Adam Waverley.
This week, I am proud to introduce the first of an occasional series of posts in which I will focus on the work of one of the four poets that comprise The Morning Corporation.
As the weeks go by, and the poets have, in their various ways, delivered their work to me, I have accrued several pieces I considered too lengthy to be included in the regular weekly post. As I cannot abide the thought of these works going unread simply for reasons of room, I plan to bring you them one at a time, together with a short biographical introduction which I hope, though I have no grounds for this, might familiarize you a little more with what is – shall we say – an enigmatic bunch.
The light falls, this week, on my old friend Adam Waverley.
Adam is 6’2″ tall, with shoes on, or off, and carries the air of an intellectual. One might say even he looks learned. I’m not suggesting he makes a tiger look entitled, but he’s got his stripes, and earned it. Words pour out of him, but carefully, into an approved receptacle, in accurate measures. He is not old, but he doesn’t seem old. If he was a coffee percolator, he’d say: “Mm-hmm. Sure. Absolutely. Mm-hmm.”
Here is his poem:
'Time For Another Confessional' People of the world who eat bread I am intolerant of food that's soft in texture. That is why I shrink away, three times a day, to the loft Where we keep old clothes, old toys, old bikes, And tube TVs, Suitcases full of fleas, many lengths Of unused PVC, pipe, and slippers Non-conformist car seats... To eat crackers (cream) but this is not A shopping list, this is a tattoo Washed - loop! - off the wrist. It's quite the job, it is, to make the stairs But I park my chair at the foot And with the words of Mallory in my ears Some ropes, pulleys, carabiners, smoke- And-mirrors, I ascend. Coming down is easier, though. Up there, I cry little over crumbs Inches deep in places that create A kind of beach. In summer it is airless. Once It got to a-hundred-and-twenty-one Could easily imagine oneself stranded On a bleached and barren, desert island Part of one of many chains that dot The West Pacific Ocean. There I have no God but my own. I tear the cracker boxes up so I Might write my story down upon The brown, unpainted side. People of the world who make bread My feet do not drag, they float Just above the ground. I'm tired of being paralyzed. I think I'm going to quit. I'd like to hear, but my ears are full. See your point, but I have this fear Of arrows coming at me, left, and right, But mainly just towards. Go on... go on.. So, I put myself in a sling, That's how this thing got started. There's Advantages to wheels, Don't get me wrong, but there are more to limbs. Wheels demand a going that is level And a surface that Holds on - even the biggest may Be hobbled when confronted Even with the smallest obstacle. Now? - I should be so lucky, But once I was a lackey, Twenty-three, and could do better, Ten to six a.m., in a Supermarket stocking shelves. "Do they have kangaroos where you come from?" "I don't know - go ask Hal, and Roger hard at work aboard 'The Lively Lady'..." Vested, pushing our blue pallet jacks On which, stacked up to eight-feet high We'd bring the goods - can of soup, of sauce Of chips, chunks, and cuts Of red, and white, and olive green To the floor. You could roll along quite nicely With nine-hundred pounds of shit piled up On those four, three-inch wheels But you had to keep your eye out. So it was, one night I busted Through the double, rubber doors No, mate, that's aisle free And turning, slightly, to the right There came a jarring crunch, and My arms gave way, the handle levered Forward, and my chin Struck my forearm, and my burden Tilted sideways, gaining pace, and A tower of glass, and metal, and paper And shit came down, as I, upon One knee, watched, in horror. Uncle Sam, I'll bet, was laughing, well We soon cleaned up the mess. Someone cut their knuckles up, And when we pulled the jack back, there, Beneath the front-left wheel - "No way!" A lady's stick-on fingernail In shiny oyster-shell, with A tiny Chinese character applique. I don't know What it said - 'Stop', perhaps? What's the Chinese word for 'Oops'? Plus, if the wheel's so great n'all Why, in their diversity From miniscule, to mighty, has Not one of the manifold species of The Planet Earth evolved them? I ask of you: to be informed. People of the world who have time To make bread I am thirty-nine years old. I have a goal in mind. Ryan Giggs was nearly forty, Stanley Matthews over fifty, Peter Shilton sixty-nine! - I think... about... But he wore padded gloves And didn't have to run To get the kids to school, or to The store for thins, or crackers, Or take the cases to the loft, Or try to clarify what one has said, or is saying And backpedal - and still playing! Which tells me, if my calculations Stand up, and my digits do As they're designed to do, Between about eight months, and Ten years, and eight months to effect A meteoric rise From pub footy, to the non-leagues To the lower leagues, purely on The strength of my week-in, week-out Total domination through incontrovertable mastery Unerring youthful confidence, and Energy, and finally A loan-spell in the top-flight. See, it's a numbers game, and Money leaves one cold. Later, I will proudly say I was never bought, or sold I have a goal in mind. I play it, over and over As if it were a memory: "... a forty-year old, ex-shelf stacker with a penchant for crackers (cream) might just have written himself into legend..." People of the world, and The planet, as one, was watching. "... the two best teams on Earth..." But I didn't care who was watching As my second goal flew in A cleanly struck half-volley after Eighty-five minutes, from twelve-yards, after A duff defensive header, and I turned away, my right arm raised To make it two-to-one... The French had taken the lead From a corner after just six minutes A central midfielder, completely unmarked A header, off the bar, and down The gloom began to gather in The tension, layer-on-layer, built Until, in the thirty-ninth I slid in at the far post, making Barest contact (just enough) and Rose, right arm aloft To make it one-to-one... And then the French came on: Cam! Cam! Allez! Allez! And wave-on-wave of so much blue, and white And biting, there was, scratching, so much Yellow that the crowd Could not keep track of who to boo And the clock trips over the eighty-eighth minute... The ball is slung once more into Our box, and I am scared But we all are, and that doesn't quite Explain it, but I run Toward the half-way line, and I am blind I think, I hear The slap of the ball in our keeper's gloved grasp Then low heart-thump as he launches it Downfield, and I look up And there it is, a star Between two stars, coming down Is easier though... and a Frenchman Stumbles, as I leap the line The ball meets field - I feel it - and rebounds Impossibly high As I keep on A breeze blows in the Stade d'Etoiles... Eight-thousand miles away Before an open window Over a garden of breadfruit trees And blazing bougainvillea The Ponapean God of Crises Arms spread wide, exhales Out, across the open ocean And through storms, and lulls, and onto land Atop the heads, and steeple-tops Down thoroughfares, lights green, and red Wastelands, flags, and old pianos Every entrance/exit, through And every join, interstice, soul It enters the arena, and The ball is slowed, hung up, and I Am too fast, now, moving past, and on And by it, faster than the moon goes, I Look back, and up Slow slightly, turn to face, I am falling And I lift - though it weighs nothing - my left leg, then with A push, and pull, I tear My right foot from the earth The skin is filled with rocks, and shells And sand, as the keeper, rushing Out from learning, senses - that's A keeper's job, to sense - What I might be about to do Though even I cannot And the planet turns about me, and one might At this point, and in this position, stop To consider what a fine Illustration of the relative Positions of two objects in free space This is! but, in this place At this point, I am not thinking Anything at all As someone spills their water, and I am a perfect marble Passing from Seat '8B', to '8C', across the aisle At forty-thousand feet Above the city of Sunderland And with a swift brush-stroke I strike the ball, as many have Before, but in this manner, none Which - as the celestial object early Man reached out to claim between The finger, and the thumb Arcs across the night Just shy of the keeper's desperate hand And, as a child to parent arms As one, later, falls, accepting, into love's embrace As one, later, still, at long-day's end To home - returns To the center of the net. There is A general rush of blood, due To sudden pressure drop, A global, momentary loss Of the equilibrium. The Ponapean God of Crises Shades his eyes, and squints As a Airbus A360 with Three-hundred and fifty-eight passengers And eighteen crew on board Plunges, silently, into the ocean... As the French coach curses - "Fuck" And down! goes his philosophy In a world where hair turns grey And clipboards land upon their edge To stick, and stand up in the dirt Like knives, a goal of this fine kind Is hardly necessary, only Its perfection is And I'll do it if it breaks me As I land upon my back, and I Am watching on TV, with My arms raised, up, and out behind me Joints jarred, tendons separated Panic of professionals Splintered bones, cracked vertebrae Between four, and five... I have, have had, this nightmare And the nightmare, once recurring Now, it is occuring, as Three teammates rush to cover me One whispers something to me But I do not hear - there is grass in my ear: "There never will be more than this." Everything has changed, as Another's face has changed His knee upon my hand, he turns, at once And motions to the bench: "Fucking come on here!" "... they're saying there's a problem..." The Ponapean God of Crises Drops his hand, and smiles... "...has just scored, surely, one of the greatest goals we'll ever see, but he seems, perhaps, to have injured himself in the execution..." As the men arrive... ".. he hasn't moved his legs..." ... my friends draw back, and there, for a moment I'm alone. I remember, somewhere in the fall Of nineteen eighty-five An issue of a weekly football Magazine, a black-and-white Photo of a goalie At full-stretch above the plastic Pitch at Luton Town, and in The corner it said "Grace" And I, lying there A smile upon my face... From the point at which the plane went down The funnels of a great ship rise. Ten, or twelve, years later My brother had bought a video game That featured a bonus, unlockable game A kind of soccer with cars, with which We struggled for fifteen minutes, or so Until he paused it, and we turned And looked at one other And both knew, and I said: "Admit it," and I laughed And he said: "This is shit - let's play 'Gunstar Heroes'." Brother, Dig a hole, where I fell Lower me, and cover me In cracker crumbs, then plant a tree. People of the world who make bread To eat with cheese And people who make bread To sell houses, I fear this: No less is what's required To accept the things I cannot change To bite into the burger bun And this, as you can see And I'm sure you will agree Is, really, quite unlikely. - A.W.
Next time out, whenever that is, Matt Black will explain the entire universe, which is vaguely oxymoronic.
I know you are,
J.R.
@saymoco