Alan Wells
was a hero of mine when I was younger,
when I first realised
what the Olympics meant,
what it could inspire,
what it could be
if not allowed to be dominated
by politics and cheats
or death’s unfavourable hand;
the dip
of the head at the line,
something I loved.
Nearly forty years on,
past the excuse of the biggest cheat
of them all, an athlete that destroyed
my faith, past vainglorious,
past deception and onto spectacle,
onto breathing legend and admiration
Was it wrong to believe
for a short while
that I could recapture a moment
in time,
fleeting perhaps,
the small gesture
of alluded art that I so desperately
wanted to be part of.
That to dream of standing
before you, the lonely virginal
player, steeped in the allure
of the greasepaint and the single
short monologue
in which to make
an entrance with,
to make people sit up
and take notice of,
was that ever so wrong.
Into drastic middle age, early death has been defied
Please don’t park on a drop down,
the unassuming slight
plunge in the pavement
at the end of roads,
the pedestrian walk way,
or even pram pushing mother
or wheelchair user,
find it quite difficult
to fall down an eight inch crevice
without either tipping over,
babies nose sniffing the asphalt
and stones cutting small scares
drawing blood on fresh skin,
or the anxious wheelchair user,
not having the energy to make sure
they don’t fall flat on their face
for the amusement of others,
I smile as I watch
on stage
a master grin
beguilingly
for the briefest of serene moments,
the Edinburgh rain bounce
on the age old cobbles
in New Town,
Georgian splendour,
Regency supremacy,
and after the show,
we talk cricket for a while,
for that is the only civilised
approach, the only thing to do,
when the covers are on the field of play
and the actor’s
innings
declared over
for the night.
Inspired by the actor Tayo Aluko
It is the sound of another
name call, the roll of the tongue
of another insult
that leads me to believe that humanity
is headed
down a path
in which
people will find the quiet
thinning out
of people such as me,
to be good for humanity;
it is only a matter of time
before they go from name call
to roll call.
Ian D. Hall 2016
I feel steeped in your history
Athens
of the north
each time I breathe
in the rain,
that rusts my armour
yet builds my arsenal.
I feel your beauty
and I desire
nothing more
to be soaked to the skin,
dripping wet
on a boundless summer’s day,
to feel the chill of North Sea
air warm me
as snow swirls in August
and the sweat of Christmas Day
applauds,
Athens has nothing on you
Siren
and I am rocked
I remember the fear
and tried to brush
it aside,
to put out of
sight,
of the images of Nuclear fire,
Mushroom
Cloud
column of the blister oozing
pus and gore;
I counted them out
that morning
as they crossed the line of death
in the sand,
my paper round
the following day, one
of a moment which I thought
would lead to death of millions, and yet
in Chernobyl a reactor
would create that chaos
for me.
I make mistakes,
I am human after all,
some are bigger than others
but none are meant,
sometimes
I just forget,
my brain fogs over
and all I can concentrate upon
is the next set of tablets,
the next pain killer
which gives the thrill
of living on
for another few hours;
I make mistakes,
It is who I am
and I have to deal with it more.
Ian D. Hall 2016
The glass bottled Menorah,
behind me on the shelf
now holds drumsticks
that once held beer
and the beat
of songs
that I kept up with
as they exploded in rhythm
on stage,
like burning butterflies
dancing hotfooted
on the candles
I displaced;
the glass bottled menorah,
with peelable slogan
and memorable image,
empty of foam
but full of meaning.
Ian D. Hall 2016
The spirit
of Oliver Reed, actor
supreme who passed away,
but never the opportunity
to drink,
sits quietly in the corner
in The Pub, Valletta
in serenity. It is a memory
I keep as I let my mind wander
as I watch Nathan pull
the local beer as the Maltese
songbird serenades the night;
Oliver Reed’s spirit shuffles
in contemplation
and all is quiet in
Archbishop Street.
Ian D. Hall 2016