Poet’s Corner: Dispatches from the Olympic Games

Born in Canada—

DNF.

After the canoes and kayaks have been lifted out

of the water, the painted lines on fields and courts erased,

the nets lowered, the bicycles sent for tune-ups, the scoreboards

reprogrammed, the trunks and singlets tossed in the wash,

sneakers unlaced, pools drained, gloves hung, mats soaked

in vinegar, the show jumps dismantled, ticket stubs

recycled, the starting blocks stored, hurdles stacked,

concession stands closed down.

After the flags have been reverently folded

and all the medals and tears distributed.

You pack up your kits and board your planes and trains,

returning to your home countries for brief respites and parades,

icing your sprains and other sore spots, managing your families

and egos, and stroking memories of when you exposed

yourself to the whims of history.

We wash our faces, and turn off our televisions,

stop frantically checking our devices for good news,

and go back to our own daily grinds,

our private successes and failures,

with heavy hearts and heavier dreams

which award us few medals and fewer fans,

our unknown journeys but known eventual destination

diligently training for our own fearfully perfect dismounts.

For more Paralympics-inspired poetry by Priscila Uppal, check out “Three Fates” and “World Record Jukebox.”

At customs officials welcome passports by cheers.

Everyone you encounter is immediately identified numerically

according to level of ability.

Roads are sectioned into individual lanes.

Paperwork is filed by relay.

Pain: an unlimited resource used for fuel.

Engineers and architects work round the block

on cutting-edge renovations.

Medical reports are written in invisible ink. After applying

lemon juice and tears, an image of your future self appears.

One ought never be caught being a couch potato.

In the event of a false-start, the guilty party is called back

to the line for a second chance.

All lovers are mandated to remain within 50 centimetres

of each other at all times.

Interested in more Paralympics-themed poetry? Check out “Ode to Kiss Cams” or “Party Games.”

Wheelchair Rugby Haiku

You plead not guilty

to murder. Guilty to break-

ing and entering.

Boccia Love Haiku

Cards on the table.

You interfere with my plans.

The jack up your sleeve.

Goalball Love Haiku

Passed around the heart

Rings with displeasure. Hold me.

I will bless your hands.

Love sports-inspired haiku? Priscila Uppal posted three more during the London 2012 Olympics, and reviewed the book Football Haiku.

Nothing like peer pressure

to counter our natures.

Embarrassed by public displays

of affection, the tyranny of the screen

intervenes, turning spectators

into temporary tabloids.

A mother smooches her child.

Sulky teenagers stick out their tongues.

First dates get to first base.

Complacent couples ignite repressed sparks.

The elderly elicit squirms or aaahhs.

Quarreling friends remember their manners.

Passionate lovers are grateful for any excuse.

Immediate intimacy

with barely enough time to register

performance anxiety.

The crowd embraces random serendipity.

You were hoping, tonight, to go home

with a little love in your heart.

You didn’t expect to be the one to give it.

Check out other Olympics and Paralympics-inspired poems by Priscila Uppal.

Girls at a slumber party

in comfy pants and tight Ts

bunched like bean bags

on the floor, giggling uncontrollably

at the antics of truth or dare.

Truth: I prefer the world from this angle.

Dare: Dance on your hands.

Truth: I believe the floor pinches me.

Dare: Reveal your bruises.

Truth: Alternating positions unnerves me.

Dare: Spike the punch.

No boys allowed,

the girls bump and grind

comparing body types

making goofy home videos

and pigging out on power.

Secrets passed

through holes in the net.

Today’s London 2012 Paralympics-inspired poem was inspired by Sitting Volleyball.

Sitting Volleyball at the Excel Centre. It had never occurred to me that you could play volleyball by sliding yourself across the ground (I initially thought the athletes would be competing in wheelchairs). The game looked genuinely fun and intimate, dynamic but less aggressive than conventional volleyball. - Priscila Uppal

Three lanes is this alley,

the ball chiming its intentions

to stay clear of the gutter,

find a safety net.

Like all desires,

this one too is thwarted

by treacherous traps,

obstinate obstacles,

the erection of efficient defences.

Sometimes it’s kinder

to remain in the dark

on all fours, shielded from

the ugly truths and feeling

your way in your bones of urge

to your unique failures,

your cherished prides.

For we are the sport of the gods.

Human pins toppled

in a series of strikes.

Today’s Paralympics-inspired poem is about the sport of Goalball. Goalball is like handball and is played by the visually impaired. Each side has three players, each wearing shades over their eyes. They take turns trying to send a ringing ball into the net. There are three defenders to get the ball past, who are usually on the ground and, once they hear where the ball is headed, stretch their bodies out to block the shots.

You don’t need to check

listings for your number.

Swagger up to the jukebox

and watch the needle drop.

Your movements imprinted

on those dark grooves.

Step back and slowly,

Slowly tap your toes

as the dance floor fills.

Your record spins now

on its own momentum.

This is the tune you’ll be

humming in elevators

for the rest of your life.

For another world record-inspired poem by Priscila Uppal, check out “Blade Runner,” or browse through her poems inspired by the London 2012 Paralympics and Olympic Games.

For Oscar Pistorius

My mother’s favourite film—

over 100 screenings in the theatre over three decades

and she’s not embarrassed in the slightest

because she’s not the only one

who upholds its spot in the epitome of sci-fi.

And I grew up in my father’s lap

adjusting the TV antenna

and my fascination with modern science

as we followed the adventures of the Million Dollar Man.

While my nephew parkours about

the basement in Iron Man T-shirts

and Optimus Prime masks.

You are our future fantasies

bolting into the present, caught in HD

on our video screens, proving

the human-replicant debate

sorely outdated.

All that matters in the end

is the planet is dying

and we require imagination implants

to search for new conceptions

of home.

I had the historic pleasure of watching Oscar Pistorius smash the world record in the 200m in the third heat of the qualifications rounds: 20.30 in front of a crowd of 80,000 yesterday at Olympic Park. - Priscila Uppal

The first takes us back to edge of the world.

The second to when we were tadpoles in the pool of time.

The third turns crystals into chrysalides.

All so the fourth can set each one free.

Eradicating race.

“Medley” is the third in a series of daily poems by Priscila Uppal as an LRC correspondent and Can Fund poet-in-residence at the London 2012 Paralympic Games. “The Power of Suggestion” was inspired by cycling; “Three Views of a Ramp” is a wheelchair-shaped poem inspired by sports, ramps, podiums.