Clown: A Poem for the True Hearts of the Beautiful Game

Clown

By: Vidda Grubin

Dressed in polished black shoes

Suit and tie with bright breast,

The Clown pointed at numbers

And puffed out his thin chest.

He rang a bell, “Ding! Ding!”

Rubbed his knob like a king,

Sneered and jeered “Hisss, Hisss,”

And on the commons took a piss.

To the likewise minded vultures

He shouted, “Look at the Rubes' culture!”

“They march mindless paying dues,”

“And play ball in cleated shoes.”

The vultures gathered round

Eager to listen to the sound

“Cha Ching! Cha Ching! Cha Ching!”

Of money and Blingy, Bling, Bling.

Middle finger to lips

The Clown whispered “SUM tips.”

“I will dance for the Rubes,”

“While you tie USSF’s tubes.”

Bloodsucker’s bald head

Disguised the MLS gizzard of dread.

On dead presidents SUM feeds,

While the beautiful game bleeds.

The Clown, full, yet unsatisfied

leaned out the window of his golden suite

And with nose turned to the sky

Asked the Rube one question…

“Where did you get such a dirty face,

My darling dirty-faced child?”

The Rube, hair hanging in his face

Sweat and blood dripping down

On the torn turf beneath his feet

Picked up the worn ball and answered

“I got it from fighting for my place in the team

And singing with mates in the pub about dreams.

I got it from risking my club standing brave

And putting myself on the line offside’s grave.

I got it from being a part of the whole

And digging down deep inside of my soul.

I got it from owning small clubs in small towns

And battling my way through bloodsuckers and clowns.

I got it from days on the field with friends

And sitting on bleachers watching a magic ball bend.

I got it from refusing to close myself off from the world

And painting bright colors on my face for a girl.

I got it from mud, dirt and grass stains

And playing when down, hope lost and in pain.

I got it from running, kicking and tears

And from having more fun than you’ve had in years.”

The Clown’s eyes narrowed

His thin lips trembled

His tiny hands shook

Screaming in agony

The Clown spit on the Rube

And ran off confused

The Rube smiled

Brushed the spit from his face

Turned to his mates, ball still in hand

And on the field took his place

O I Wish

I am certain of nothing but of the holiness of the Heart's affections and the truth of Imagination - What the imagination seizes as Beauty must be truth - whether it existed before or not - for I have the same idea of all our passions as of love: they are all, in their sublime, creative of essential beauty...

The imagination may be compared to Adam's dream, - he awoke and found it truth. I am more zealous in this affair because I have never yet been able to perceive how anything can be known for truth by consecutive reasoning - and yet it must be.

Can it be that even the greatest philosopher ever arrived at his goal without putting aside numerous objections?

However it may be, O for a life of sensation rather than of thoughts!

It is a 'Vision in the form of Youth,' a shadow of reality to come.

- John Keats
(pulled from a letter to Benjamin Bailey)

I like it when his words have meaning to me again. To temper the enthusiasm, an excerpt from his odes...

"Ay, in the very temple of Delight
Veil'd Melancholy has her sovran shrine,
Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue
Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine;
His soul shall taste the sadness of her might,
And be among her cloudy trophies hung."