I write about everything any anything in my Substack publication, as you will know if you’ve subscribed for a few newsletters. My poetry is no different. I don’t offer grand, lyrical verse, but a way of writing out emotions, making sense of things: protest, complaint, commentary, joy, big stuff, small things. All these things are the scope of the poets pen. My poetry isn’t complex - in fact it’s often simple - as I like it to be accessible to a non-literary audience. I hope you will give poetry a try. There’s bound to be a style and a poet you like somewhere out there.
The following poem appeared in my pamphlet, Immersion (revised). It’s undergone many revisions and I don’t think I will ever be satisfied with it. As you will gather, it’s about my Dad, who I never felt I was ‘good enough’ for, who never told me he loved me and who was obsessed with sport.
I Used to Wish I Were Bobby Charlton It's not that you minded girls, it’s just that boys seemed simpler then and more robust a lot less trouble later on. It isn't that you wanted boys - more a desire for offspring fit and healthy, good hand-to-eye co-ordination and a fervent love of football, cricket, bowls. Someone not me - head in the clouds and a love of poetry. We loved the tomboy foolery when we were young: balls thrown high in practice-catch, homemade rounders and cricket on the beach, but we were never destined to be sporting superstars. The bits of paper meant nothing to you, no substitute for shield or silver cup, local backpage statistics, and Saturdays at the club. I used to wish I were Bobby Charlton or Georgie Best - any sporting god would do. These days I don't bother with the tennis tournaments or swimming galas (always last); I’m not hiding behind the veneer of competition, I’m simply wanting to be loved by you. The writing will never count: a 'runner-up' or 'commended' will never be enough; I’m no longer trying to achieve to please I’m freed to fail - or win. A sporting super-hero is easy to admire, but I hope it's me you loved.
Upbringing and life experience, your dad and his brother poles apart Debbie. The longer I live the more I know (rather than sense) that trauma runs through us all. Cutting across that are the expectations of what we do with it; hide or reveal. The pity is how long it takes someone to understand it, find a way to love themselves and those around them. It's a life's work.
Oh, the inner life of analysing expectations and reading the (perhaps) unspoken thoughts of being 'other' Debbie; I hear and acknowledge your reading of him, and it's affect on you. Profound and long lasting.
I perceive it was like that with my mother. I didn't fit into her narrative. I turned that round by choosing to understand her in the context of her own upbringing. She died in 2020. Was I a disappointment to her, that I did not fit the mould of my brother and sister. Perhaps, but I have ripped up that script.