The Mystery of the Taliban?

Okay, so my weekly confessional has come around again and I must admit, I'm a bit of a book hoarder. 

I buy all sorts of books, none of them particularly fancy but to me, for that hour or so when I first open a new book up, it is an absolute must have. I do this with all kinds of books for all kinds of reasons. I go for price, cover, review, name, recommendation- all the usual things but the one thing that can hook me in is mystery. This is half of the reason I buy poetry books. I know they aren't in fashion long enough to be going out of fashion but there is always a rush there- and nobody seems to ever stop me. I buy them for the different ideas, for the different beliefs and for the different understandings and viewings of the world, which leads me on nicely to something of a topical post. 

There has been something of a backlash this week towards news publishers Hurst & Co. are to publish a Taliban poetry collection later this month. Whilst at first this may seem an outrageous proposal, I was reluctant to jump to conclusions over this before I had actually seen a copy of the book or at least read some of the poems in it...

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An unfinished poem for Harry Goslin

This morning this is where I’ve woken up (http://www.tynewydd.org/english/house.html). I’m here with the rest of my MA class; savouring the quiet as if it were a fine, handcrafted vegan chocolate; relaxing in this little fragment of Welsh beauty; and hoping that I have an inspiring and creatively productive week.

This week’s theme is war poetry and on Saturday I started to write a poem, which I thought would form the foundations of my post today. Unfortunately, it hasn’t made it beyond a third draft. I can see the poems untreated wounds, a few ugly and mangled lines that cry to be repaired, and an end that should probably be buried and mourned rather than celebrated. Therefore, I do not feel comfortable posting a poem that I’m not happy with, that isn’t finished and which requires a little care rather than publicity. Hopefully, whilst I’m at Ty Newydd, I’ll find the space to give this poem a little attention, mend its injuries and make it into the poem I know it is capable of being.

However, having said this, I will share just the one stanza to give you a sense of the poem:

Eleven men stepped out, climbed above the trench;
a khaki wave of strength: attack, midfield, defence .
Shots wide and shots on target,
boys lying muddy on the ground.

The idea for the poem came from a story that I heard on the news last week. It was a story about Bolton Wanders Football Club in 1939; their captain Harry Goslin stood at a microphone in the middle of Burnden Park and told the fans that the entire team would be signing-up. He explained that it was their duty, and in a similar way to which they had played and breathed football together, they would fight together... Every member of the Bolton team return, except Goslin.

As a football supporter (yes, Coventry does count), this story moved me, inspired me and made me want to capture team spirit, sacrifice and loss in poetic form. In an era where football has become about glamour, ridiculous wage packets and spoilt players, this story seemed even more poignant.

Thank you for reading,
Lar

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