Sunday, August 09, 2015

a Cheek cris Cris, cc fbuke Comment

(Originally a comment on Anglo American poet cris cheek's Facebook)

Catherine Daly: I don't understand how people can not embrace the genuine wherever it is found, but then, I have a difficult time practicing empathy or compassion for bozos. Yet, I do have a love for the "Hail Mary" in basketball and football.
Desmond Swords: Thanks very much Catherine. May the force of love be with us. 

Born and reared in Ormskirk bygone times, a few miles from the Anfield ground, and growing up a kopite kid in the soccer culture, especially in Liverpool, and Ormskirk; LFC was the only thing in Thatcher's UK we had to be proud of. Tho the docks and post-industrial economy were decimated, and everywhere was, literally, blighted, collapsing and decaying in Liverpool; it was in this era, the Thatcher years, that our generation were the living beautiful and young, in, what we thought at the time, would continue til we were old and gray. 

An always golden Tir na Og, that we, at the time, because of the success we'd known all out short lives on the pitch of support, thought could never grow up, get old, or ever end. What didn't end is an individual voice as part of the collective twelfth person on the pitch in spirit, connected to a team and playing with praising and satirical chant, song and prayer, in the stands. The twelfth charge and strongest set of supporters, made up of thousands of living voices all sung at top roar, with the belief it was a natural birthright, the eternal future of LFC domination as domestic champions in the league most years, and forever Kings of Europe

A traveling band of local Liverpool scallies, that were very like the Irish in the spontaneity of how they co-operate abroad. Probably because most are Irish of some stripe and degree of connection to the neighbouring island, and you hear the inner city defiance of it in Dublin, that has a voice 90% scouse, and in the Scouse accent 90% Dublin.

It is only away in Dublin for eleven years now, that i am pining for the place i left, and watching these is as good as it gets to being there, if not better. I sit here, watching, and, with a recent bereavement in March, a lot of emotion still churning the depths, i will sit feeling She is all around me in spirit, enveloping me with the strength to carry on and say what i think now she is no more in earthly form and there's nothing left to keep me grounded but Her and the love we share that i as keeper of her living flame, only son and earthly servant in song and speech, was born to make and learn in the voice of private prayer and its public release.

There are some ynwa's from a few weeks ago on the pre-season far east and down under tour, two in Australia, Adelaide and Brisbane,  and one in Kuala Lumpur. 88,000 Asian fans singing our local most important cultural hymn as proudly and united as any scousers. Of which i am not one. Three miles south-west and i would be.

This is when they went really global. We'd underestimated the brand, how powerful it is. The only club in England to pull this kind of global fandom off. Although Arsenal, Manchester United and Chelsea have also had global success, it is not the same, as they have no song to teach a world to sing.

But from this distance, local rivalries play no part, and, imo, this is as close to poetry as it gets. the sheer spine-tingling invocation of some living spirit that transcends culture and race, brings out the ghostly human animal passion for fair human play, goodness and winning by being the best, not because of who we stand next to. And of all who sing it, we cannot help but be swept up, over, beyond and thru with the sheer magic of our original LFC cultural religion. That Bill Shankley, the 60s and early 70s Scottish manager famously declared, when asked why football in Liverpool seemed to be a matter of life or death, replied, I can assure you it is much, much more important than that.

Like the poetry 95,000 LFC fans in Melbourne, Australia, sing. It's Stoke away in three hours. I kno there'll be one or two peak poet-critics dropping the pottery in the LFC poetry boot room; and one woolly back who'll be feeling particularly pleased and immensely proud as punch if Her team do it, again. By jove, missus. Good luck. Go n-éirí an bóthar leat. may the road succeed with you. Croí thuas, bless an gcluiche dúinn.

1 comment:

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