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Tuesday, 26 February 2013

Life Writing: Birth

Okaaaaay, so rocking from the Poetry element of the module into Life Writing and here is a poem I have written about mine. Born 3 Saturdays before the 1966 World cup triumph, I have changed the big moment to clash with the final itself.  Oh, the joys of authorial licence!  :)  

Poets may notice the many liberties I have take here with; meter, rhyme pattern, etc ... my reward after my complex form TMA!  n.b. Real person's names used.



’66: Game of Two Halves  


Nearly here, nearly here,

kicking off all they hold dear.

Unfamiliar excitement, such anticipation,

delivering glory to our family nation.

 

Bouncing ball or bouncing baby?

Boy or girl? Definitely maybe.

Water breaking, the wave of emotion,

sport and nature bringing teary devotion.

 

Empty streets, crowding round tellies,

crowded ward, lots of big bellies,

the home team push … push forward,

whilst Rita pushes … screaming across four wards.

A screaming cross, agonisingly wide,

hips and thighs painfully astride as

England press, trying to force it in

 

stretching

probing

looking for the opening

 

Dr Brittan presses, using the fauceps,

stretching the opening, forcing them in.

 

 

The game opens up, push and run in the early stages,

she won’t be running or playing with balls for ages.

Finally, the pressure pays off , the deadlock is broken,

the fauceps win, the headlock is over.

Ohhhh! Come on, yes, get in you beauty;

come on out, yes shout, you cutie!

But wait!

Does it count, is it over the line?

 

The sister checks with her assistant… yes, all is fine.

 

Tucked away nicely, I think it was Hurst,

John paces outside, still awaiting his first.

Baking July, no need for those heaters,

wait, another! Only this time it’s Peters.

It’s building, it’s building … nervous attack

only heightened as the Germans pull one back.

John takes a drag, at least his fourth fag,

for the fourth time his watch hands

aim

less

ly

drag

towards what he desires most, he’s unaware that

Weber has levelled, sliding in at the back post.

 

But wait!

 

There’s some people on the ward,

they think it’s all over.

The gas and air kick in …

 

It is now!

 

Proud Dad gingerly lifts the trophy,

his dreams fulfilled at just gone four-thirty.

The crowd go wild; what a debut for the young man,

his cameo appearance, in front of his fans.

Popping up not a moment too soon,

at the end of the day, his

new parents are over the moon.

It’s in the news, splashed in papers,

the final scorer? Pamenter. N, 

after 75 minutes (of labour).

Making new headlines, flat on his back,

today they celebrate with Union Jacks.

We are indeed the champions, as seen,

a mercurial display in front of the Queen.

So no replay needed; no not today,

for Nigel and Mum are the match of the day.






© Nigel Pamenter 2013
The right of Nigel Pamenter to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved.