Wild Court

An international poetry journal based in the English Department of King’s College London

Two poems by Matthew Paul

Frans Ruiter on Unsplash


    Brian Clough in the Rijksmuseum


I had four beautiful days in Amsterdam. The weather was gorgeous, 
the sights were just absolutely gorgeous. Everything about the place is magic. 
– The Frost Interview, 1974


As he stood eye to eye with Rembrandt’s 1628 self-portrait,
did newly-sacked Cloughie recognise a fellow Old Big ’Ead
from the genius brush-strokes and infinite array of browns,
a painterly equivalent of his own first commandment,
          ‘Get the fook out there and play’?

Or did, in fact, Rembrandt’s curly mop-top, falling all ways
to throw a mask-like shadow over the upper half of his face,
cause Cloughie to gripe aloud like a ruddy pensioner,
          ‘That young man needed a haircut’?

Next time he visited Amsterdam, six years later, Cloughie
let the Forest boys off the leash in the bars of the red-light
district; exhorted them, with his famous winning grin,
         ‘Get the fook out and onto the piss.’


    Blindside Flanker


I can still recall the pain of perching on a milestone
that hour I waited for my then friend Hanse to mend

his Kawasaki Ninja, on pillion of which I’d dozed
while Hanse ‘tonned-up’ along the Kingston bypass;

a friend of a friend, in fact, whose proudest boast
was the ‘unbelievable’ quantity of non-native goats

he’d culled in Queensland’s Outback fifteen years
before; remunerated per each hundred pairs of ears.

‘Getting the beers in’ always meant tequila slammers:
all that salt-and-lime palaver; shot-glasses thimbles

in his man-mountain’s grasp, smacking them down
on the Green Man’s bar with wood-warping brawn.

Last time he rang, he’d been rugby-tackling a bunch
of jackass penguins for his sister’s doctoral research,

clasping those tarantula hands around braying bills,
inducing regurgitation into customised plastic pails—

he described it as ‘awesome’: imagining each critter
as a tighthead prop for his hometown club’s bitter

rivals. I bet he’s snuffed it from an excess of meat,
or landed, like Hercules, on his size-sixteen feet.