Stephen Watt was born in Dumbarton in 1979, and is a Scottish poet and spoken word artist. He is the author of the poetry collection ‘Spit’, and was crowned the Poetry Rivals Slam Champion in Peterborough in 2011 after beating 8,000 entrants. Since then, Stephen’s online video “Rubik” collected the StAnza Digital International Poetry prize, the Tartan Treasures award, and a clutch of titles both on the page and stage. Performances at Doune The Rabbit Hole, Eden, Wickerman and the Edinburgh Festival have introduced Stephen’s work to audiences across the country, while his written work continues to be published in countries as far as New York and Mexico.

In 2012, Milton Keynes Poet Laureate Mark Niel described Stephen as “an exciting new voice on the poetry scene who sees beauty where others see grit and grime”.

In April 2015, Stephen made his debut in Ireland as part of the unofficial Cuirt Literature Festival fringe show ‘Far From Literature, We Were Reared’ at the Roisin Dubh in Galway.

He is much in demand as a performance poet and has a busy schedule. In August 2015 he performed at the launch of Bearpit Brothers’ ‘Something Cruel’ E.P. at The Glad Cafe´.

Stephen’s pamphlet Optograms was launched in February, 2016. 

He is part of the  Ten Writers Telling Lies Project – where ten of Glasgow’s most talented writers have got together with the musician Jim Byrne, to produce a book and CD.  The product will be launched in 2017. You can catch a preview at the  West End Festival 2016.

I Think I’m Falling In Love With Football by Stephen Watt.

Saturday mornings are looking different.

Fog has fallen upon the football pitches,
covering every inch like a cathedral train.
A delicious wispiness coruscates diamantes
in the early rain; flares of white paint
streak up each wing
into exploding corner flags of colour.

Nets are hung over posts like bridal veils.
Excited, barking dogs chase their tails,
rallied by the crowds embarking
upon the biggest fixture of the season.
I’m biting my fingernails
and drifting into daydreaming

and the reason, for once, isn’t alcohol;
I think I’m falling in love with football.

Usher us in to the cathedral of dreams,
a wedding march to welcome the teams
and a piper booked from Aberdeen
because teuchters have Herculean lungs.
Confetti showers from the back seats,
commentators screech from their hymn sheets
and three points is like the honeymoon suite –
or a trophy when all is said and done.

Run rings round fingers
and tie ribbons round silver anniversaries.
A beauty spot appears from twelve yards out
every time there’s a penalty.
You may kiss the bride or the man sat next to you
and I can see you’re worried, confused, appalled,
but I’m not losing my faculties
or sniffing cheap aerosols –  

as a friend, please comprehend
I’ve fallen in love with football.