Trevor Conway – Hazelwood Pitch

Inside goalposts highres-2Trevor Conway, from Sligo, has been based in Galway since 2005. As a writer, he concentrates on poetry, fiction and songwriting, but has also worked occasionally on scripts, plays, non-fiction and journalism. In 2011, he was awarded a Galway City Council bursary. He believes strongly in the value of variety in writing (as long as it isn’t to the detriment of quality), which is also a handy way of avoiding boredom. Themes which constantly scratch at his door include nature, creativity, sport, fleeting moments, people and society in general, particularly focusing on the peculiarities of human practices and viewpoints. In 2015, he began the website Poems in Profile (see poemsinprofile.weebly.com), introducing one poem and interviewing the poet every two weeks. His work has been published in Ireland, Austria, the UK, the US and Mexico, where his poems were translated into Spanish. An album of songs written and produced by Trevor was released in 2013. He has been interviewed for RTE Radio 1’s Arena arts show, as well as local radio stations Ocean FM and Galway Bay FM.  His first collection of poems, Evidence of Freewheeling, was published by Salmon Poetry in 2015 (http://www.salmonpoetry.com/details.php?ID=374&a=278). He blogs occasionally at trevorconway.weebly.com.


Hazelwood Pitch

The bruises of my studs remain
Under thickening grass.
I played here in my growing years,
Through all the seasons’ moods.

There, I rose highest,
Plucked the ball from the air,
Turned sharp, lost my marker,
Lashed it to the net.

On the twenty-one,
I gave the thing away.
Seconds later, it soared
High between our posts.

Here, I was beaten to the ball.
In the box, I blocked a goal,
Fell to the pain of a sprained foot
A few yards from there.

Rooneys, Kellys, Devaneys, Flynns,
Brothers, cousins, schoolmates played.
Hugh McLoughlin called our names,
His voice booming off the far brick wall.

On the warmest June evenings,
We sweated hard for the next match.
Balls bouncing among fragile flowers
Roused Mrs Fowley’s rage.

Once, near the forty-five,
Without the scent of a thought,
I launched it crudely to the air,
Scored the winning point.

The ground comes up in clumps.
New studs mould it again.
That sweat returns now, nearing the posts,
At the point where I knew my range.


*Trevor Conway: Interview With Ocean FM 10 January 2016

 

 

 

 

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