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Hurling Match
November 21, 2012
By D. S. Maolalaí
One of the more magical things that I have seen
as I’ve walked this spittle and ashen landscape
was a couple of years ago
when there was a hurling match between
two teams,
I don’t remember which,
although one of them may have been
Cork
or somewhere,
but during one of the clashes
as you see men and sticks collide
in the real momentum of the sport
and you cannot see the ball
but they sure can, ‘cos they certainly swing for it,
there was this one guy
who caught his hurley high up on someone else’s
and it splintered
around where the grip starts
knocked itself v-shaped
with a blade side on the end,
no lift in it,
not even able to catch the air,
and I think if it had been me, I would have dropped it
(not a criticism of myself, you understand, I imagine most people would have done the same)
but this guy refused to give his up
kept swinging
kept whirling
trying to catch the ball on the
split end of his stick
up there
close to his hands.
I was watching on the television
and the camera moved onwards
but you saw his eyes
just for a second
and he didn’t know or care
that the stick was broken
maybe he was a dumb piece of shit
or maybe he was above man
fingernails, ash trees, fire in the knuckle
he kept swinging
to take that ball
with his mouth absurdly open.
I think about that now,
and I think of the people I grew up with
splintering like that hurley
into Galway and Argentina and Valencia
and there’s a girl that I used to know
and she’s gone to Switzerland, too.
People flying all over the damn place
without any sort of concern for me.
I say that guy was probably a dumb shit
but he knew,
in those seconds
he knew what it was to lose what you thought
you needed
and not to care.
Sometimes I get a feeling like that,
but it’s a difficult one to maintain
and of course,
you get a new hurl
when it occurs to you to ask for one.
Like I say, I don’t really remember whose side he was on
or which teams were playing,
though one might have been Cork,
but I think that expression will stay with me a while longer
then again, I can’t really be sure
of that either now,
can I?
*
D. S. Maolalai studies English at Trinity College. He has been trying to be a writer for years, with little success until very recently. He currently lives in Dublin, but plans to leave as soon as possible.
Exercise
November 9, 2012
By D. S. Maolalaí
Well there’s bones and there’s muscle
and a hard white soul that
neither of them connect to.
And you can exercise or you
can go fat
but if you do both
or try one then the other
you end up aching
and not able to move.
Two days ago we made the mistake -
me and my buddy Noony
neither of us looking so good
we decided to lift things
and make ourselves into
better people.
So we pulled weights and ran
and sweated,
twisted our skinny arms
into brittle knotting
while we watched
the strange, de-sexed sight
of women
gripped in tight clothes.
Well, like I say
it’s been two days.
I still can’t fully extend my arms
or walk straight
and I havta go to work soon and move boxes of wine.
I can’t avoid it ‘cos
one of the guys is a prize fighter,
16th or 17th best in Europe
he says
and he moves things with
his face broken so I can move them with
sore arms.
I’m not sure what I’m trying to say
I guess don’t exercise
go fat.
*
D. S. Maolalai studies English at Trinity College. He has been trying to be a writer for years, with little success until very recently. He currently lives in Dublin, but plans to leave as soon as possible.
25-man Premier League squad
May 21, 2012
by Jude Ellery (with help from Charles Bukowski)
with the Premier League
you can’t play someone
who’s not been registered in your
25 man squad.
nor can you play them
in a cup if they’ve
already played for
another team.
if a player’s on loan he can’t
play his parent team.
they used to let clubs decide
themselves but now feel it
compromises the competition.
signings are only permitted during
transfer windows
unless the player’s
unattached or a goalkeeper
and it’s an
emergency loan
but the rain still falls on
the Western Ghats
and in the Spring
the Bengal tiger strides and
roars before her
cubs.
25-man Premier League squad by Jude Ellery is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License
Love Initially
March 16, 2012
by Emelie Okeke
CFC wanted AVB. AVB liked the EPL, its excessive pay, and the posh standard of life in the capital of the UK. FCP adored AVB, but could not refuse CFC’s GBP. AVB brought in RDM, perhaps to appease DD and JT. AVB’s season started FAB, with victory over WBA at SB. With new arrivals blending in, all seemed well, especially in the UCL. However, with Nando MIA, and young gun JOM and old boy Super FL out of the first team, fans were not exactly going OTT over AVB’s dream. Then CFC travelled to OT to play MUFC, where SAF met AVB. The initial loss for CFC and AVB saw end-to-end action aplenty, prompting SAF to reference the NBA. Then came the derby defeat to QPR. Sparks flew and red cards, too. A race row meant huge ramifications for CFC, the PFA and, eventually, the FA. With JT’s mind awry, and DL as good as AWOL, and CFC’s form went into freefall. AFC crossed the Thames, inflicting a first SB defeat for AVB, with RVP netting three. The SB faithful were far from OK, with poor results continuing through to 2011’s final day, culminating in a NYE defeat at SB to AV, masterminded by AMC. Still, an unbeaten January steadied the ship for AVB. An FAC win at QPR marked a new course, with the thickskinned JT’s heroics driving the frenzied crowd hoarse. However, February revived doubts over SB, and MU’s fightback from DOA fuelled SAF’s glee. With an end to DS’s scoring spree, worries over JT’s knee, NA and A left on the free, one each to SSFC and PSG, and Super FL contemplating mutiny, CFC were at crisis point upon their arrival in Napoli. There, they were thrashed, undone by Lavezzi and Cavani. Roman’s silence had many believing his confidence in AVB was shaken, with the BBC and ITV none too happy for their calls to be forsaken. The final straw was defeat at WBA, coupled with a revived AFC pushing CFC out of the qualification spots for UCL. Thus it came to be that CFC no longer wanted AVB. For now, RDM steps into the fray, but the permanent boss is still TBA. Roman did tell off Super FL, JT and DD, yet only one man picked up his P45 at 13:00 GMT on 04/03. Football management: it’s not as simple as ABC.
I Am Horse
March 8, 2012
by Roge Slater
I wake, and I stand.
The straw around my feet is soft
and it breaks as I move.
Still, it insulates me from the cold of the ground.
All around, others wake,
they too stretching and standing,
each like an echo of our neighbour.
We stamp and move to shake the night from our joints.
We are ready.
Prepared to start the routine of our day
as dawn breaks, light shattering darkness,
like an arrow piercing through the cracks in our home.
Voices. Soft human voices
and laughter breaking the song of the birds.
The stable hands start their day and prepare ours.
But today is different, the regularity will change.
My peers are led out
to the walker and to the gallops; their routine,
whilst I stand proud as I am brushed and fed.
Then I am led too, but led to start a journey.
It is time. My time.
Now I am in a new place; my destiny.
Others like me stand tall at this “show”,
each patient while saddle and tackle are set in place.
More voices, excited now
as my jockey mounts, silks bright in the sun.
A cacophony surrounds the trot to the stalls.
Tense we wait, eager to run. Each anticipating the start.
My destiny; the race.
Power and strength in each lengthening stride,
every sinew straining, every breath harsh and deep,
each synchronous movement eating up ground.
Then yards, final yards
stretching out to challenge for the lead.
The crowd screaming, my jockey urging me on.
Then total exhilaration, the final effort secures the win.
Breathing now, slow and deep,
recovering composure, growing in stature, proud.
Standing, glowing, centre of attention,
achieving my personal goal, for I am Horse and I have won.
I am Horse by Roger Slater is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Knight To Forget
February 21, 2012
by Roge Slater
Pawn to E4,
White opens the game,
A pressuring foray
For this final frame.
Pawn to E5,
We see black respond.
Seems a solid defence,
But this wont take long.
Knight to F3,
That’s me on the way,
Forcing his hand,
Pressuring the play.
Knight to C6,
Black covers the threat,
But he’s chasing us ‘round,
There’s no escape yet.
Bishop to C4,
Really threatening now,
Laying out our stall;
Victory our vow.
Bishop to C5,
He wants to break through,
But our game plan is set,
Does he know that, too?
Knight to C3,
We’ve set up our sting,
Like boxers, like fighters,
We circle the ring.
Knight to F6,
He’s offered a trade:
Knight for knight, stalemate,
Our decision is made.
Knight to G5,
We won’t change the plan.
Setting up the invasion,
We target The Man.
Knight to E4,
We warhorses split,
He’s gobbling up scraps,
But no target to hit!
Knight to F7,
I break through his line,
His Queen there to cover,
But his rook will be mine.
Queen to F6,
A counter attack,
But surely, he’s ours?
We’re strong at the back!
Knight to H8,
His first piece to me,
But there’s no sign of pressure,
What on earth can he see?
Queen to F2,
Oh. Bollocks. Checkmate.
Did not see that coming,
And now it’s too late.
Knight to Forget by Roger Slater is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.
Howard Webb’s Dream Match
February 20, 2012
by Jude Ellery
One afternoon, our Howard goes
To referee the twinkletoes.
All kitted out in gloves and vests,
This promises to be a test.
First minute in, he peeps a foul:
It’s greeted with a mighty howl.
“I didn’t touch him,” claims the man –
his feelings echoed by the fans.
But our man’s wise to this old game,
Not swayed by this young fellow’s fame.
“You did, and they know you did too
So back ten yards, or I’ll book you.”
And so it carries on, alas,
Now players tumbling to the grass.
“Oi, send him off!” the chorus comes –
Our ref decides to play it dumb.
Ignore the shouts, he’s got no choice,
To answer each would lose his voice.
Amidst the fouls and dives and cries
Some football finally arrives.
A cross, the ball is volleyed in!
Alone that goal deserves the win.
But as it nestles in the bag
The ref looks up to see a flag.
“No goal, offside, restart from there.”
He bellows, being only fair.
When finally the protests end
The ball gets moving once again.
Another shot soon thunders in
Catching our Howard on the chin.
All of a sudden things go black.
(A welcome respite from the flak!)
When Howard finally comes ‘round
He finds himself prone on the ground.
He blinks away the stars and then
Sighs as he looks towards the men.
Nobody’s seen poor ref was down,
The only proof a throbbing crown.
Yet all’s continued quite OK
And now there’s… fairness in their play.
“Sorry old chap, I clipped your heels,”
Replaces shouts and angry squeals.
Bemused, our ref rejoins the fray,
But now he just gets in their way.
They barely need the whistling chap;
They even stop for offside traps!
Such honesty he’s never seen,
Especially from these two teams.
Half-time arrives and Howard goes
To sip on tea and blow his nose.
Nursing his head he tries to find
An answer in his muddled mind.
Half-time break up, none the wiser,
Mystery he can’t decipher.
The restart brings more of the same,
This really is a funny game.
One team scores, a Charlton Riser,
Answered by an equaliser.
Now sixty in and Howard goes
To blow his whistle — grabs his nose!
The whistle left in changing room,
He’ll have to pop and fetch it soon.
But actually, what is the need?
They’ve all stopped following his lead.
As ninety minutes nears its end
Another shot Howard’s way bends.
And CLONK it pops him on the head,
The grass again his acting bed.
Once more he wakes, spits out the dust
And waits till both his eyes adjust.
Something’s amiss, he’s in a daze:
Thirty-five minutes, wrist watch says.
He looks around, at players’ faces,
Scowls have taken smiles’ places.
Our Howard asks, “Hey, what’s the score?”
To which the players frown some more.
“Nil-nil, who’s reffing, us or you?
Get up, this half still has ten due!”
Conducting a drop ball re-start,
Reality does sink his heart.
‘Twas just a dream, and nothing more:
This drab affair he must endure.
Howard Webb’s Dream Match by Jude Ellery is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License
