Top 20 Poems of ’10
“Gentleman Jim” – winner
He brings a certain dignity
Exudes a certain charm
He works with an integrity
No fuss and no alarm
A vestige of the golden age
He has those austere looks
Like timeless art and Shakespeare’s plays
Or well thumbed fav’rite books
His essence is humanity
He’s gen’rous to the core
As all he does, he does for free
His loyalty is folklore
I don’t know ‘bout his playing days
And what his stats all told
But bet he played the noble way
Within traditions fold
But now he wears the black and white
Immaculately pressed
He’s always groomed with class and pride
And always looks his best
And though time’s slightly stooped his spine
He cuts a dashing frame
And just like France’s finest wine
Age bolsters his acclaim
And every summer Sat’day sees
Old Jim out at the ground
Impartial as the summer breeze
And judgment always sound
And every player loves old Jim
Respecting his good name
And for his passion they thank him
This doyen of the game
© Matt Young 2010
“Evolution” – one of the last four
Pop and Granddad talk of heroes
swashbuckling fellows with grand moustaches
Serving and representing their country
batting and battling for glory
Men wanted to be them and ladies swooned
The Gentleman’s Game from last century
Dad talks about living legends
bristling moustaches and flowing long hair
Terrifying batsmen into error and defeat
Blokes wanted to be them and mum smiles with
a strange look in her eyes
The evolving game from last century
Mates Facebook professional athletes
unshaven passing through media spotlights
Outstanding ability and uncertain temperament
We want to be them
Girls cross their legs and text crude messages
Strategies evolving for a new century
Thigh-pad. Box. Gloves. Helmet. Blade.
Ready for battle.
Nervously licking my upper lip
feeling the soft moustache growing
Representing deeds and dreams of family and club
I stride to open our attack
The Under 16 final.
My girl waves.
The future is now.
© Nerelie Teese 2010
“The Ton” – one of the last four
Fading light adds to the nervous nineties moment.
A youngster on debut, hooking and cutting
on a seamer’s paradise, within a breath of a whirlwind test ton.
Heart pounding, feet twitching, thoughts swirling;
Seeds of doubt being planted.
Speedster Harrison roars in, all copy book in action and menace.
A thunderous anticipatory chant gathers momentum;
this lad’s gall and aggression uniting all.
Short, searing… millimetres separating Kookaburra
from the windy whoosh of willow.
Doubts now ripe for the picking.
Harrison approaches, snarling,
chant deafening.
Full, wide… instinct kicks in;
Slashing cover drive, desperate slide,
Fielder and leather crashing into pickets.
Bat held high, exuberant crowd rushing to
congratulate.
The call comes out
“Billy! Harry! Tea is on the table!”
Stumpy, all wide eyed, drops the saliva covered ball,
panting and wagging.
The brothers, eyeballing each other,
shake hands and trudge reluctantly inside,
eager for tomorrow’s play to commence.
© Peter Harvey 2010
“The Last Over” – one of the last four
He lies on his face in the clinging mud
while overhead the choppers thud.
Pain in his side from
the rot in his feet,
His mind wanders home from the jungle
heat.
The crack of the bat
as the ball flies high,
the drone of a plane
that quarters the sky.
The green, green grass,
the sunlight’s glint,
from the tinnies that
are drunk, as batsmen sprint.
The sight screen shifting
While the players wait,
And the kids, bowling short ones
down by the gate.
The rub of the seam
on the polished balls.
The rattle of the bails
as the wicket falls.
A long, sunlit day
in the doze of the park,
then the teams walk off
as the light goes dark.
But the night rushes in
while the bullets fly,
and he’s home at last
with that short goodbye.
And the umpire lifts the stumps.
© Maureen Sudlow 2010
“Australian Job”
Electric combs cut through wool
as shedhands run back and forth
catching and throwing fleeces
keeping the shed covered
as if a field of green
‘He’s out!’ cracks the radio
as the shearer pushes the shorn sheep
through the door and chalks
another line on the board
his pace is fast and he’ll have his
hundred by lunch on the pitch
of wood greased with lanolin
his hands catch another merino
pretending he’s on a hat-trick
the crowd cheering him on
keeps him moving
completing another
Australian job.
© Lilliana Rose 2010
“A Sonnet to Cricket”
A hint of summer’s nearness, with its warmth and blue-rinsed skies,
Encourages all cricketers to shed their coats and rise.
Anticipation grips us for we know that very soon
the sound of wielded willow will promote a happy tune.
And it will play in backyard jousts, or ‘pick-ups’ on the sand,
in grandstand girded stadiums that test matches demand.
On playing fields, in tree-lined parks, or claypans, coir mat.
Wherever there’s a summer sky the players bowl and bat.
Across the globe, wherever Britain raised the Union Jack,
the game of cricket flourished and it’s never fallen back.
So now we see it played by almost every race or creed.
But cricketers in any form! Please listen and take heed-
Whoever plays whatever form, this culture we must share:
To play the game with spirit, but be generous and fair.
© Don Adams 2010
“Backyard Internationals”
My brother is Australia, I am all the others
There’s war in Seaview Street, war between 2 brothers
Mimicking our heroes, sometimes we look silly
Especially my brother, a left- handed Dennis Lillee
I love the foreign names, the mystery around them
My Chandra serves the leggies up, my brother tries to pound them
I’m Engineer and Lloyd, Barry Richards too
Playing flashing drives, like Pollock used to do
We play Tests like our heroes, I never seem to win
I drop a Dennis Amiss, bring Gavaskar in
Thinking of it now, it certainly seems funny
Should have been the first one picked, amazing little Sunny
We played at night, right after school, on weekends when we could
Never had an umpire, many times our ground we stood
I played my brother many times, he considered me a pest
But soon we’ll be together, at the Boxing Day Test
© Glenn Butcher – 2010
“Clancy of the Overthrow”
I have always been a keeper as I don’t like fielding deeper,
‘cause the outfield is a paddock where a bloke just has to run.
It’s the smartest place in cricket, right up there behind the wicket,
for an afternoon spent chasing isn’t my idea of fun.
But the quiet life I fancy is upset by bloody Clancy,
who’s a fiery young gun shearer with a lethal throwing arm.
Though we need him for his batting and the fact he brings the matting,
when he grabs the ball and hurls it he can really do some harm!
For he sets my old heart thumping while I’m stretching, diving, jumping,
as his thunderbolts come flying, far too high or way down low.
Still, perhaps one day he’ll chuck it and I’ll go and kick the bucket…
and he’ll grant me cricket heaven, Clancy of the overthrow.
© David Campbell 2010
“Batting Order”
The sharp, sharp “crack!” of the willow bat
and the red leather straining the seams;
the raspberry stain on the cream trouser crease;
smells like jasmine and summer to me.
The Mental Hospital’s spacious grounds;
the citizens enjoying their leisure:
the scene of the Sunday afternoon match
will sleep in my memory ever.
Women recline in their floral skirts with
their sandwiches and Sauvignon Blanc
and clap politely but don’t really watch as the
wickets go down and the shadows grow long.
Hospital patients go for their walk,
the nurse with his Mohawk attending.
Oblivious they walk straight across the pitch
to the harbour at the bridlepath ending.
The match is suspended in the pilsener light
as the party crosses the field. Everything
freezes; the patients march on:
the gentlemen offer to yield.
© Natasha Dennerstein 2010
“The First Delivery”
With cupped hands spread evenly he takes the prize with a softness that surprises even
his greatest fans, his wife and parents
He holds the treasure aloft for all to see making sure everyone has time to admire his
success from this first delivery
With the customary pats on the back and “atta-boys” ringing in his ears the man
dressed in the traditional white outfit for the occasion could feel no prouder than at
this moment
A cricketer through and through he thought this was better than taking the winning
catch in the final over of a deciding test against the old foe in front of a hundred
thousand screaming cricket fans
Imagining the feeling that would bring he knew it could never rival this moment now
as he held his first born son at the beginning of his first inning
© Nigel Ford 2010
“Cricket’s Last Stand”
Myopic tribes -
Worshippers of the God of Instant Gratification,
Symbols of our Age of Impatience -
Encircle far-flung fields beyond Fort Lord’s.
Thumping, monotonous drums,
Gyrating, contorting dancers,
Painted faces, brandished weapons,
Chants, howls and incantations
Threaten quick and ruthless kills.
Warriors club, hack, slash;
Cultivated subtlety abandoned.
Scalps taken, brief battles won,
The enemy of the hour slaughtered;
The loot divided.
Self-indulgent Chiefs retire,
Grow fat.
The tribes disperse for a time,
Seduced, satiated;
Sedated by the opiate Twenty/20.
Meanwhile, I.C.C. Generals,
Stoic, wise, custodial -
Luminaries who see the future clear -
Gaze indulgently
As if upon recalcitrant, rebellious children.
They’ll noise about awhile,
Awaken, grow and, like The Prodigal,
Come home.
Embrace their Fathers -
And understand the Tests of Time.
Won’t they?
© Brian Sam Hallewell 2010
“Backyard Century”
I am remembering this:
Our flat, large backyard,
The grass burnt and worn
After many games over summer.
Today, in late February a spinner’s wicket.
Other people would be
In the pool, at least in the shade;
My son and I about to start the game
At our backyard SCG.
Leg spin, off spin- all met with
The straight lines of head, elbow, bat,
Feet quickly in position:
His know-how far beyond the
Amateurish tips I had given.
His score climbs like the temperature.
I bowl, field, toil, sweat: he bats…
In the nineties.
Forget the heat. Forget the aching shoulder,
The tired legs.
Wanting to get him out; willing him to
Get to those three figures.
This ball dips, grips, turns to leg,
Thuds into the fence.
I cheer.
The batsman waves his bat and
Rushes towards me
With all that I want to see:
My son’s smile is as wide as his bat.
© Ian Keast 2010
“Stumps, Ball and Willow (our view)”
Bails in place – match underway.
Stumps, ready I sneak a grin
Where 22 yards away, my twin
Is waiting too. First ball,
“Wide”, I hear the call.
The spinner grazes my off stump,
Keepers’ gloves close with a “whump”!
The “quick” hits centre, “ouch”
About his skill, no grouch.
Ball, after spit and polish
My aim- stumps demolish!
Snugly, strong fingers grip
Fired in fast, angled to rip
Off the pitch, send bails flying!
Curse, that knee-roll denying.
Caressing fingers of the spinner
Guides my wily, curving winner
Willow, alert, take my stance
Survey the field, leave nought to chance
Patting the crease I wait
For the spinners’ hidden bait
Picking up on the curve
Really is a test of nerve.
Next, the “quick” thunders in
Split second for me to win
This contest! I hit it plumb
Massive 6, no need to run!
Bails removed – end of play.
© Audrey Lawrence 2010
“Three Bats”
A Gradidge, Len Hutton; a Symonds, Tusker; a modern blunderbuss
A propped pyramid among stray leaves, repose in garage dust,
Hands that loved the dog-chewed handle, the perished rubber, the five-skin clasp
Long since slipped to dandle, sent to other tasks
Once sensed the calm, the sweet elation, through palms set poised in easy lift
Each son in successive generation seeks to find his gift
What he could or should not do, the game of life, his little story
And lay aside his dreams of glory
To seasons of worry like a persistent seamer
And a final boundary for a chasing fielder
Faces in the camera crowd cheering wild
Call it home, they beat the fence, grandfather, father, child
The chain of genes, the captured fields of family
But on a chain, three bats burn in memory
Inflame the air on a summer’s day
That flashing drive, that swivelling hook, that short ball, cut away
© Alfred Marks 2010
“Country Cricketer’s Childhood”
This summer I’ll go back
to that quiet country town…
I’ll walk again across the yellow paddocks
to find two boys batting and bowling,
or chasing a cork ball barefoot
to the barbed-wire boundary…
I’ll stride the length of their dad’s mowed pitch,
more pebbled ground than grass,
to crouch behind the keeper’s stumps
sawn from broken broom-shafts…
I’ll hear their loud appealing
for everything but the light,
until the tractor’s dust-cloud settles
and their mum calls them in for the night…
I’ll see a young Walters dashing between wickets
or a young Richie plying his spin,
before foreclosure calls it quits
and the family moves on to the city…
This summer I’ll go back
to the paddocks of only thistle and weed -
but I swear I’ll hear above the caw of the crows
a boy’s cry echoing It’s four! It’s four!
as he sprints towards the boundary trees.
© Mark Miller 2010
“Testing Times”
They were testing times
In our back yard
Standing up to oldest brother’s left arm medium fasts creamers
Unravelling youngest brother’s demon thumbs pin
Gutsing a diving catch into the bindi-eye patch
Testing reaction time on the shortened pitch
The pecking order was the batting order in our home team
The banter of brothers was our sledging
Play squeezed in to the lunch and tea breaks when we unglued ourselves from
a test on the old black and white
Returning to the full colour of conflict under backyard rules
Caught behind was short backward brickwall
Two runs for a cut to silly mid barbecue
Six and out over the back fence
And minus six for a drive into Mum’s billowing white sheets at deep mid
clothesline
Bad light stopped play under the jacaranda
But bad language didn’t stop the fun.
© Brian McLoughlin 2010
“My Father’s Bat”
My father is teaching me to bat.
His sun-brown arms surround me, his hands
on the handle cover mine,
tapping down the crease.
This trusty Kookaburra pitted with the innings
of his childhood, its linseed oil scent
melts into the eucalypt-blossom sweetness,
another warm Wimmera day.
A honey tin stands in for stumps,
Mum is called on to keep wicket.
Her dress pockets bulge with eggs
from a nest she’s just found.
My brother lines us up with his ball.
My fingers tremble against the willow’s strength,
my father’s grip. My brother bowls,
I let the bat swing, we hit the ball, it bounces
Into the boobialla, my other brother dives in after it.
Chooks squawk out in a flurry of wings and dust.
‘Run’, Dad says, and I take off, bat dragging
behind me, I run
as if my nation depends on it.
© Rhonda Poholke 2010
“Me Neighbour’s Kid”
Me neighbour’s kid is padded up, naggin’ me to practice.
His ol’ man’s down the pub fa sure and by now is cactus.
“Watch the ball onto bat, try ta pick me flipper”.
A swing and miss the smella piss, a shout of “you’re so gay”.
Lookin’ round I sees this drunk, staggerin’ our way.
“Bastard knows nowt bout cricket” he bellows to his boy.
Grabs the bat, stomps up the crease, dark and gruff as Roy.
“Meant no harm” I says real calm “the kids as keen as mustard.
He swipes the ball from me hand, declares I’m bowlin’ custard.
With bat in hand, ball in other, he stumbles in to bowl.
Kid pads the crease with invisible bat, his eyes begin to roll.
The penny drops, daddy stops. Slurs “I ‘m sober next time for sure”.
Boy looks at me, its tears I see, reckon he’s heard’t all before.
© Ian Swift 2010
“Setting the Scene”
The green-edged maiden pregnant with runs awaited delivery.
Two white-clad champions prodded the tanned tranquil form.
Embryonic tufts of turf cringed beneath the probing fingers.
Dreading the bumpers and bouncers belligerently bowled.
A glint of silver flickered in the sunlight before declaring.
Not the lady in labour nor her suckling seeds cared a toss.
A man with gloved hands shared the feel of a ripe cherry.
Fastidiously selected from a nest of flighty Kookaburras.
Some studied the minatory missile with seaming intensity.
Yet none dared to sink his teeth into such forbidden fruit.
Three trees were planted at head and foot of earth mother.
Linked by wrinkled twin twigs susceptible to sudden shock.
Two aspiring centurions centred their stance at each thicket.
Both wielding a willow wand designed as sword and shield.
The ghosts of Bradman and Hutton settled on a sightscreen
“Play”.
© Noel Tennison 2010
“Summer Salvation”
Washing filed. Lunch catalogued.
Kitchen pristine. Toilet roll nano-torqued.
Maybe, whilst child sleeps, I can catch the cricket.
Desperate prayer for tools to call him to the shed but
aroma of manipulation
hovers in the hall. Hidden
beside sofa it feels I’m about to rob a bank.
Crooked cushion may betray me -
Deep breath. “I’ll be a good wife, God,
just part of an innings, please.”
Deceived, I press “on” in hope.
Smack! A boundary
has been crossed. My swollen
face attention is thrust
onto his bat. It’s over soon.
Obeisance has earned me precious minutes
observing another Waugh. We are 3 for
98 but
Infant calls drinks early.
One day…
© Leanne Wicks 2010
