Yellows

Today, we we’re challenged to write a poem that is inspired by a piece of music, and that shares its title with that piece of music. For examples, we were offered A. Van Jordan’s “Que Sera Sera” and Adrian Matejka’s “Soave Sia Il Vento.”

In recognition of the football team I used to follow achieving promotion, I thought I would try to encapsulate what it feels like to be among the throng while singing in the lower leagues of English football.

…..

Alone in a crowd, a soloist with the voice of a desert-dried goat allows his throat to open,
To sing.
He inhales.
Filling his lungs with the cold, damp air of an April night,
A billowing chest expands inside his synthetic amber and blue replica shirt,
As he prepares to set sail.
Emblazoned on his shirt is the crest of his club,
The crest that was inked on his chest in Skegness,
Stamped to mark his place of birth; and faith; and tribe.
Under the flickering floodlights, he begins to intone.
His vocal jet engine begins to build up power.
His child-carrying shoulders sink back, his eyes close, he snorts through his nose.
The eruption starts in his toes,
A human volcano, every ounce of his being forced to his throat, until,
At full throttle,

He roars into the night sky.

YEEEEEELLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOWS

Chatter among the ranks drops to the wet concrete floor below two thousand soles.

The football Muedhin issues the next line of the Adhan;

YEEEEEELLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOWS

The faithful hear his call, and in response, the pack bellows back;

YEEEEEELLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOWS

The summons is infectious, it spreads like an irresistible virus across the terrace.
A thousand individuals merge as one,
Like disparate mercury particles the come together,
For strength, for unity, for a purpose.
Here is where they make a stand,
Here is where they stand for who they are.
For what they are.
Small people living small lives – but not here.
The song binds them, the anthems hold them together,
And together they can fill the heavens with their voice,
That can make the moon volte-face and the tide turn back.
The sensation is beyond tribal, it’s primeval and they know its power,
It binds them, marks them as one, as one in song.
This is where they spill their souls, and their sweat and tears; of joy and pain.
Here, on the field of raw emotion, battered lives are allowed to dream,
To dare to taste the golden honey of success,
To finally silence the bitter bark of the rabid wolf of failure,
And live, just for one sun-drenched day
At the top of the mountain of triumph.

….