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Stuart Butler

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    Stuart Butler published a poem on the site Football Poets 4 years ago

    When War broke out, the British public cried
    “We’ll be in Berlin by Christmas”. But
    By Christmas hundreds of thousands had died,
    As Mons, The Marne, Ypres and Messine cut
    Down the youth of Europe, while Fland […]

  • Profile picture of Stuart Butler

    Stuart Butler published a poem on the site Football Poets 4 years ago

    It’s a bit Herbert Marcuse,

    A bit One Dimensional Man:

    A unification of opposites,

    A harmonisation of contradictions,

    Where liberal-democratic capitalism

    Gives that tantalising illusion of freedom,

    Whilst […]

  • Profile picture of Stuart Butler

    Stuart Butler published a poem on the site Football Poets 4 years ago

    It wasn’t, in fact, a bolt from the blue,

    Instead the 1914 Truce was part of a pattern,

    That both preceded that Christmas and continued beyond:

    There were ‘cushy’ sectors, involving ‘lais […]

  • Profile picture of Stuart Butler

    Stuart Butler published a poem on the site Football Poets 4 years ago

    When you’ve been out ‘ere as long as I ‘ave,

    You get to know the ropes and have a laugh,

    Keep’ yer ‘ead down aint enough for Fritz,

    You’ve got to show you can live and let live.

    When Fritz has his breakfast, […]

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    Midsummer Night’s Dream:
    I wake up to a nightmare,
    England are Bottom.

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    Board game metaphor:
    The name’s Monopoly now,
    Not Subbuteo.

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    There was, of course, more than one football match
    In the long line of unofficial truces
    That stretched all along the front in Flanders;
    Indeed, the matches themselves were a sort of climax,
    Punctuating the peace […]

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    Stuart Butler published a poem on the site Football Poets 5 years ago

    The Beautiful Game
    Gave freedom-fighters respite
    In freedom’s struggle.

    Apartheid’s victims,
    In Robben Island’s prison
    Played the Peoples’ Game.

    It was an escape,
    But also an expression:
    The need for new r […]

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    18th Century Rural Direct Action
    versus 19th Century Industrial Capitalism

    ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

    A normal feature of my teenage years

    Was hours spent queuing for football tickets,

    But this autumn’s trip down memory l […]

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    I think the love for a football team
    Transcends the oft quoted tribal loyalty,
    And involves, instead, individuality,
    Something subliminal within the personality –
    For it’s all about the dreaded mortality:

    On t […]

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    You called on Christmas Eve afternoon,
    Carrying an unwrapped parcel,
    A gift brought from memory lane:
    David Dangerfield’s dad’s football boots,
    Slightly battered but proud and dubbined,
    Though still smeared wit […]

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    Haiku for Nympsfield War Memorial

    As I write these lines,
    The young men of the village
    Arrive for the match.

    Nympsfield village,
    Catholic sanctuary,
    High-up on the wolds.

    And at the cross-roads,
    A […]

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    Steam trains whistling through the night,
    Wagons buffering up in the marshalling yards,
    The milk man with his early morning horse and cart,
    ‘Papers and comics land with a thwack in the hall;
    Eggs, bacon, tea and t […]

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    It was déjà vu all over again,
    But with a football boot in the present:
    Trains full of fans but without the toilet rolls;
    A minibus of men but stone cold sober;
    One woman in a pub – reading a kindle;
    Swindon r […]

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    Wordsworth grew up fostered alike by beauty and by fear,
    I grew up on trains, football, politics and beer:
    “No platform for Fascists” was the cry
    And “Swindon until I die”;
    Now the steam is locked in a museum, […]

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    I am going on the march on Saturday,
    And not watching football because
    “It’s the same the whole world over,
    It’s the poor wot gets the blame,
    It’s the rich wot gets the pleasure
    Aint it all a crying shame”: […]

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    It was that time of the year when winter and spring
    Walk hand in hand, with crisp wind, bars of sunshine,
    Saturday afternoon cumulus clouds,
    Splashes of blue, shouts of “muddied oafs”,
    And a referee’s whist […]

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    Pythagoras thought
    About the meat pie he’d bought
    That meat pies r square.

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    Would you bet six quid
    On the psychic octopus
    Being a sick squid?

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    So when I look back, what do I remember?

    The regressive sense of anticipation,

    Being a boy again but with Christmas Eve in summer:

    Digging my plot and seeing red ants and slow worms –

    The imagination goes on […]

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Source: http://footballpoets.org/members/stuart/?acpage=2