The young girl, with sleeves rolled up,
Tongue straining for her button nose,
Cups her tiny hands,
Moulding the plastercine,
Forming an ugly brown snowman.
And when she is done,
She sits him on the desk,
And gazes proudly at his imperfect form,
Eyes shining brightly
With the joy of endeavour rewarded.
Did Rodin ever smile so completely?
Do we berate this girl
For creating imperfection?
Or do we value her effort?
And so I, poor Sunday League football poet,
Fingers stained by messy nib,
Bottom lip bitten,
Wrestle with language,
Moulding my contrived rhymes.
And when I am done,
I read it through carefully,
Nodding slowly at the imperfect lines,
Proud of the words
Cajoled from the blank page.
Did Yeats ever clench his fist with joy?
Why must we always attack
Those who don’t reach the standard?
Even failure has its own worth.