Following my post surrounding a certain Olympics-themed poetry competition I created the poem you see before you. I think it exudes a certain, trademark melancholy stamp of mine (Or not at all?) hence the unlikely uses of “lament” and “chantry” as well as the title itself etc. Enough rambling, please enjoy…
Additionally, the legacy of 1948 refers to London’s hosting of the Olympics (for those who didn’t know, I didn’t) which arrives full circle again next year.
Finally, it should be noted that I’ve already submitted this poem. Any would-be copiers, I admire your audacity, but you can’t use or modify this (Everything else operates under creative-commons though). It’s terrible anyway. Thanks.
Winner’s Blues (Legacy of ’48)
The antithesis of sedentary
Commentators lament me
100 metres; Watch me flee
Down the track
Embrace the hackneyed: Don’t look back.
It’s a celebration of life, albeit with strife
The first place prize: What is happiness,
Without the struggle, without the pursuit?
Making off joyously with the loot is merely
Indolence and Indulgence.
Crowd’s cheer is Rhapsodic
Yet all I hear is a Requiem
As 40,000 leer
In the Chantry of the Stadium.
Rise and swell, rise and swell; Sport a Chantey.
Broken the record, now retirement.
The final sweat furrows upon the crest of your brow
You ask yourself: Does my hubris permit me to pull
One final bow?
That was London 1948
Now a late Octogenarian
Who’s met his fate
Seated at the back
This one will feel resentment
Scaling new heights
Is it sportsmanlike?
Deprived of losing, Winning does not enrich the soul
The duality of your roles.