ON PLAYING GOLF BADLY

 

(Although this poem may seem to be about golf, actually it's about life - And golf is like life: One day, you're on top, incapable of putting one foot wrong; and, the next day, the whole thing becomes a can of worms: Does anyone else, I wonder, ever feel like that?)

 

 

 

Yesterday, you strode up and struck the ball,
God, meting out justice to a recalcitrant Philistine,
So far and high and straight you made it soar:
(Johnny Wilkinson converting tries at Twickenham)
And inside your head, you heard the crowd roar,
And a two ball on the other fairway, watching you,
Craned their necks and said 'Ooh!' and 'Gosh' and 'Ahh!'
Whilst you walked up, took your address, took a four
Iron; and did the same, you hit it just as far,
Then ran it neatly up to two feet from the Pin, before
With cool composure, tapped it in.
And were you just made in the image of the Divine?

But today - today was different. You fucked it all
Up, like John Daley with an exceedingly bad hangover,
So short and low and warped your feeling for
Yourself, your worth, your dwindling self esteem:
(Hancock, getting the bird at the Palladium)
And inside your head, you hear it all once more,
That nightmare, the old re-occurring dream,
Whispers behind your back, fingers pointing,
In office, clients phoning up and cursing
You, for failing to get custody of the family guinea pig,
Whilst you creep away, ask yourself once more,
Did Christ really come in the image of this asinine
Humbled failure?

 

Next Poem Back to Contents Exit