Poetry Magazines - The best collection of poetry magazines online - Simon Armitage

How come i’m starting to feel more distant, like a pop star
when i meet up with the old Eagles team in The Whitecliff?

They can remember all my antics on the pitch better
than i can. ‘Arthur, you’re a fuckin’ onion’ i shouted

because he was useless & that time i took my shirt off
& handed it to the Psycho full-back saying ‘here have it’

when he fouled me & the day there was a minute’s silence
for some league official so when the ref blew his whistle

the Prof went steamin’ down the wing shouting for the ball,
he had to walk back feeling a right ejit & we cracked up

& there was that game on a cow field at the back of Carnlough,
Fat screaming at the specky ref who didn’t book him, no way,

didn’t send him off either, just ripped out the corner flag
ran at him & threatened to ‘carry his fuckin’ head off’

& i had to be called Brian when we played away fixtures
at least in some places, say in Ballyclare where the Dirts

in their bomber jackets waved Red Hands about & Union Jacks
behind the goalposts weren’t anything abnormal & fights

were many & games got abandoned & once the old Whitehead team
had to leap in their cars, escape with all their kit still on.

Brian has stuck with me since, i’ve always needed an alias
& all this floods back to me as i dander about, as steamin’

someone like D.J. rolls over, grips my arm & asks me
‘Boutya Brian, how long are ye home for?’

& and i think ‘more like how long before i get away’ . . .