RIP Alex Higgins

No, he wasn't a good man in many ways, and his troubles were largely of his own making. But he was an absolute genius at the one thing he did well, and watching someone do something as well as that is life-enhancing in just the same way as reading a great poem or hearing Robeson sing. So in memory, here's a poem I wrote about him in 2001, which was first published in The Movement of Bodies (Seren 2005)

Forgiven

Bad boy going on 50, trace the bones
through your skin, you're like some consumptive

from old times. Your starry eyes,
your paper face. And it's still a child's,

was always a child's face. Lit
with brilliance. Jesus, I'm good at this,

I'm fucking great. Cursing and spitting,
then crumpling afterwards. You didn't mean it,

nor the drunken threats, the head-butts.
you were baffled as any child

by adult anger. But I said sorry.
And it didn't make things all right.

Wives walked away; you cried their names
in the night. TV sets crashed

through first-floor windows; you too, once.
A sarky plod sneered, "No real damage,

luckily he landed on his head".
But I remember you winning a match

on crutches, hopping round the table,
looking sick with pain. And I remember

days you couldn't hit a ball wrong,
you with your hopeless stance, your head

jerking on the shot, your shining
bloody genius. Hey there,

you with the stars in your eyes,
the cancer burrowing and nesting

in your throat. Your ghost-voice,
still bruised, still plaintive, why me?

All your life, people have softened
to that child's wail, fed you

more vodka, more nicotine, more tabs,
because the joy of talent demands

forgiveness. Wrecked you, it did,
and now what can anyone say

to a hurt that can't be made better
but: it's all right, you're forgiven?