this is a piece that i wrote about four years ago. it came about as a result of a creative writing lesson i was taking part in; the tutor asked us to put our hand in a bag and pull out a word, we were to then use that word as inspiration to write for 15-20 minutes (i always find this a useful exercise when i need a kick up the arse). the word i pulled out was 'sister' and at that particular moment in time my relationship with my sister was not a positive one, so i asked my pal who was sitting next to me if he wanted to swap, he immediately said yes, the word he had pulled out was 'golfball' and he had drawn a creative blank. the word 'golfball' for me, however, instantly invoked a nostalgic memory from my childhood. consequently, this poem literally spilled out of my pen onto the page; to use an industry phrase- it wrote itself. it was one of those extremely rare creatures that needed hardly any editing at all.
we was just kids
snotty little kids
with pennies in our
pockets
out to shock, cause trouble
if authority spoke
we’d mock it.
pushing boundaries
with our bad manners
bad haircuts, bad breath.
just how much bad could we do?
waterbombing cars from the bridge
was great for a laugh
and good for a chase;
balloons exploding softly
across unsuspecting windscreens.
some drove on, some stopped
nobody ever got hurt.
mark riley, always the first to throw
and last to run;
riley rice ‘n’ peas
we called him,
our cultural stereotyping,
like us, in its infancy.
sundays- we snailed into church
strung along by youngish parents.
after stale mass us boys would meet,
while weary mums walked home
to prepare the roast, dads hit the
bookies, laying a tenner down at
fifteen-to-one on the holy ghost.
one easter sunday we marched
to the canal in our catholic best
mooching around in the shadow
of the bridge, as a wicked
concrete breeze cut by.
riley rice ‘n’ peas really pulled
it out of the bag that day
and split our little gang, forever.
a golf ball…
he rolled it in his sweaty beige palm
a golf ball…
with its cute little dimples
a golf ball…
just how much bad could we do?
Copyright © 2009 Denis O'Brien
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