, anyhow).

  When your life reaches its end, Colin,

  Though I doubt if I’ll be there,

  I can picture the words on the gravestone now.

  They’ll say: IT IS NOT FAIR

  The Cane

  The teacher

  had some thin springy sticks

  for making kites.

  Reminds me

  of the old days, he said;

  and swished one.

  The children

  near his desk laughed nervously,

  and pushed closer.

  A cheeky girl

  held out her cheeky hand.

  Go on, Sir!

  said her friends.

  Give her the stick, she’s always

  playing up!

  The teacher

  paused, then did as he was told.

  Just a tap.

  Oh, Sir!

  We’re going to tell on you,

  the children said.

  Other children

  left their seats and crowded round

  the teacher’s desk.

  Other hands

  went out. Making kites was soon

  forgotten.

  My turn next!

  He’s had one go already!

  That’s not fair!

  Soon the teacher,

  to save himself from the crush,

  called a halt.

  (it was

  either that or use the cane

  for real.)

  Reluctantly,

  the children did as they were told

  and sat down.

  if you behave

  yourselves, the teacher said,

  I’ll cane you later.

  Scissors

  Nobody leave the room.

  Everyone listen to me.

  We had ten pairs of scissors

  At half-past two,

  And now there’s only three.

  Seven pairs of scissors

  Disappeared from sight.

  Not one of you leaves

  Till we find them.

  We can stop here all night!

  Scissors don’t lose themselves,

  Melt away or explode.

  Scissors have not got

  Legs of their own

  To go running off up the road

  We really need those scissors,

  That’s what makes me mad.

  if it was seven pairs

  Of children we’d lost,

  It wouldn’t be so bad.

  I don’t want to hear excuses.

  Don’t anyone speak.

  Just ransack this room

  Till we find them,

  Or we’ll stop here… all week!

  Complaint

  The teachers all sit in the staffroom.

  The teachers all drink tea.

  The teachers all smoke cigarettes

  As cosy as can be.

  We have to go out at playtime

  Unless we bring a note

  Or it’s tipping down with rain

  Or we haven’t got a coat.

  We have to go out at playtime

  Whether we like it or not.

  And freeze to death if it’s freezing

  And boil to death if it’s hot.

  The teachers can sit in the staffroom

  And have a cosy chat.

  We have to go out at playtime;

  Where’s the fairness in that?

  Picking Teams

  When we pick teams in the playground,

  Whatever the game might be,

  There’s always somebody left till last

  And usually it’s me.

  I stand there looking hopeful

  And tapping myself on the chest,

  But the captains pick the others first,

  Starting, of course, with the best.

  Maybe if teams were sometimes picked

  Starting with the worst,

  Once in his life a boy like me

  Could end up being first!

  reading test

  tree little milk egg book

  read ing test I took

  school sit frog playing bun

  it was not much fun

  flower road clock train light

  still I got it right

  picture think summer peo…

  popple…

  peep…

  pe… p… well, nearly.

  The Runners

  We’re hopeless at racing,

  Me and my friend.

  I’m slow at the start,

  She’s slow at the end.

  She has the stitch,

  I get sore feet,

  And neither one of us

  Cares to compete.

  But co-operation’s

  A different case.

  You should see us

  In the three-legged race!

  Parents’ Evening

  We’re waiting in the corridor,

  My dad, my mum and me.

  They’re sitting there and talking;

  I’m nervous as can be.

  I wonder what she’ll tell ’em.

  I’ll say I’ve got a pain!

  I wish I’d got my spellings right.

  I wish I had a brain.

  We’re waiting in the corridor,

  My husband, son and me.

  My son just stands there smiling;

  I’m smiling, nervously.

  I wonder what she�
��ll tell us.

  I hope it’s not all bad.

  He’s such a good boy, really;

  But dozy – like his dad

  We’re waiting in the corridor,

  My wife, my boy and me.

  My wife’s as cool as cucumber;

  I’m nervous as can be.

  I hate these parents’ evenings.

  The waiting makes me sick.

  I feel just like a kid again

  Who’s gonna get the stick.

  I’m waiting in the classroom.

  It’s nearly time to start.

  I wish there was a way to stop

  The pounding in my heart.

  The parents in the corridor

  Are chatting cheerfully;

  And now I’ve got to face them,

  And I’m nervous as can be

  Back to School

  In the last week of the holidays

  I was feeling glum.

  I could hardly wait for school to start;

  Neither could Mum.

  Now we’ve been back a week,

  I could do with a breather.

  I can hardly wait for the holidays;

  Teacher can’t either.

  Supply Teacher