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The Loneliness of the Sunday League Poet

1 Leave a comment on verse 1 0 The young girl, with sleeves rolled up,
Tongue straining for her button nose,
Cups her tiny hands,
Moulding the plastercine,
Bending, squashing,
Rolling, shaping,
Forming an ugly brown snowman.

2 Leave a comment on verse 2 0 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.

3 Leave a comment on verse 3 0 Did Rodin ever smile so completely?

4 Leave a comment on verse 4 0 Do we berate this girl
For creating imperfection?
Or do we value her effort?

5 Leave a comment on verse 5 0 And so I, poor Sunday League football poet,
Fingers stained by messy nib,
Bottom lip bitten,
Wrestle with language,
Scribbling, scrawling,
Scratching, pausing,
Moulding my contrived rhymes.

6 Leave a comment on verse 6 0 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.

7 Leave a comment on verse 7 0 Did Yeats ever clench his fist with joy?

8 Leave a comment on verse 8 0 Why must we always attack
Those who don’t reach the standard?
Even failure has its own worth.

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Source: http://footballpoets.org/poems/the-loneliness-of-the-sunday-league-poet/