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COLLECTED POEMS

Page 4

by Allan Ahlberg


  His twilight years were mostly spent

  With a ball in the local park

  Kicking about with the local team

  Having a laugh and a lark.

  Yet still they couldn’t stop him

  His old swerve worked a treat

  Till he died at last with his boots on

  Those most amazing feet.

  Eyes down for Bingo (in his grave)

  The final whistle blown

  The fans rolled up from miles around

  ‘You’ll never walk alone!’

  While Bingo’s spirit shimmied

  With all its usual grace.

  And then was… relegated

  To a most appalling place

  The Devil sat in his chairman’s chair

  And spoke in Bingo’s ear

  ‘I’ve pulled a few strings, I must confess,

  To arrange your transfer here.

  For we’ve got this little match, y’see

  (And I’ve got this little bet)

  Away to the Heavenly City

  And we’ve never beaten them yet.’

  The Heavenly City were quite a side

  (With fans who could really sing)

  Cherubs and seraphs in the squad

  And angels on the wing.

  St Paul was a rock at centre half

  St Elvis a rock ’n’roll

  They had Mother Teresa to captain the team

  And Almighty God in goal

  The kick-off time was three o’clock

  At the City’s heavenly ground

  The angels of the Lord came down

  And passed the ball around.

  The tackles started flying

  Nero fouled a nun

  And the ref booked Good King Wenceslas

  For a trip on Attila the Hun.

  The Hades fans were howling

  ‘We’re the boys from Beelzebub!’

  While God took Charlie Chaplin off

  And brought Jesus on as a sub.

  The second half went racing by

  The pace was faster still

  There was less than a minute left to play

  And the score remained nil–nil.

  Then Bingo dribbled round St Mark

  Who never had a prayer

  Left frail St Francis on his knees

  And danced past Fred Astaire.

  The goal was at his mercy now

  It seemed he couldn’t fail

  When – bang! – a tackle from behind

  From Florence Nightingale

  A penalty! The crowd was stunned.

  The Devil’s lot gave thanks,

  Though God in goal, the angels cried,

  Was as good as Gordon Banks.

  A cruel choice for Bingo

  Whatever should he do

  Be false to his god-given gifts

  Or give the Devil his due?

  Even God had a frown on His face

  And powerful reasons to pray.

  if I let this in, He told Himself

  There’ll be the Devil to pay.

  Now Bingo stepped up with the ball

  And placed it on the spot

  Stepped bade, breathed deep, ran calmly in

  Then shimmied left… and shot.

  ∗

  In nineteen hundred and twenty-two

  A little boy was born

  His baby cot was second-hand

  His baby shawl was torn.

  Who would have guessed that at the end

  This tiny tot would be

  The one who beat Almighty God

  With the perfect penalty?

  No goalie could have saved that shot

  No God or Holy Ghost

  But it went where Bingo placed it

  And hit the holy post,

  Rebounded like a rocket

  To Marie Antoinette

  Who skipped up to the other end

  And slammed it in the net.

  The fans in the stands went barmy

  City had won one–nil.

  The Devil stayed down in his dugout

  Defeat was a bitter pill.

  Till God came along with an offer

  Quite genuine and real

  To forget their bet and agree instead

  On a little… transfer deal

  So Bingo rose to Heaven

  Up to the Pearly Gate.

  ‘The boy done good!’ St Peter cried

  ‘The boy done great!’

  And there he lives… forever

  His goals in life complete

  That sainted soccer player

  With the most amazing feet.

  The fans in the stands are leaving

  As fast as their wings will allow

  They think that the story’s over

  It is now.

  3

  The Actor’s Mother

  Why Must We Go to School?

  Polite Children

  Lullaby for a Referee’s Baby

  Bags I

  I Did a Bad Thing Once

  Father and Child

  Lost

  Getting Up for School

  Our Mother

  Things I Have Been Doing Lately

  The Actor’s Mother

  Bedtime

  Why Must We Go to School?

  Why must we go to school, dad?

  Tell us, dear daddy, do.

  Give us your thoughts on this problem, please;

  No one knows better than you.

  To prepare for life, my darling child,

  Or so it seems to me;

  And stop you all from running wild –

  Now, shut up and eat your tea!

  Why must we go to school, dad?

  Settle the question, do.

  Tell us, dear daddy, as much as you can;

  We’re really relying on you.

  To learn about fractions and Francis Drake,

  I feel inclined to say,

  And give your poor mother a bit of a break –

  Now, push off and go out to play!

  Why must we go to school, daddy?

  Tell us, dear desperate dad.

  One little hint, that’s all we ask –

  It’s a puzzle that’s driving us mad

  To find all the teachers something to do,

  Or so I’ve heard it said,

  And swot up the questions your kids’ll ask you,

  My darlings – now, buzz off to bed!

  Polite Children

  May we have our ball, please

  May we have it back?

  We never meant to lose it

  Or give it such a whack.

  It shot right past the goalie

  It shot right past the goal

  And really then what happened next

  Was out of our control.

  It truly was such rotten luck

  For all concerned that you

  Were halfway up a ladder

  When the ball came flying through.

  We also very much regret

  What happened to your cat

  It’s tragic when an animal

  Gets landed on like that.

  Your poor wife too we understand

  Was pretty much upset

  When phoning for the doctor

  And phoning for the vet,

  She quite forgot the oven.

  It simply is no joke

  When your husband’s half unconscious

  And your house is full of smoke.

  The fire-brigade, of course, meant well

  It wasn’t their mistake

  That there was no fire to speak of

  Just a bit of well-done steak.

  Still clouds have silver linings

  And pains are soon forgot

  While your lawn will surely flourish

  From the hosing that it got.

  The game of life is never lost

  The future’s not all black

  And the ball itself seems quite unmarked.

&n
bsp; So… may we have it back?

  Lullaby for a Referee’s Baby

  The pitch is cold and dark

  The night is dark and deep

  The players all have gone to bed

  So sleep, baby, sleep.

  The whistle’s on the shelf

  The boots are in a heap

  The kit is in the laundry bag

  So sleep, baby, sleep.

  The house is warm and dark

  The stairs are dark and steep

  And Daddy’s here beside your cot

  To send you off… to sleep.

  Bags I

  Bags I the dummy

  Bags I the cot

  Bags I the rubber duck

  That other baby’s got.

  Bags I the cricket ball

  Wickets and bat

  Bags I the hamster

  Bags I the cat.

  Bags I the pop records

  Hear the music throb

  Bags I the A levels

  Bags I the job.

  Bags I the sweetheart

  Lovers for life

  Bags I the husband

  Bags I the wife.

  Bags I the savings

  The mortgage and then

  Bags I the baby –

  Here we go again!

  Bags I not the glasses

  The nearly bald head

  Bags under eyes

  And the middle-aged spread.

  Bags I the memories

  How it all began

  Bags I the grandpa

  Bags I the gran.

  Bags I the hearing-aid

  Bags I the stick

  Bags I the ending

  Quiet and quick.

  Goodbye world!

  Goodbye me!

  Bags I the coffin

  RIP.

  I Did a Bad Thing Once

  I did a bad thing once.

  I took this money from my mother’s purse

  For bubble gum.

  What made it worse,

  She bought me some

  For being good, while I’d been vice versa

  So to speak – that made it worser

  Father and Child

  Upon that sharp and frosty eve

  Muffled in scarf and glove

  With frosty snow beneath their feet

  And frosty sky above:

  A father and his child.

  Climbing the narrow hilly street

  With letters in their hands

  And Christmas cards and packets too

  To where the postbox stands.

  The child runs on ahead

  A cautious car comes ghosting by

  An ebb and flow of light.

  Somewhere an ice-cream van chimes out –

  Ice-cream on such a night!

  The child, though, would like one.

  The father raises up his face

  He stares into the sky

  And marvels at the myriad stars

  And hears his child reply:

  It’s like a join-the-dots.

  Back down the hill, now hand-in-hand

  Father and child return

  While overhead and unobserved

  The frosty heavens burn.

  And the child thinks: Ice-cream!

  Lost

  Dear Mrs Butler, this is just a note

  About our Raymond’s coat

  Which he came home without last night,

  So I thought I’d better write.

  He was minus his scarf as well, I regret

  To say; and his grandma is most upset

  As she knitted it and it’s pure

  Wool. You’ll appreciate her feelings, I’m sure.

  Also, his swimming towel has gone

  Out of his PE bag, he says, and one

  Of his socks too – it’s purplish and green

  With a darn in the heel. His sister Jean

  Has a pair very similar. And while

  I remember, is there news yet of those fairisle

  Gloves which Raymond lost that time

  After the visit to the pantomime?

  Well, I think that’s all. I will close now,

  Best wishes, yours sincerely, Maureen Howe

  (Mrs). P.S. I did once write before

  About his father’s hat that Raymond wore

  In the school play and later could not find,

  But got no reply. Still, never mind,

  Raymond tells me now he might have lost the note,

  Or left it in the pocket of his coat

  Getting Up for School

  I’m getting up for school

  Getting up for school

  Getting, getting

  Up for, up for

  Soft-boiled egg and steamy cup for

  Getting up for school.

  I’ll soon be up for school

  Soon be up for school

  Soon be leaping

  Striding (creeping!)

  Bye-bye boring beds and sleeping

  Out and off to school.

  I’m nearly up for school

  Nearly up for school

  Nearly (really!)

  Out of bed for

  Rise and shine your sleepy head for

  Leave that snug and steamy bed for

  Steamy, dreamy soft-boiled bed for

  Bed for, bed for…

  Won’t be long now

  Get – get – getting

  In a minute

  Up – up – up

  Just a jiffy… Ah! (yawn)

  For school

  Our Mother

  Our mother is a detective.

  She is a great finder of clues.

  She found the mud and grass on our shoes,

  When we were told not to go in the park –

  Because it would be getting dark –

  But come straight home.

  She found the jam on our thumbs,

  And in our beds the tiniest crumbs

  From the cakes we said we had not eaten.

  When we blamed the cat for breaking the fruit bowl –

  Because we did not want any fuss –

  She knew it was us

  Things I Have Been Doing Lately

  Things I have been doing lately:

  Pretending to go mad

  Eating my own cheeks from the inside

  Growing taller

  Keeping a secret

  Keeping a worm in a jar

  Keeping a good dream going

  Picking a scab on my elbow

  Rolling the cat up in a rug

  Blowing bubbles in my spit

  Making myself dizzy

  Holding my breath

  Pressing my eyeballs so that I become temporarily blind

  Being very nearly ten

  Practising my signature…

  Saving the best till last

  The Actor’s Mother

  No charming chatty Prince for him, Lines by the yard.

  He mostly stands there with a spear: My son, the guard.

  He never plays the Captain’s part,

  Always the crew.

  ‘Aye, aye!’ he cries, occasionally.

  His lines are few.

  He doesn’t get the better roles, Takes after me.

  Sometimes he never speaks at all: My son, the tree

  The only time he got some lines, Just half a page,

  He had to shout them through a door, Invisibly – offstage!

  Still, curtains fall eventually,

  And homeward in the car

  His dad and I can then admire:

  Our son, the star

  Bedtime

  When I go upstairs to bed,

  I usually give a loud cough.

  This is to scare The Monster off.

  When I come to my room,

  I usually slam the door right back.

  This is to squash The Man in Black

  Who sometimes hides there.

  Nor do I walk to the bed,

  But usually run and jump
instead.

  This is to stop The Hand –

  Which is under there all right –

  From grabbing my ankles.

  4

  Billy McBone

  Where I Sit Writing

  The Boy Without a Name

  The Slow Man

  The Filling Station

  Scabs

  Worlds

  Boys

  It is a Puzzle

  Sometimes God

  Billy McBone

  Balls on the Roof

  The Mysteries of Zigomar

  Only Snow

  Where I Sit Writing

  Where I sit writing I can see A page, a pen, a line or three Of scribbled verse; a cup of tea.

  A spider’s web, a window pane, A garden blurred a bit with rain, A low and leaden sky; a plane.

  Where I sit writing I can see

  An evening sky, a sodden tree,

  A window pane reflecting… me.

  Out in the garden’s fading light,

  Departing day, approaching night,

  He copies every word I write.

  Where I sit writing I can see

  A hand, a pen, a verse or three;

  A distant road; a cup – no tea

 

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