Cover

About the Author

PENGUIN BOOKS

DEFYING GRAVITY

Roger McGough was born in Liverpool and educated at St Mary’s College and the University of Hull. He has been a writer for many years, and his numerous collections have established him as one of the most distinctive and powerful voices in contemporary poetry. Among his most popular titles are Summer with Monika, Blazing Fruit and Defying Gravity, and, for children, An Imaginary Menagerie, Pillow Talk and Bad, Bad Cats. His recent collections for adults include The Way Things Are and Everyday Eclipses. Many of his books are published by Penguin. He is an international ambassador for poetry and in 1997 was awarded an OBE. Roger McGough now lives in London.

ROGER MCGOUGH

DEFYING GRAVITY

PENGUIN BOOKS

Dedication

The poem ‘Defying Gravity’
is for John Hewson

1

The Railings

You came to watch me playing cricket once.

Quite a few of the fathers did.

At ease, outside the pavilion

they would while away a Saturday afternoon.

Joke with the masters, urge on

their flannelled offspring. But not you.

Fielding deep near the boundary

I saw you through the railings.

You were embarrassed when I waved

and moved out of sight down the road.

When it was my turn to bowl though

I knew you’d still be watching.

Third ball, a wicket, and three more followed.

When we came in at the end of the innings

the other dads applauded and joined us for tea.

Of course, you had gone by then. Later,

you said you’d found yourself there by accident.

Just passing. Spotted me through the railings.

Speech-days ∙ Prize-givings ∙ School-plays

The Twentyfirst ∙ The Wedding ∙ The Christening

You would find yourself there by accident.

Just passing. Spotted me through the railings.

Squaring Up

When I was thirteen and crimping my first quiff

Dad bought me a pair of boxing-gloves

In the hope that I would aspire to the Noble Art.

But I knew my limitations from the start:

Myopia, cowardice and the will to come second.

But I feigned enthusiasm for his sake.

Straight after tea, every night for a week

We would go a few rounds in the yard.

Sleeves rolled-up, collarless and gloveless

He would bob and weave and leave me helpless.

Uppercuts would tap me on the chin

Left hooks muss my hair, haymakers tickle my ear.

Without glasses, only one thing was clear:

The fact that I was hopeless. He had a son

Who couldn’t square up. So we came to blows.

Losing patience, he caught me on the nose.

I bled obligingly. A sop. A sacrifice.

Mum threw in the towel and I quit the ring.

But when the bell goes each birthday I still feel the sting

Not of pain, but of regret. You said sorry

And you were. I didn’t. And I wasn’t.

Snowing Down South

‘It’s snowing down south,’ one girl would say

When another’s petticoat showed beneath the skirt