Ashes Poetry - cricket

PLEASE GO TO www.ashespoetry.net for all content here, and Ashes Poetry 2009 in England. Ta

David Fine, Ashes poet in residence in Australia 2006-7

England vs Australia.
Brisbane, Adelaide, Perth, Melbourne, Sydney 2006-2007

To comment and find out more, especially about npower Ashes Poetry 2009, please e-mail david@fineandandy.co.uk - G'day!

Thursday, December 07, 2006

Adelaide - Requiem For Duff Batting

In Acerbic Rememberance
of
English Cricket
which died at The Adelaide Oval
on
Tuesday 6th December 2007
Bitterly lamented by a large circle
of sorrowing friends
and acquaintances
RIP
n.b. The body will be cremated
and its ashes retained by Australia
if its spirit fails to fight back

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Sick Team

Red Rose, thou are sick!
The Indivisible Warne
That beats you in flight
When you bat without gorm

Has spun out thy draw
Of English joy
And the Green Baggies
Does thy life destroy

With apologies to William Blake The Sick Rose

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The English Disease

Like syphilitic medieval kings, England
suddenly went mad. No apparent cause,
no seeming attempt to stem noble pause
in bedlam's frenzy to lose without stand.
Fumbling wickets tumbled from their own hand,
Misery’s drubbing unconceived before
they gouged their own wounds to bone. Running sores
of needless cuts, hooks, pulls and slashes banned
by dressing room: empty-headed retarded
births within teeming middle of crisis
induced by syphilis's half-brother, hubris.
The day’s sure draw before all this started:
licentious defeats grow infectious,
chaste play's honour fouled by these haughty lechers.


inspired by Greg Baum, Sydney Morning Herald, report of proceedings
- "Like medieval royals with syphilis, they went suddenly mad"


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


The Adelaide Oval Wednesday 7th December 2007

return to understand
go back to the emptiness of defeat
you might learn something

seats tipped-up, crowd roar gone
a cockatoo, songbirds call above
drumble of traffic, clang of scaffolders
dismantling temporary stands
you demolished with your batting

A smear of dried ice-cream
stench of spilled beer around the bars
a nasal trail into the arena
its wicket perfect as it always has been

Why have I taken you here?
No flags of Saint George. No
Wigan, Norwich, Cheltenham
No sign of ourselves.

The scoreboard retells the story
168 for 4, a six wicket victory
they won't take down for a while

Taste the simplicity of defeat
ing yourself. Swallow its emptiness.
Stay till you understand
how never to fail yourselves again.