With Clive and Trevor
Malcolm and Paul
Or even without them
Just me and a wall.
My legs might be skinny
My feet might be small
But I get a kick
Out of kicking a ball.
Not punching a ball
Or bashing a ball
Serving a ball
Or smashing a ball
Not throwing a ball
Or blowing a ball
Not bowling or batting
Or patting a ball
Not pinging or ponging
Or potting or putting
But booting and shooting
Yes, kicking, oh, kicking!
Just kicking a ball
A ball in the playground
A ball on the grass
A shot on the run
A dribble, a pass
A ball before breakfast
A ball before bed
A dream of a ball
A ‘kick’ in the head.
Don’t want a ball
That’s odd or screw
That you hit with a mallet
Or a billiard cue.
Don’t want a ball
That’s made of meat
I’d really rather
Score than eat!
Mothballs crumble
Snowballs melt
Give me a ball
You can save – and belt!
Not a ball-cock
Or a ball-point
Or a plastic ball-
And-socket joint.
Not a ball-bearing
(Bit too small)
But – putting it more or less
Baldly – a ball.
Kicking a ball
Kicking a ball
That’s surely the purpose
Of life, after all.
Not climbing a mountain
In far Nepal
Or diving for pearls
In the Bay of Bengal.
Not sailing a yacht
On a tight haul
In a sudden squall
To Montreal.
But kicking a ball
Kicking a ball
Kick, kick, kick, kick,
Kicking a ball!
And later on
As the years pass
I’ll still be running
Across the grass
Kicking a ball
Kicking a ball
With Clive and Malcolm
Trevor and Paul.
Not reading the paper
Or having a shave
But forcing the goalie
To make a save.
Not kissing the wife
Or bathing the baby
But kicking a ball
And scoring! (maybe)
Till baby toddles
And tackles and then…
Starts the ball rolling
All over again.
Yes, life’s a circle
Endless and small
And when all’s said and done
The world’s a ball
What I like best
Yes, most of all
In my whole life
Is kicking a ball.
In freezing cold
Or blinding heat
Ever and always
A ball at my feet.
Caked in mud
Covered in sweat
Scoring the goals
I’ll never forget.
With Paul and Malcolm
Trevor and Clive
Completely exhausted
And really alive…
And kicking, yes, kicking
Oh, kicking!
Wow! Kicking a ball
7
Scissors
Teachers’ Prayer
Slow Reader
There’s a Fish Tank
Glenis
Mr Bloor
Colin
The Cane
Scissors
Complaint
Picking Teams
reading test
The Runners
Parents’ Evening
Back to School
Supply Teacher
Headmaster’s Hymn
The School Nurse
Please Mrs Butler
Teachers’ Prayer
Let the children in our care
Clean their shoes and comb their hair;
Come to school on time – and neat,
Blow their noses, wipe their feet.
Let them, Lord, not eat in class
Or rush into the hall en masse.
Let them show some self-control;
Let them slow down; let them stroll.
Let the children in our charge
Not be violent or large;
Not be sick on the school-trip bus,
Not be cleverer than us;
Not be unwashed, loud or mad,
(With a six-foot mother or a seven-foot dad).
Let them, please, say ‘drew’ not ‘drawed’;
Let them know the answers, Lord.
Slow Reader
I – am – in – the – slow
read – ers – group – my – broth
er – is – in – the – foot
ball – team – my – sis – ter
is – a – ser – ver – my
lit – tie – broth – er – was
a – wise – man – in – the
in – fants – christ – mas – play
I – am – in – the – slow
read – ers – group – that – is
all – I – am – in – I
hate – it
There’s a Fish Tank
There’s a fish tank
In our class
With no fish in it;
A guinea-pig cage
With no guinea-pig in it;
A formicarium
With no ants in it;
And according to Miss Hodge
Some of our heads
Are empty too.
There’s a stock-cupboard
With no stock,
Flowerpots without flowers,
Plimsolls without owners
And me without a friend
For a week
While he goes on holiday
There’s a girl
With no front teeth,
And a boy with hardly any hair
Having had it cut.
There are sums without answers,
Paintings unfinished
And projects with no hope
Of ever coming to an end.
According to Miss Hodge
The only thing that’s brim-full
In our class
Is the waste-paper basket
Glenis
The teacher says:
Why is it, Glenis,
Please answer me this,
The only time
You ever stop talking in class
Is if I ask you
Where’s the Khyber Pass?
Or when was the Battle of Waterloo?
Or what is nine times three?
Or how do you spell
Mississippi?
Why is it, Glenis,
The only time you are silent
Is when I ask you a question?
And Glenis says:
Mr Bloor
There was a man named Mr Bloor
Who liked to referee and score.
He’d blow his whistle, swing his boot
Beat half a dozen boys – and shoot.
(He was a teacher in our school
His favourite team was Liverpool.)
He also loved to commentate
‘Bloor’s got the ball – Bloor’s going great!
He’s beat his man, what rare control
He’s round the full back now and – GOAL!
His legs are strong, his brain is quick!’
(Sometimes he’d let us have a kick.)
But Mr Bloor the referee
&n
bsp; Was also fair, as you will see.
He’d score a goal and strut with pride
Then stop and rule himself offside.
He’d cover back and tackle hard
Yet give himself a yellow card,
Bulldoze boys caught in his path
And send himself for an early bath.
On rare occasions I recall
Our Mr Bloor would pass the ball,
Leaving some kid, like Vinny Cole
(who never scored), with an open goal.
‘It’s Vinny now, all full of dinner
Dazzling footwork and – the winner!’
Mr Bloor was short and wide
He played with trousers tucked inside
His ordinary socks and on his head
He wore a bobble hat, bright red.
Sometimes his girlfriend, Miss Levine
(she taught us too), would run the line
She’d stand there smiling, tall and slim
And wave her little flag at him.
Eventually his knees gave way
And doctors said he shouldn’t play.
Now Mr Bloor’s a mere spectator
Oh yes of course and commentator.
‘He’s got the ball, what sweet control
Deceives the goalie now and – GOAL!’
Colin
When you frown at me like that, Colin,
And wave your arm in the air,
I know just what you’re going to say:
‘Please, Sir, it isn’t fair!’
It isn’t fair
On the football field
if their team scores a goal.
It isn’t fair
In a cricket match.
Unless you bat and bowl.
When you scowl at me that way, Colin,
And mutter and slam your chair,
I always know what’s coming next:
‘Please, Sir, it isn’t fair!’
It isn’t fair
When I give you a job.
It isn’t fair when I don’t.
if I keep you in
It isn’t fair.
if you’re told to go out, you won’t
When heads bow low in assembly
And the whole school’s saying a prayer,
I can guess what’s on your mind, Colin:
‘Our Father… it isn’t fair!’
It wasn’t fair
In the Infants.
It isn’t fair now.
It won’t be fair
At the Comprehensive
(For first years, anyhow).
When your life reaches its end, Colin,
Though I doubt if I’ll be there,
I can picture the words on the gravestone now.
They’ll say: IT IS NOT FAIR
The Cane
The teacher
had some thin springy sticks
for making kites.
Reminds me
of the old days, he said;
and swished one.
The children
near his desk laughed nervously,
and pushed closer.
A cheeky girl
held out her cheeky hand.
Go on, Sir!
said her friends.
Give her the stick, she’s always
playing up!
The teacher
paused, then did as he was told.
Just a tap.
Oh, Sir!
We’re going to tell on you,
the children said.
Other children
left their seats and crowded round
the teacher’s desk.
Other hands
went out. Making kites was soon
forgotten.
My turn next!
He’s had one go already!
That’s not fair!
Soon the teacher,
to save himself from the crush,
called a halt.
(it was
either that or use the cane
for real.)
Reluctantly,
the children did as they were told
and sat down.
if you behave
yourselves, the teacher said,
I’ll cane you later.
Scissors
Nobody leave the room.
Everyone listen to me.
We had ten pairs of scissors
At half-past two,
And now there’s only three.
Seven pairs of scissors
Disappeared from sight.
Not one of you leaves
Till we find them.
We can stop here all night!
Scissors don’t lose themselves,
Melt away or explode.
Scissors have not got
Legs of their own
To go running off up the road
We really need those scissors,
That’s what makes me mad.
if it was seven pairs
Of children we’d lost,
It wouldn’t be so bad.
I don’t want to hear excuses.
Don’t anyone speak.
Just ransack this room
Till we find them,
Or we’ll stop here… all week!
Complaint
The teachers all sit in the staffroom.
The teachers all drink tea.
The teachers all smoke cigarettes
As cosy as can be.
We have to go out at playtime
Unless we bring a note
Or it’s tipping down with rain
Or we haven’t got a coat.
We have to go out at playtime
Whether we like it or not.
And freeze to death if it’s freezing
And boil to death if it’s hot.
The teachers can sit in the staffroom
And have a cosy chat.
We have to go out at playtime;
Where’s the fairness in that?
Picking Teams
When we pick teams in the playground,
Whatever the game might be,
There’s always somebody left till last
And usually it’s me.
I stand there looking hopeful
And tapping myself on the chest,
But the captains pick the others first,
Starting, of course, with the best.
Maybe if teams were sometimes picked
Starting with the worst,
Once in his life a boy like me
Could end up being first!
reading test
tree little milk egg book
read ing test I took
school sit frog playing bun
it was not much fun
flower road clock train light
still I got it right
picture think summer peo…
popple…
peep…
pe… p… well, nearly.
The Runners
We’re hopeless at racing,
Me and my friend.
I’m slow at the start,
She’s slow at the end.
She has the stitch,
I get sore feet,
And neither one of us
Cares to compete.
But co-operation’s
A different case.
You should see us
In the three-legged race!
Parents’ Evening
We’re waiting in the corridor,
My dad, my mum and me.
They’re sitting there and talking;
I’m nervous as can be.
I wonder what she’ll tell ’em.
I’ll say I’ve got a pain!
I wish I’d got my spellings right.
I wish I had a brain.
We’re waiting in the corridor,
My husband, son and me.
My son just stands there smiling;
I’m smiling, nervously.
I wonder what she�
��ll tell us.
I hope it’s not all bad.
He’s such a good boy, really;
But dozy – like his dad
We’re waiting in the corridor,
My wife, my boy and me.
My wife’s as cool as cucumber;
I’m nervous as can be.
I hate these parents’ evenings.
The waiting makes me sick.
I feel just like a kid again
Who’s gonna get the stick.
I’m waiting in the classroom.
It’s nearly time to start.
I wish there was a way to stop
The pounding in my heart.
The parents in the corridor
Are chatting cheerfully;
And now I’ve got to face them,
And I’m nervous as can be
Back to School
In the last week of the holidays
I was feeling glum.
I could hardly wait for school to start;
Neither could Mum.
Now we’ve been back a week,
I could do with a breather.
I can hardly wait for the holidays;
Teacher can’t either.
Supply Teacher
COLLECTED POEMS Page 8