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" You young pretenders, keepers of the nought".
That’s him in the green, green cotton jersey,
prince of the clean sheets – some upright insect
boxed between the sticks, the horizontal
and the pitch, stood with something up his sleeve,
armed with a pouch of tobacco and skins
to roll his own, or else a silver tin
containing eight or nine already rolled.
That’s him with one behind his ear, between
his lips, or one tucked out of sight and lit -
a stamen cupped in the bud of his fist.
That’s him sat down, not like those other clowns,
performing acrobatics on the bar, or press-ups
in the box, or running on the spot,
togged out in turtleneck pyjama-suits
with hands as stunted as a bunch of thumbs,
hands that are bandaged or swaddled with gloves,
laughable, frying-pan, sausage-man gloves.
Not my man, though, that’s not what my man does;
a man who stubs his reefers on the post
and kicks his heels in the stud-marks and butts,
lighting the next from the last, in one breath
making the save of the year with his legs,
taking back a deep drag on the goal-line
in the next; on the one hand throwing out
or snaffling the ball from a high corner,
flicking off loose ash with the other. Or
in the freezing cold with both teams snorting
like flogged horses, with captains and coaches
effing and jeffing at backs and forwards,
talking steam, screaming exhausting orders,
that’s not breath coming from my bloke, it’s smoke.
Not him either goading the terraces,
baring his arse to the visitors’ end
and dodging the sharpened ten-pence pieces,
playing up, picking a fight, but that’s him
cadging a light from the ambulance men,
loosing off smoke rings, zeros or halos
that drift off, passively, over the goals
into nobody’s face, up nobody’s nose.
He is what he is, does whatever suits him,
because he has no highfalutin song
to sing, no neat message for the nation
on the theme of genius or dedication;
in his passport, under ‘occupation’,
no one forced the man to print the word
‘custodian’, and in The Faber Book
of Handy Hints his five-line entry reads:
‘You young pretenders, keepers of the nought,
the nish, defenders of the sweet f**k-all,
think bigger than your pockets, profiles, health;
better by half to take a sideways view,
take a tip from me and deface yourselves.’
Simon Armitage was born in Marsden, West Yorkshire and he still live there. he went to school at Colne Valley High School and went on to study geography at Portsmouth Polytechnic. He was a post-graduate student at Manchester University where his MA thesis concerned the effects of television violence on young offenders. He was awarded an Honorary Doctor of Letters in 1996 from the University of Portsmouth. He then lectured on creative writing at the University of Leeds, the University of Iowa and the Manchester Metropolitan University. In February 2011 he took up the position as Professor of Poetry at the University of Sheffield. He has done a lot of work in the Film, TV, Theatre & Radio works.
1988 Eric Gregory Award
1992 A Forward Poetry Prize for Kid
1993 Sunday Times Young Writer of the Year
1994 Lannan Award
1998 Yorkshire Post Book of the Year for All Points North
2003 BAFTA winner
2003 Ivor Novello Award for song-writing
2004 Fellow of Royal Society for Literature
2005 Spoken Word Award (Gold) for The Odyssey
2006 Royal Television Society Documentary Award Winner for Out of the Blue
2008 The Not Dead (C4, Century Films) Mental Health in the Media Documentary Film Winner
2010 Keats-Shelley Prize for Poetry
2010 Awarded the CBE in the Queen's Birthday Honours List, for services to poetry
2012 Hay Medal for Poetry
Imagery - Red
Diction - Light Green
Metaphor - Light Pink
Allusion - Purple
Symbol - Dark Green
Similes - Teal
Personification - Yellow
Onomatopoeia - Orange
Oxymoron - black
That’s him in the green, green cotton jersey,
prince of the clean sheets – some upright insect
boxed between the sticks, the horizontal
and the pitch, stood with something up his sleeve,
armed with a pouch of tobacco and skins
to roll his own, or else a silver tin
containing eight or nine already rolled.
That’s him with one behind his ear, between
his lips, or one tucked out of sight and lit -
a stamen cupped in the bud of his fist.
That’s him sat down, not like those other clowns,
performing acrobatics on the bar, or press-ups
in the box, or running on the spot,
togged out in turtleneck pyjama-suits
with hands as stunted as a bunch of thumbs,
hands that are bandaged or swaddled with gloves,
laughable, frying-pan, sausage-man gloves.
Not my man, though, that’s not what my man does;
a man who stubs his reefers on the post
and kicks his heels in the stud-marks and butts,
lighting the next from the last, in one breath
making the save of the year with his legs,
taking back a deep drag on the goal-line
in the next; on the one hand throwing out
or snaffling the ball from a high corner,
flicking off loose ash with the other. Or
in the freezing cold with both teams snorting
like flogged horses, with captains and coaches
effing and jeffing at backs and forwards,
talking steam, screaming exhausting orders,
that’s not breath coming from my bloke, it’s smoke.
Not him either goading the terraces,
baring his arse to the visitors’ end
and dodging the sharpened ten-pence pieces,
playing up, picking a fight, but that’s him
cadging a light from the ambulance men,
loosing off smoke rings, zeros or halos
that drift off, passively, over the goals
into nobody’s face, up nobody’s nose.
He is what he is, does whatever suits him,
because he has no highfalutin song
to sing, no neat message for the nation
on the theme of genius or dedication;
in his passport, under ‘occupation’,
no one forced the man to print the word
‘custodian’, and in The Faber Book
of Handy Hints his five-line entry reads:
‘You young pretenders, keepers of the nought,
the nish, defenders of the sweet f**k - all
think bigger than your pockets, profiles, health;
better by half to take a sideways view,
take a tip from me and deface yourselves.’
It's the eye of the tiger, it's the thrill of the fight
Risin' up to the challenge of our rival
And the last known survivor stalks his prey in the night
And he's watchin' us all through the eye of the tiger
Risin' up, straight to the top
Had the guts, got the glory
Went the distance now I'm not gonna stop
Just a man and his will to survive
It's the eye of the tiger, it's the thrill of the fight
Risin' up to the challenge of our rival
And the last known survivor stalks his prey in the night
And he's watchin' us all through the eye of the tiger
The eye of the tiger
The eye of the tiger
The eye of the tiger
The eye of the tiger
Risin' up, back on the street
Did my time, took my chances
Went the distance now I'm back on my feet
Just a man and his will to survive
So many times it happens too fast
You trade your passion for glory
Don't lose your grip on the dreams of the past
You must fight just to keep them alive
It's the eye of the tiger, it's the thrill of the fight
Risin' up to the challenge of our rival
And the last known survivor stalks his prey in the night
And he's watchin' us all through the eye of the tiger
Face to face, out in the heat
Hangin' tough, stayin' hungry
They stack the odds, still we take to the street
For the kill with the skill to survive
By Survivor, an American rock band
Jimi Jamison (vocals), Frankie Sullivan (guitar), Marc Droubay (drums), Billy Ozzello (bass) and Walter Tolentino (keyboards/guitar)