�This Boy�s Life�

A Poem by Steven Pottle

Sat in front of the telly with a wide smile on
These new talking animals introduced him to fun
Cartoon after cartoon flash by in five minute episodes
He sees excitement coloured in his slow dull world
Ignored and bored he needed a friend that wasn’t to be found
Told that they went away, he knew that they were buried in the ground
Mums in the kitchen, Dads still out at work
God knows what’s happening outside but it doesn’t sound good
Little wonder he disappeared to a land far away
When there was nothing but trouble during another grey day…

Safe with his secrets behind locked bedroom doors
Pretending to perform at the Hollywood Bowls
In his mind he was backstage being interviewed by the press
The costumes all gathered and pinned to shocking effect
He normally hates his reflection, but loved the need to change it
Turning the drab on it’s head and so no longer feeling the reject
A broken second-hand microphone fashioned as his best weapon
A moonwalk, a purple scarf, a pointy golden bra for protection
Lasts for a while before he’s called down and then his heart drops
Pity his dream ends when the door opens and the button is ‘stop’…

He’s confused so he tells on the girls and hides from the boys
He retreats to the comfort of dead pets and Star Wars toys
He doesn’t quite understand the need for tongues and ‘quickies’
What does a ‘good shag’ do and what is a hickey?
Teenagers his age are already kissing their cousins
Babies having babies just to parade as the newest single mother
His imagination was running away in the wrong direction, off to a stranger place
He wondered if there was another reason why The Professionals made his heart race
His sister showed concern and so listened at closed doors for the tell tale signs
Searched for words like ‘feathers’ when he spoke and worried that his shoes were always shined
She flipped through his records to get an idea of what he thought he wanted to be?
Listened against the wall and when he sings along is he Neil or is he Dusty?

He’s 'artistic', 'creative', 'sensitive' and "good to his Mum"
So does this make him strange, weird or just a good son?
Being good is bad here and so the bad is everywhere
The morals are forgotten for instinct and the "We couldn’t care"
Why does he say please when the others snatch without consideration?
He feels the winds of change are trying to blow away these faces of destruction
And again he hears that fascinating place calling for him from another county
A place where people think before they speak and where they all want to be something…

Now long gone and stronger for staying away until he’s born again
His days improved as he could see further than his front garden gate
But he’s not forgotten his old bedroom and uplifted by his younger self
So he sends an e-mail to his family every weekend just before he goes out
This boy’s life spent practising is finally unleashed onto the world
With his constant smile, flashing eyes and a denim uniform
Dancing with the foam crowd under many coloured lights
He still loves his own company but he’s never alone at nights
Broken the predicted route of many generations, he has escaped
Those clipped wings now spread eagled the width of a king size bed
He’s an adult now and is happy in the reality of life, work and fun
He’ll never forget this boy’s life and yes, he’s still good to his Mum.

© 2008 Steven Pottle

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R J Askew

Very moving Steven. I think this is great. It's a touching story and its well told.You nail a lot down here. There must be millions of people who could nod in agreement with passages in this poem. I like the way you capture the early dreams. The word 'stop' is a hammer blow. Disappointment comes to many lives in one way or another. It is extraordinary and yet it is all so recognisable. 'He retreats to the comfort of dead pets and Star War toys' is a great line. You capture the alientation to the teen sex knowing/mother thing strongly. (What is a hickey?) And I think the way you add another layer to it by inweaving your sisters behaviour is really well observed. And then the innuendo...'good to his Mum'. And then the senses of difference in certain interests and heightened sense of good manners. There is so much in this short poem. Then escape beyond the garden gate to be born again and find the real you. But the poem is touching in that you do not reject your childhood and turn the innuendo of 'good to Mum' into a proud statement of virtue. Real emotion and dignity. No bitterness. A happy outcome. Well written. I reckon many would find something in this poem, which as well as being a personal statement is a comment on how unfeeling or cruel society can be. But maybe the msg is that those who are different have to find their own way and that once they do they will be the happier for it. Obvious I suppose. But your poem makes the theory very real and human.