There are two things that fascinate me,
that add a dash of summer sun to those bleak winter days.
Those things are the excitement and adrenaline
of American sports,
and the wonder and wit of English poetry.
There is something almost magical about American sports,
the Quarterback throwing a Hail Mary pass for the touchdown,
the Dodgers winning the Series with a cracking home-run,
the slam-dunk that almost shatters the back-board,
my friend in Arizona going wild when the Cats play football.
English poetry continues to casts its spell over me,
as I read the words and the verse on the page,
in the wonderful setting of Wordsworth’s Lake District,
or walking the same Salford city streets,
as my hero Dr John Cooper Clarke.
When I mention to my father in passing
where my two main interests lie,
he looks over his glasses and says with a grin,
‘You know Manchester has an ice hockey team,
and we’ve had basketball here for years.
And America has it’s great poets,
from Whitman’s Leaves of Grass,
to Frost’s Road Less Travelled.
Not forgetting Emily Dickinson,
Sylvia Plath, and Edgar Allan Poe.
And Ginsberg’s Howl still rings in my ears.’
My father went to his bookshelf,
running his finger along the dusty spines,
like a wizard looking for a particular book of spells,
until he found what he was looking for.
He handed me the book of American poetry
with the enthusiasm of a high-street preacher
pedalling his pamphlets.
My father’s words just scrambled my head,
like that trick with three cups and a ball,
so I head off to a Manchester hockey game,
with my father’s volume tucked in my back pocket.
In the break I flick through the pages,
tapping my foot in time to
the Beat of American poetry.