Three poems, totally different. The first one deals with football, the second one is situated in his own country, England, and the third one shows us Majorca from an unexpected point of view...

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THE DUTCH SCHOOL

 

In the cemetery of football lie

Hieronymus Bosch expressions,

like the devil arguing

with de Boer and de Wolf.

In P.S.V. land,

the statue of Mr. Philips

flicks the ball like a switch,

when no-one is looking.

A flat Brabant back-four

can turn as a windmill

weaving circles,

waving rattles in the air.

A strong bright Orange

in Vincent's palette,

spreading to all corners of the frame,

from Munich to Buenos Aires

with Cruyff and Arie Haan,

painting goals of fire

with great technique

that somehow go beyond

the normal dribbling and trapping.

Just around the cornerflag,

in the Green Gallery,

a new English School emerges

from an apprenticeship

with Bergkamp and Gullit.

After centuries as an art form,

these young Vermeers

are painting in light -

and a very thick gloss.

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TWIN BRIDGE

 

I taste the diluted salt air

of the River Tyne meeting the North Sea.

I stand wondering how they built this bridge,

all those rivets with crude technology .

Then did it again near Botany Bay.

Skirting the Pacific under crimson cumulus clouds,

eucalyptus, and hot baking sun,

stretching through concrete office blocks,

pools and gardens

tamed from the outback.

Below, a landscape of movies:

red soil, parched, lizards wander among

location scenes.

From here, Newcastle is just a rumour.

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VIEW WITHOUT PREJUDICE

(Deya, Mallorca)

 

I have not read the Catalan poetry

I have not read the Arab poets

who talk of Almonds and Oranges

like Eskimo's talk of Snow.

I have not read George Sand or Robert Graves.

I have not read the Tourist Guides.

But, I did gaze at:

the same Olive Grove

the same Citrus Tree

the same Pine Forest

the same Mountain

the same Cala

the same ratio of Land, Sea and Sky

and the scent of a Majorcan summer was with me.

Memory is smell.

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