Jonnie Walters

Fist-pumping, awkward-jumping,
arms, elbows, knees bumping,
sharp-cunning, strong-running,
lack of grace, in your face,
always in the right place,
finger-licking, high-kicking,
watch the centre-backs bricking,
hard-shooting, executing,
pushing, fowling, disemboweling,
lurking, prowling, grunting, growling,
big, ugly, always scowling,
brave, fearless, mighty, peerless,
old-fashioned, highly-passioned,
barrel-chested, never bested,
every ball contested,
head-splitting, hard-hitting,
unthinkable, unsinkable,
sabre-rattling, always battling,
plundering and thundering,
tearing-folks-asunder-ing,
shoving, pushing, grappling, rushing,
flying tackle, bone-crushing,
goal-getting, target-setting,
often ends up in the netting,
Edith Piaf, no regretting,
man-o’-war, dinosaur,
matador, conquistador,
axe-blow through the bathroom door,
heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeere’s
Jonnie!

Euro 2012 D Day Minus 2

I’ve been out searching frantically for bunting
but seemingly I’ve left it far too late.
In every store, I’ve been reduced to grunting
when shop assistants tell it to me straight.
All I wanted was to decorate
the little patch of land my house is fronting,
but sadly, I had too much on my plate
and now I’ve gone and missed the boat for bunting.


Did no-one think the country might need bunting
and ship it in from China by the crate?
Or is this poxy Euro crisis blunting
the business acumen within the state?
My fruitless search has now begun to grate
but I’ve no option but to go on hunting,
unless I want to be (in our estate)
the only sap without a bit of bunting.

Euro 2012 D Day Minus 3

And so,
days before a major Finals,
an Irish midfielder breaks ranks,
skips past the despairing lunge
of a thick-skulled manager,
and runs to the arms of the press,
complaining about training.

Quite unprecedented, of course.

Oh, Aiden,
ask poor Kevin Foley if he thought
training was too draining.
I’m sure the Black Sea in June
is very beautiful. Can you imagine yourself
stretched out, dozing on a sunbed
as we take the field in Poznan?

http://www.herald.ie/sport/soccer/mcgeady-irish-squad-is-jaded-3128937.html

Paper Planes

The crowd’s collective roar
made the paper planes soar,
some crashing into the stand,
others reaching the pitch
and landing smoothly, which
elicited a big hand.
How they circled and soared,
our long-held dreams on board
before coming in to land!

Defying all the odds,
we sit up with the gods
and sing loud that old refrain
of Olé, Olé, Olés,
pre-empting summer days
in Poland or the Ukraine.
The Irish spirit sings,
borne on the fragile wings
of each tiny paper plane.

In Estonia

Estonia – the name fills us with dread
and makes the path ahead stonier.
We leave, armed with scarf, voice, hope and rattle
to do battle in Estonia.

The chill of winter grips the barren land
and throttles the fair begonia.
Will we too wilt on the frozen mire
or light a fire in Estonia?

Bony is the wolf, cloudy his thick breath
but death’s long fingers are bonier.
We must not flinch but grasp the flaming bough
that beckons now in Estonia.

How pleasant now seem the far-flung mountains
and fountains of Patagonia!
Easier to scale them all than begin
to hope to win in Estonia.

Timid and caution, get thee hence to bed –
faint heart is wed to pneumonia.
Our battle cry must make the pale moon glow
and strike a blow in Estonia.

FIFA’s sympathy last time was phony
but our baloney was phonier.
Let us hope that this time we’ll get it right
this Friday night in Estonia.

Written as part of an exercise at http://withrealtoads.blogspot.com/2011/11/i-gymryd-anadl.html to write a poem using the archaic Welsh form, the toddaid.

Richard Dunne Colossus of Moscow

Loudly the guns and artillery sounded,
upon our defences the Russian shells pounded,
but fears of a massacre proved quite unfounded,
for though we were quite overrun,
the Russians could only stare at us, dumbfounded
by the exploits of one Richard Dunne.

He rallied the troops with a rearguard action,
cautioned the line to avoid all distraction
and while the foe railed against every infraction,
he just glared in the September sun.
Arshavin and co derived no satisfaction
from the man-mountain called Richard Dunne.

Cannon in front of him volleyed and thundered
but he stepped in the breach when a comrade had blundered.
Was this a single man? Was it a hundred
that stopped all their missiles for fun?
The men from the east drank their vodka and wondered
at the demi-god called Richard Dunne.

Forward, still forward, the Russian ranks flooded
but he was unbowed though battered and bloodied,
his face bathed in sweat and engagingly bloodied
as the web of a legend was spun.
Many years on, the videotape will be studied
of the colossal, impassive,
undefeatably massive,
Herculean Richard Dunne.

(I thought Paul McGrath's performance against Italy in the Giants Stadium in 1994 would never be surpassed but oh my God, Richard Dunne was incredible against the Russians)

Putting on a show

Go and see La Scala, is Trap’s answer
to those who think we should put on a show.
Certainly there’s no exotic dancer
among the likes of Keane and Dunne and co.

Kevin Doyle cannot sing Nessun Dorma,
Kev Kilbane is no Maria Callas.
Darren O’Dea’s a reliable performer
but only versus sides like Crystal Palace.

There’s nothing that would last a week on Broadway
nor run for half a week in the West End.
We beat the Macs in something of a flawed way,
forced for lengthy periods to defend.

But when, in eight months time, the final curtain
comes down on our bid for qualification,
if we’ve won through, one thing will be certain –
they’re going to get one rapturous ovation.

An ugly win over Macedonia is not to Eamonn Dunphy's liking