Long forgotten poems

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Long forgotten poems

by dom_pedro on Sat Oct 15, 2005 9:11 pm

Found the original manuscripts for these in an old locked filing cabinet ...(these poems are quite old I believe but I have no real dates)

Poems on the Messageboard

The following poems, inspired by our game against Newcastle, have all appeared on the London Irish messageboard. They prove conclusively that London Irish are such a fantastic team that fans burst into verse at the very thought of their performances.

And now, let Fr Gerry lead you through the verse.....

Gerard Manley Hopkins
Fr Gerry's last words, as reported by biographers, were - "I am happy, so happy." What the histories fail to report is that Gerry was referring to the future founding of London Irish nine years later. What Gerry actually said was "I'm so happy - London Irish will be founded in 1898. Even though I'm not going to be there to see it, what a cracking prospect it is!".

The wreck of the ManneQuins - By Gerry

Ah the inscape and stress of him,
O'Shea, the breeze of him fast running
O'er the rolling underneath him steady turf
Oh the destruction and disruption of it, the froth and
frustrate of the pack of colour-blinded
ManneQuins, Irish conquered, reacting and non-acting
Richards petulant and niggling, mastered, beaten and bowed.

The NoBother - By Gerry

I caught this evening Andrew's minions, king-
dom of floodlit rugby, apple-green-drawn against Falcons, London Irish in their striving
Of the rolling level underneath them steady field, and striding
past Weir, how they rain upon the tryline past the wimping wings
In their ecstasy! then off, off Halvey, past Mower,
As Kirke's heel sweeps smooth on a put-in: the sidestep and gliding
Rebuffed Tuigamala. My heart in Reading
Stirred 'gainst a bird,--the achieve of, the mastery of the thing!

Yours til the cows come home

Gerard Xxxx
n.b - these words were found on the original manuscript

Here's one by Gerry's mate, W.B Yeats

When you are old and grey and full of shite
And nodding by the fire, take down the programme
And slowly read, and dream of Irish's win
Your eyes saw once and of the Falcon's beaten;

How many cheered Junior's sidesteps of glad grace
And loved Barry's kicks with aim both straight & true,
And all men loved the Exile soul in you
And loved the Guinness at your (oft-changing!) place

And leaning up against the heaving bars
Belt out (and very loudly) the old Songs,
And beat upon the floorboards underfoot
And celebrate amid a crowd of friends.

And here's one by another of Gerry's mates - Ted Hughes

Quins ate
Crow ate Richards
Black mud spattered, teeth gritted.
Mud and Death.

Heeeeeeeere's William!

I wandered lonely as a Quin
That floats on high o'er the A316
When all at once I saw, in a bin
A host of garish harlequins
Fluttering and mincing with their pink gins

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way
They hung their bra's out on a line
Along the du-al carriageway
Their stockings I saw at a glance
they kicked their legs in sprightly dance

The players beside them played, but they
Ignored them oh so prettily
A poet could not but be ill
In such a hideous company
I gazed, and gazed, but little thought
The nightmare to me the show had brought

For oft when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood
They flash upon that inward eye
Which was the bliss of solitude
And then my heart with loathing fills
At the sight of those damned Harlequins.
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