Not in my Name
Not in my Name
When you’re out there digging your mum’s garden
And it’s a blue sky March Saturday
And you’re out there Oedipun alone
With all your childhood memories,
After starting the day in Stroud
Reading the parish council poster board,
“Were you in Stroud in World War 2?”
“Do you have any artefacts to share?”
Things in are in your mind
When you go into your dead dad’s shed,
And see him there in his proud new uniform,
Clutching his letters from Tobruk,
And twiddling the knobs on his massive Chindit radio,
Smiling in a new century’s motes and beams,
As the spring sun poured in through that dusty Swindon window,
And you think that you might just offer Stroud Museum
A cutting of the vine that grew in the greenhouse,
The greenhouse where the Anderson bomb shelter used to be,
The old bomb shelter just outside this very shed window,
The vine that grew from a cutting from just outside this very shed window,
And that now clambers up over my Stroud home back yard fence;
It would be a sort of swords into ploughshares symbolic offering.
And you catch the bus back into town,
Going past the empty stadium’s bus stop
That was once your fortnightly pilgrimage,
Where you see the flags unfurled and hanging from the bedroom windows,
A patriotic display of support for sons and brothers, I suppose,
Now serving His Majesty overseas,
(And it’s Tommy this and Tommy that, an Tommy wait outside
But it’s special train for Atkins when the trooper’s on the tide,
The troopship’s on the tide my boys, the troopship’s on the tide
O it’s special train for Atkins when the troopers on the tide)
And so once more you feel a stranger in your own country,
This England, My England too,
Where the mind set of a Middle England military morality
Has once more stolen your colours,
And silenced any possibility,
Silenced any possibility,
Of some sort of plurality
Of inter-textual playful interpretation,
Of the meaning of a red cross on your t-shirt,
For in War you’re either for us or against us,
In the tabloid game boy breaking news nightmare,
Of unconscious manipulation,
Of unconscious manipulation,
Of the hearts and minds of the terraces of old England.
And there you sit in the middle of the bus,
(This Happy Breed – Could be going to Clapham)
Middle aged and middle class, looking forward to getting back home,
And remembering your earlier chat with your mum,
Out there by the old bomb shelter,
Talking of Empire Day back in the 1920’s,
Where she suddenly broke
Into spontaneous and half remembered school girl song,
“ It’s up to the days of Old England,
The land of the brave and the true,
In lands far away
They are calling today
Three cheers for the red, white and blue.”
“But they’re not any more, are they?” she said,
“All the old ways have gone.”
Well they haven’t quite I thought,
And some of them I revere
And some of them I despise
And some of them are done,
But not, I hope, in my name.
So how, once more,
Do I reclaim that flag?
That flag that’s hanging out the soldier boys’ windows,
Reclaim it for and in my name,
Reclaim it from a war I regard as immoral, illegal and illogical,
Reclaim it for all the values and traditions that I hold dear,
Reclaim it so I can regard that flag with pride,
Rather than a guilty embarrassment –
Only through participation,
Only through pitching in,
Only through demonstrating, discussing and challenging,
Only through demonstrating, discussing and challenging,
And changing the status quo;
Because if you turn your back
On the life of an active citizen,
If you turn your back on action,
If you countenance apathy, cynicism and self-exclusion,
Then that cross and that Jack
Will always be one eyed,
And you will always feel ashamed of your country
And your birthright,
And you’ll never be able to say,
“My country right or wrong”
Or “Not in my name”;
So let’s remember,
It’s our England too –
Participate, Agitate, Organise, Unionise,
Subvert, invert –
Only connect, but usurp;
For it’s our cross to bear.
About This Site
Welcome to Football Poets -- a club for all football poets, lovers of football and lovers of (alternative) poetry. Discover poets in every league from respected internationals at the top of their game to young hopefuls in the school playground.
Publish your football poems here and then discuss them with your team mates and fans. We're archived by The British Library, so your masterpieces are in the safe hands of a world-class keeper. What a result!
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Crispin’s Corner
In Memoriam
Kick It Out & Christmas Truce
Latest Comments
29th March 2024 at 10:54 am
Sorry Crispin,
I had problems in posting my latest poem The Top Three battle it out.
Cheers mate
Joe
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19th March 2024 at 8:00 am
Hi Crispin. Chris Sutton on the radio has gone for a Chelsea v Coventry final. As we know anything can happen in the Cup, and I reckon we can go to the final.
We’re still in with a chance of the play offs too, so lots to go for.
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19th March 2024 at 7:41 am
Hey Kev
Let the masses drool over their odds on City v Unted Final, but who knows how pressure can hit.
Cov and Chels will be rightly labelled as having no chance..but hey …stranger things have happened..
so Chelsea v Coventry…that’s the Final for us!
Best
C
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29th January 2024 at 10:03 pm
Hi Crispin,
How are you doing mate? Yes, you’re probably right but hey football is all about emotion and passion and I just love writing about the game. I try to keep my poetry to a reasonable length but there’s so much to write about the game and its literature just lends itself naturally to poetry. Sometimes I just get completely carried and I do apologise for the length of my poetry but it’s a great thrill to be associated with Football Poets.
Cheers mate
Joe
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10th January 2024 at 7:52 pm
You’re right of course Joe but…..it’s actually more of a big welcome break for everyone who is not into Premier League ..I’m talking fans of EFL National League and below…..
Btw …is this actually your longest poem ever !?
Best
Crispin
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8th January 2024 at 4:45 pm
Thanks!
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8th January 2024 at 10:42 am
There’s something so evocative and nostalgic for football fans the world over, in ‘revisiting’ old lost grounds.
Occasionally some remnants remain, with perhaps part of a wall or part or a stand or thre shape of a terrace, but often they are only still there in faded images and in our heads..
Great stuff Graham
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4th January 2024 at 10:13 am
A great idea and well executed. Thanks Graham.
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19th November 2023 at 1:45 pm
Thanks Gacina, glad you liked it, and I have just posted a new one about our points deduction…
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7th November 2023 at 6:34 pm
Today B.B.C post on F.B was titled:Premier League reduced to 18 clubs? I really think it may be interesting to see if this would be Everton’s nightmare and this poem is well suited for this concern.If there would be more difficult battle to stay if there were 18 teams.Great poem and somehow true.
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