I hold the dart like a pen,
taking aim at the board,
an image comes to my mind,
as sharp and clear
as a black and white photograph.
I see my grandfather standing at the oche,
a young man, his turn to throw,
throwing the arrows,
playing darts with his friends,
sipping pints of bitter and smoking cigarettes.
Flat-caps, suit and tie, pencil moustaches.
I hold the dart like a pen,
Working-class mathematicians
perform high-speed calculations
over a few pints of beer
and throw some darts.
Good arrers is a the highest compliment
you can be paid.
The darts thud into the board
with hypnotic rhythm.
One-two-three. One-two-three.
Treble nineteen, bull’s eye, double-top.
What does that leave?
What do I need to check-out?
The dream of a nine dart finish.
I hold my pen like a dart,
while others are at the board,
I scribble away in my notebook,
eventually attracting curious glances
from my fellow players.
You don’t have to keep score, you know?
The machine works it out for you.
I’m actually writing a poem, I answer.
He gives me a confused look then replies:
There aren’t many dart players who write poetry.
I look up from my notebook and say with a smile,
there aren’t many poets who play darts either.