Three Hundred Words

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"Three Hundred Words" for some, is probably a minor, insubstantial piece of poetry, but it actually showcases a number of Roy Harper's techniques and characteristics, so is worthy of further consideration.

According to Harper's spoken introduction on his 1992 Live album, Born in Captivity II, (re-released in 1993 as Unhinged) "Three Hundred Words" was written for a benefit concert for Lancashire batsman, Graeme Fowler. It not only concerns one of Harper's most often-cited loves, cricket (see "When An Old Cricketer Leaves The Crease", on the album HQ), it also picks up the themes of England, combining historical reminiscences with current events, using minor observations to make major (political) statements, breaking rhymes across lines, and using clever mixed metaphors. It is, therefore, quintessentially Harper.

[edit] Lyrics

I remember Pat Tetley,
and romping in grass
- it was tall -
at the back of the cricket field,
trying to catch glimpses
of knickers and ass,
while over the fence
the crowd yelled, ooh-ed and roared,
as Ramadhin, Weekes and Frank Worrell all scored.
I was just a bit young
for my own wicked way,
and ended up autograph-hunting, a prey
the like of which I'd never seen before,
a different world I suddenly saw,
and more.
They were big, so dark, so alive and so fit,
mysterious black men
with sparkling smiles and white kit.
They inspired me a bit.
I remember John Lever stood down at fine-leg
in my way,
trying to see round him whilst trying to fathom
what England were doing,
and then being fixed by the sight of his socks:
They were grey,
and quite holey, and so were his boots.
'What was this?' I thought, laughing. I could have grown roots.
They'd looked white on the box,
but there in the flesh they weren't even approx’.
And there was his sweater, as yellow as well.
(It must have been inside the kennel a spell.)
And with four plastic pints swimming, blurring the sight,
it was then that I realised that even titanium dioxide
isn't quite white.
I remember young Foxy come out to the crease
with my heart in his mouth and wafting apiece,
smacking a few, punching holes in the sight screen,
the Argonaut with the Golden Fleece.
With a blade of new willow outside the off-stump,
when he was out, I was, and shared in the fate.
I was gutted, or sated, or just a bit late
on the stroke - what was that? - of the clock?
Ah yes, all those memories, summer, and all those great knocks.
And Pat Tetley, still sending those messages,
all of these years,
from my brain
to my box.

[edit] External links

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