The True Legend of John Terry.

April 12, 2008 at 4:12 pm | Posted in football, poetry, writing | 4 Comments
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Frank knows who is really paying his wages, owners come and go. He is a man who understands the primacy of a fundamental rhythm through the team. All they are doing is thanking him, he says to me looking out over the pool sparkling in the Mediterranean sun. All of those people in the crowd have a special moment in their lives when Zola made them feel alive again, feel proud of who they were, of the community to which they belonged and he did it, Frank smiled shyly, with the creative unexpected, supported by flawless technique. On the lawn below his children are laughing and his wife looks up to the balcony. I swear she did not see me at all.


Well, I’ve looked at the first reel through the telephone, he said and I thought you said it was a documentary about football. The Americans don’t know who this guy F. is, and I thought you said you had the captain of England. Ask him why they keep losing, that’ll make some interesting footage. Oh and stop spending so much of my money. Click.

Oh come to bed she says curling into herself for warmth. And close the window. One more call, he murmurs, hello is Mrs Terry there? Well, could you tell me the name of her hairdresser? It’s Paul. I’m a friend of Frank. She rolls her eyes and waggles her ringless fingers in the moonlight. Great thanks for that. He turns back to the bed, my darling Saudade, you need a new hairdo.

hmm, she says unravelling her self hug, another one, well you shall have to be careful this time, and you forgot to close the window,


“the japanese squid fishermen are asleep” she had said,

introspection, he says, turning from the smudged mirror back into the chaos of the room. i take my hat off for the photojournalist, his faith that mere description will effect change but to exercise desire requires imagination. the world as it is was imagined into being, sometimes by sailors.
he shrugs on the long cloak Takeshi had given him and turns back to the bed where she lies sleeping, eventually everything will be as it was before i arrived,

silhouette, he says,

the curtain flickers on the moonlit breeze,


John Terry is very tall but he moves with a grace which belies his obvious strength. He has shoulders made for balance in the air. It is easy to forget that he is such a young man. It’s an honour, he says, however the team performs. It’s part of being a modern defender, you have be able to move up the field, to make an impact and hope that team moves forward with you. If they do, then you are the Captain of England.
and if they don’t, i was tempted to ask just as Saudade appeared, oh here you are, there is somebody on the phone, he says you owe him money,



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  1. The creative unexpected, flawless technique…… what I was talking about yesterday, the Ezra Pound business, the ability to register that multiple perception in the material of your art, this reads like a film script, motivation, action, fantasy subplot (like some kind of play on the imaginary), journalism, actually the insertion of the photojournalist piece is very clever, there is so much more than you initially think here, so many layers and rhythms and perceptions, the sum of the parts, brilliant, as usual. Like the game of football operating as language, as art, as desire, as life……okay, I’ll shut up now:)

  2. I want to be the captain of Scotland and have the sun shine everyday and at night, oh yes–the curtain would flicker in the moonlit breeze revealing squid fishermen returning from sea.

  3. fabulous layering! brilliant!

  4. it does have a film quality with threads of tension building and subplots tickling the mind.
    hand tinted colors even.

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