Football Poets

A welcome in January and February

Catching up …

In January and February 2008, we welcomed the following new contributors to this site :

Thomas kendrick
Marvin Cheeseman
Steve Lenaghan
Stuart Hunt
Jim Wright
J Stephen Paul
Billy Walker
Robert Taylor
Damon Main
Peter Abrahams
Mike Garry
Marc Latham
Harry Hawkins
Andrew Males

From Gloucester School (in Germany?) , we welcome :

Ellie McClafferty
Many from Gloucester School

And we welcome back, a blast from the past :
Gwil Williams who last posted in June 2005.
&
Pete Bowler who last posted in January 2005.

Click on the names above to see that person’s poem(s), or browse some selected first efforts below :

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Sixty Seconds of Silence

Hold your tongue
Speak not ill of the dead
Find your own silence inside
Seeking only the truth
That boys in their prime perished that night
And the very heart of this city stopped beating
Manchester flowers
Scattered across a foreign field of powder white snow

News hissed through
Like the gas on a cooker whose flame had blown out
Freckled faced paperboys on Peter St and Piccadilly
Cried louder than they had ever cried before

Sons were lost
Mother’s sisters and wives deep sighed
Dads and brother died inside
And red and blue stood side by side by side
In silence
Because silence is so much louder than applause

© mike garry

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Dreaming of GB United

Best swerves, passes it
to Gascoigne who
pushes it out to Giggs.
The Welshman sprints
cuts inside 3 defenders
slots it to Best
who cleverly backheels it
to Dalglish
who taps it sideways to
the man running in…
it’s Shearer
who sends it like a rocket
into the top corner.
Ten-nil
to GB United
Another Jules Rimet Trophy
for the cleaning lady
in the National Stadium
in Wales.
Manager Clough leaps for joy. Orders two pies with his fingers!

© Gwil Williams

Instead of dreams we only have nightmares.

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Dorothy Parker Type Football Poem

Footballers don’t make passes
To team-mates who wear glasses…

… unless it’s Edgar Davids.

© Marvin Cheeseman

United Fans Loved Norman Whiteside

United fans loved Norman Whiteside
When he scored they could look on the bright side
But he piled on some weight
Drinking beer by the crate
And his kit looked a bit on the tight side.

© Marvin Cheeseman

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WEMBLEY’79

A sunny day, in the month of May
Heading towards the motorway.
Once we’re on, we join the throng:
Traffic moving like in song

Flags on cars furiously flap and sway
Everyone’s off to Wembley way.
Dad and I arrive soon enough,
Although parking proves quite tough

Up the stairs, into the stand.
It’s so massive, it’s so grand,
The sea before us ‘tis yellow; not red!
Muses Dad scratching his head.

Watching colour drain from his face
I ask, “Are we in the right place?”
“Sorry son; we’re in the wrong end
Quick take off your scarf; try to blend.”

Two nil down, it’s not looking great.
My dreams are burst, and deflate.
Ten minutes to go, we decide to leave
Down the stairs, I start to grieve.

Towards the car, we hear a roar
Could it be a United score?
Another roar, time must be up,
Surely Arsenal will lift the cup?

No, no but wait, it can’t be true
The radio’s on, the score’s two, two
Up the stairs, into the stand.
It’s so massive, it’s so grand.

Back inside, the Arsenal score:
My broken heart can take no more.
Returning home on the motorway
Flags on cars no longer flap and sway.

Back at home, we watch the match
Seeing the goals we didn’t catch,
Tears again are wiped away,
Reassured; they’ll win another day.

In the end the result mattered not-
More just the day
Of being with dad on
Wembley Way!

© Steve Lenaghan
This poem was written from my memories as a 12 year old boy going to his first Wembley Cup Final. The last stanza is written from an adult perspective, reflecting on the past.

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Ebbsfleet who are ya!

Ebbsfleet United,
who the hell are they?
Where do they come from –
from somewhere down Kent way.

Ebbsfleet who are ya!

They used to be Gravesend and Northfleet,
But to me they’re just The Fleet,
who play in the Football Conference,
like Oxford United – which is no mean feat.

Ebbsfleet who are ya!

Their home is Stonebridge Road,
it’s got lots of character, so I’ve been told.
The pitch is like a bowling green,
it’s mowed and mowed and mowed.

Ebbsfleet who are ya!

They wear red shirts and yellow away,
and if you get chance you must see them play,
it’s pass and move, push and run,
the Liam Daish way until the game is won.

Ebbsfleet who are ya!

I’ve now joined The Fleet family,
and it’s till death us do part,
because The Fleet are not just for Christmas.
I’ve taken them to my heart.

Ebbsfleet who are ya!

We are The Fleet,
We are The Fleet,
We are The Fleet.

Up the Fleet

© Jim Wright 14th February 2008
Ebbsfleet United is the club that the internet site myfootballclub.co.uk officially takeover on the 19th February 2008. I am a member of MyFC and a new Fleet supporter.

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Footballer of the year

I am the football king.
I play on the left wing.
I’m fast, I’m tricky, I’m skillful.
I’m strong, I’m bold, I’m truthful.
I’ve got a kick just like a mule.
I am the best player in our school.
I even know all the rules.
(Well, some of ’em!)
I’m the one they always pass to,
in defence or in attack.
I’m the one they always dash to,
when I’ve scored and I’m running back.
It’s me who sends all the girls in raptures.
After the game they kiss my cheeks.
They carry me high upon their shoulders.
( When I’ve given my all, and I’m feeling weak!)
But I still sign autographs for my many fans.
I’m king of the kop, I’m the hattrick man.
The goal scorer, the striker,
the dribbler supreme!
The penalty taker, the schemer……

the dreamer…… of dreams.

Oh, please God,
please help me make the team.
I’ll do anything,
I’ll play anywhere,
(I’ll even play at – Left back!)
Just as long as I get in the team.
Honest.
Amen.

© Robert Taylor O8 Feb 2008

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The Goalie never moved

I searched my soul for the opening goal
for the strength and courage of the brave
I took my aim and the power was right
and the goalie pulled off a great save

Corner!

I took no offence and pulled up my socks
a terrier or a fox in the box
and I scampered for the cross

and when the cross came
poised balanced and set
I hit the ball on the full
toss

The goalie never moved!

The feeling, the roars, the heroes applause
for the name of the game is your team
and when your team scores, and you score that goal
well its great…you know what I mean

© harry hawkins 18 Jan 08
The game was heading for a nil-nil and it needed something special

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World Cup Wallchart: Reflections

I watch him with an envious heart,
So much hope, full of dreams.
A thousand images race through his mind.
If I could tell him the truth right now, I wouldn’t.

He stares at it on the wall,
And the past comes flooding back,
What it gave, it had taken back, with vengeance.
But he was still standing, ready for the gamble again.

They say to predict the future look at the past,
But his heart renders that null.
Does he really believe or is the need just too great?
Surely the hurt must end sometime?

And now I pity him, for I know what’s coming,
Get ready, for the roller coaster’s coming round,
Jump in and prepare for the short ride.
And soon you’ll do it all again.

© Andrew Males
This was me after another World Cup failure from England, thinking back at how I looked at my wallchart before the tournament started and plotted out our route to glory, blissfully unaware of the hurt that was to come.

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On the half-way Line

The goalie, will stretch and shout
Defenders tall and stout
Midfielders buzzing like bees
Strikers want goals, please

On the half-way line, the man in the middle blows his whistle

Strikers want goals, please
Midfielders buzzing like bees
Defenders tall and stout
The goalie, will stretch and shout

© Marc Latham 2008
This is an example of the Folding Mirror form of poetry I made up. The Folding Mirror form requires two halves of a poem, either side of a dividing line, to mirror each other structurally: i.e. if there are four words in the first line there should be in the last line too, and if there are three words in the line next to the centre there should be three words on the other side of the middle too. The punctuation should also mirror itself either side of the centre.

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Fly The 7 Rings & Go Tell A Friend

Tell A Friend.
Go tell A Friend.
Tell the Friend not to direct Evil Chants at Footballers at Work.
Tell the Friend that we, humans, are born into 7 Rings of Protection.
Tell the Friend the 7th Ring is Adam’s Ring.

Tell the Friend Adam’s Ring is what Commands our Hearts to link arms in times of Tragedy.
Tell the Friend the 7th Ring is what Commands us from within to link arms in times of Joy, Pain or Sorrow.
Tell the Friend the 7th Ring is what causes A Boy From Afar to fall in love with A Girl From Further Afield.

Tell the Friend 7 Rings of The Human Family expands as we travel further away from Home.
Tell the Friend the Same 7 Rings contracts and shrinks as we head back home toward our roots.
Tell A Friend and go tell it to another Friend.

Tell the Friend making Racist Chants at another human is not good for his own soul.
Tell the Friend Debts incurred in Spirit are the most costly and cannot be paid back.

Tell the Friend it is Unwise to direct Abuse and Evil Chants at Footballers at Work.
Tell the Friend it is Way Unwise to direct Racist Chants at any Human because of his eyes, hair or the colour of his skin.
Tell the Friend to Fly the 7th Ring and go tell it to another Friend.

© Peter Abrahams 2007

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Leeds united and divided

White is for glory
it is for eleven heroes
trooping from the quagmire of winters field
It is for the cup held high
the mad passion of the crowd
and the security it offers in numbers
cleansed from those beyond the stands

White is ten thousand of us dressed in yellow and blue
singing in the streets
our rocket fuel hymns
that are beyond the law and its boredom
It is the heart beating like a drum
everytime defeat is near
every time a victory is near
and the scramble for the exits at full time.

White is the colour I miss
when they turn out in a murky yellow
it is a damn good curry at Chesterfield
where they call you “Duck”
a damn good drink on the coach
a taste for success
a drowning for defeat

It is avidly reading the back pages
for a brief mention of the whites
the magnificent peacocks
the invasion of small holiday towns
the pillage of cities
the sacking of the market town
mindless, senseless and sincere
white is fun for a loser
and fun for winding up friends

© nico tate/s. hunt Gogledd Cymru 1997
Its about passion and how it effects our minds not hooliganism, though I do admit being involved innocently in a fracas in a curry house in Stoke about mid eighties….I took the vindaloo on the chin like a good ‘un

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Is That All There Is?

On this day thoughts turn to love,
And things that are sent us, from above,
Cupids arrow hits the heart, and from our love we will never part.
Entwined together, conjoined from the start

Through good times bad times, thick and thinner,
Our love immense, spurs on our defence.
The keeper is dodgy, everyone knows,
but he plays for us, and that is enough”

There is no wrong that the midfield can commit,
Not even the hapless and angry midget,
They may be estranged from the lads at the front,
but to suggest they get closer would be an affront.

The stikers try hard and they run all around
With so much effort, we see their hearts pound,
And that, there, is what we love best,
Selfless endeavour, forget all the rest.

© Pete Bowler 14 2 08
Being condemned to a lifetime supporting Birmingham City, I wonder why we football fans lose all sense of reason when it comes to following our teams.

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Acrostic – ‘Offside’

Of all the lovely things to say
For every lovely thing to do
For every person in this world
Sorry may not be good enough
I don’t understand how violence excites
Don’t hurt someone because you feel like it
Else there’ll be a consequence to pay!

© Ellie McClafferty 30/01/08
This poem is about racism in football and how it hurts people.

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