World Cup Eve Poem: Anne Harding Woodworth

ON THE EVE OF WORLD CUP 2010

Algeria, England, and Slovenia—
add us to that trio: unlikely quartet

yet likely because that’s the way
it happens: near-chance, like unlikely borders

drawn by geo-human hands,
or naturally following a mountain’s edge


or river bed, and in bright colors, too,
crayons that melt and fill the cloths

that become the flags, flappings that fray,
ropes that clang, meaninglessness

that means so much, reds that run into blues,
greens into reds, and white, background noise

of peace and purity that few will ever hear in the greed
for position, gold, and the diamonds of a mine.

Of the four flags, only St. George is without stars,
and we will meet at altitude, at Rustenburg.

Perhaps the English know just how to breathe
at any height. Well, we shall see.

And we shall dare from where we sit,
dare to watch for who on earth and in this light

of Africa has inner voice that pulls him
in the run toward heaven’s scarcest air.
1994 - 2006 World Cup Eve Poems