Football Poets

A welcome in May

In May we welcomed the following new contributors :

Alacoque Doyle
Tomas deFaoite
Jessica Whittaker
Philip Rush
Ganesh Iyar
Mark Anthony Wood
Jooi Gamea
Ian Black
Simon Parker
Isabelle Brittain
Kim Kielhofner
Chris Straker
Spencer Luna
Jack Burkill

And of course a very warm welcome to the forthcoming World Cup!
And of course to Jules Rimet.
The original trophy may have been retired after Brazil won it outright in 1970, but there’s nothing shy and retiring about the wonderful contributions from JR the poet.

A selection of poems from some of the new contributors, follow here :

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Soccerates

[for gershon.]

wisdom get losts in knowledge
knowledge gets lost information
eliot.

[i]

the st vitus dance is a trance-like prolonged ritual
in letting the body go and kicking off your boots.
when in this mesmeric state st vitus warns us
with the words, `soccerates soccerates know yourself,
or at least your boot by the other one.’ where is it? .

[ii]

dr socrates meets doctor gershon hepner
to tete-tete in the rain forest.
as the trees are felled all around them
they talk about berkeley,
proving to each other,
that the tree does fall and is heard.
and then gossiped about in the clearence.

© tomas de faoite

about a good firend of mine from LA, who did not know the difference between socrates the philosopher and Socrates the footballer.

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13th May 2006

One of the things I like most
about the cup final
after Gabbidon’s tackle, Ashton’s pass,

after the singing, the terrible singing,
after the grown-up banter with the scouse boys
in their nasty cheap cars, all that,

one of the things I like most
about the cup final
is the mess it leaves behind,

whole parishes of Cardiff knee deep
in free newspapers, obsolete flags, chip bags,
carrier bags, shattered plastic mugs smooth as puddles,

beer cans, hamburger bags, broken flags,
plastic mugs shattered into splinters,
the crackle and slither under your boots

and Forever Blowing Bubbles
rises melancholy now,
in a minor key almost,

and slower, slow as a heartbeat,
trench warfare,
barbed wire waltz,

and the cleaners will be out with those things,
those long pincer things like Welsh robots,
like prosthetics,

collecting and separating all this,
all these casual remarks,
all the loose talk and the language

showered over Cardiff for eight brittle hours,
big black bin-bags full of words,
full of chanting and chat-up lines

and
(every year it’s the same)
unfinished sentences,

incomplete thoughts.

© Philip Rush 2006

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A Plea to Thierry Henry en Franglais

Je parle, I think, Thierry Henry
Pour tous les Arsenal fans, and me
Quand je vous dis you must not go
Parce-que l’équipe will miss you trop

Je ne veux pas devenir a moaner
But how can you move to Barcelona?
Désirez-vous un peu plus de soleil?
We’ll get you a sun-bed and make you stay!

Pouvez-vous vraiment let down poor Arsène
Et lui dire you’ll no longer be one of his men?
Si nous considerons vos impressive stats
It’s clear those boys need you at Emirates

So when Rijkaart calls, say no and mean no
Don’t join the ranks of Ronaldinho
Je vous en pris, ne quittez-pas
For all the Arsenal fans, et moi!

© Alacoque Doyle

Wrote this before Henry made decision to stay at Arsenal, but have only just discovered your site.

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5-0 is no thrashing.

So the ladies walk the tunnel.
Isn’t that a men’s job?
It’s the F.A. cup final.
But who’s to say thay women can’t play?

Leeds Ladies unfurl with promising touches,
but after two minutes the goal is in their own net!
Sue Smith, we need you, show them your magic!
Show them your wicked fast feet!

So the goals pile in from the referees bad decisions.
One from a free kick and one from a penalty – my foot!
Though in the end, we are worthy runners up,
but the things that bugs me is the woman of the match…

Her name does not sping to mind, and I cannot find the programm
I’m hardly to treasure it after a five nil thrashing!
But one things for sure: they must have got the sports mixed up…
It’s football, not diving, are you all blind?

So the train ride home is certainly no picnic.
Swamped with Arsenal fans.
And as I wallow in sorrow,
The curse of the smug ten year old Arsenal fan
Taunt me…on every train home…

© Jack Burkill 02.05.06, from Sutton Grammar

Written about the womans F.A. cup final 2006, in which Leeds (my team), reached the final, but were hammered by Arsenal five goals to nil. There’sn always next year!

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World Cup Cinquain

Henry
Sam Eto’o
And Ronaldinho
Three guiding lights of the World Cup
Shine on.

© Jules Rimet

Cinquain “2 4 6 8 2” Formation – as developed by Adelaide Crapsey.

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Halos for Goalposts

Bobby Moore he called his troops
And told ’em “lace your boots”
Bill Dean, Hughes and Jinky smiled
Whilst Bestie turned to shoot
Garrincha charmed the angels
With the ball wed to his feet
Whilst Stanley Matthews whistled past
The cleanest pair of heels
Andrade still a prince upon
A pitch designed by God
Shankly Paisley Busby there
To build the team upon
In heaven it’s the World Cup
When the lads come out to play
There’s no cheating diving feigning
For they know there’s hell to pay!

© Jules Rimet

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Relegation

twirling red and white
scarves stiffening to plunge as
grey hara-kiri

© Mark Anthony Wood 2006

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Footie Copa do Mundo

We love you England, we do, we love you
England, it’s true… so spin, lunge, flick, soar, dart,
Seize the game like an armed-heist in full view,
Gangsters who surprise by knowing fine art,
With this close touch: one can appreciate
The rare beauty of another without
Desanctifying a vow. If to hate
Proved love, why kiss – why not an ugly shout?
Don’t, then, deride the nationality
Of foes; the foreign fan is your brother,
For football has this rationality:
The ball’s the egg – we’re from the same mother.
Each mob backs their team with hope gunshot loud;
You don’t have to win it – just make us proud.

© Mark Anthony Wood 2006

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Let’s get real

It’s time to fly the flags on high
Come on England, do or die!
The nation knows you are the best
It’s up to you to do the rest

We haven’t won since sixty six
And when we take the field to mix
With “lesser” nations, same old tale
We flatter to deceive, then fail

Who’s lifted gold and silver since
That Russian linesman made Fritz wince?
Of course there is the Argentine
“But that’s the hand of God!” we whine.

The French, who scarcely seem to care
Have laid “les mains” on silverware
Twice crowned the European Kings
“And once world champs!” the cockerel sings

Passionate Italians claim
A crown in Europe to their name
They were world’s best in eighty two
Plus two finals in azure blue

And what of the defeated Hun?
Prostrate the day that we last won.
Five world finals, three of glory
Thrice champs of Europe is their story

And then of course there is Brazil
Three times world masters, how they thrill
The surging dashing yellow shirts
They win at will, and how it hurts

Let’s add some others to the lists
Who’ve reached the brink, the finalists
Of Europe and of the World Games
Forgotten teams, forgotten names

Belgium, Russia, Denmark, Spain
Some football hotbeds, then again….
Yugoslavs & Greeks and Dutch
Oh had England done as much!

Three Lions? What is their proud boast?
Three semi finals at the most
Lisbon, Turin, Wemberlee
Extinction was their penalty!

We paint the country red and white
Expectation out of sight
Of course we’re favourites! we insist
The truth ignored, the history missed

Get drunk, fill pubs, belch bellicose
Let’s punch the truth smack in the nose!
Lets lose a month in footied booze
And wreck the town the day we lose

Enough, the myth so long repeated
We know they’ll all troop home defeated
Remove the flags from cars and vans
Accept our lot as also rans!

© Simon Parker

World cup frenzy both depresses and amuses me. Every four years (at least when England qualify!) the nation turns to an amorphous mass. As at the death of Diana, dissent from the prevailing mood is at best viewed as semi insanity and at worst dealt with by violence, real or imagined. Since 1966 the team’s dismal record should have dampened such feelings, but instead, fueled now by commercial imperative, expectations grow with each tournament. The fans are convinced that their team dines at world football’s top table, despite all evidence to the contrary.

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Do You Remember

do you remember
remember that game
my mum and my dad and every one came
screaming, shouting, cheering us on
we are winning thrashing 3-1
dribbling, passing, scoring goals
acting like Beckham, Rooney and Scholes

© isabelle brittain 07/05/06

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The GUNNERS
The way the football is played,
the sheer abundance of skills,
is just simply pure quality,
and brings so many thrills.

Strolling and passing for fun
Then letting fly with unerring eye
Like a bullet shot out of a gun
Edu is gone, and Vieira too
And Mr.Campbell is right out of tune
But The Arsenal move on
building a team…
That will be at the top again soon

a team lacking its usual rocks
a team full of young
storming to the final
their medals nearly hung

The back four are always solid,
Kolo Toure leads the way,
Cole uses his pace to perfection,
and Lauren never has a bad day.

The midfield is full of passion,
Gilberto takes control,
Pires has his maturity,
and Ljungberg’s always on a roll!

We’re strong down the middle, with Fabregas and co,
From box to box in 10 seconds, just watch them go,
Thierry’s amazing, with a smile on his face,
He gets the ball, and moves with blistering pace.

The strikers say it all,
as Henry grabs his goals,
Bergkamp with his experience,
and the whole team with their heart and souls.

Juventus, Ajax and Real Madrid
all the greats went falling
now Barcelona will be brushed aside..
come on GUNNERS your destiny is calling

The encouragement is phenominal,
the crowd is behind us all the way,
the players know we must succeed,
if we are to CONQUER the Champions League’s final day.

© Ganesh Iyer

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The Beginning

I remember the day, i first heard of rafa
As rumours had it, he was Liverpools new gafa
Curbishley, O’neill, many names in the running
All fans had to wait, to see who was coming

Soon it was announced, rafa was our boss
Newspapers claimed, it was Valencia’s loss
La Liga, UEFA Cup, these were his honours
Fans started dreaming of the season upon us

He arrived at Melwood, to a media fest
He was questioned, on his Liverpool quest
A Straight answer gave, to bring us success
and he started by removing Houilliers mess

Now two seasons into his Liverpool reign
He has proven his worth and took us to fame
Call it what you like, Liverpool are winning
The Rafalution, is only at the beggining

© Ian Black 3rd May 06

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Farewell to Highbury

Arsenal
Heart-to-heart,
Even red hot,
We met the game’s test.

© Chris Straker 2006

I feel this is appropriate to usher in the Ashburton Era.

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Ode to the Final

The biggest club game has been played
And one team left with a win
The magnificent story of Liverpool
I shall now begin
The game was set to be played
On a warm early summer’s day
Incredible players walked on the field
With their skills to put on display
The first half was all Milan
And they walked off the pitch 3-0
However the stage was set for a comeback
With Jerzy Dudek the hero
A cross for Gerrard was headed home
Then Smicer added for the Reds
Finally a put-back by Alonso
Left Milan fans with hands on heads
In extra time a goal was needed
And Sheva came closest of all
A simple poke into an open goal
But Dudek punched away the ball
Sheva again needed to score a goal
For the Reds 3-2 were up (in penalties)
But Dudek again saved his shot
And Liverpool raised the Champions Cup

© spencer luna 2006

in respect to liverpool’s magnificent comback in 2005 champions league final

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The Boys Of ’66

They were Roger Hunt and Jackie Charlton
Cohen, Stiles and Alan Ball
Bobby Charlton Hurst and Peters
Banksie Wilson
Bobby Moore

The pride of England glory calling
Wingless wonders showed them all
A master class of dignity
Up stepped the Captain
Bobby Moore

Nobby’s dentures were a sight
Packed his boots with bite for sure
Big Jack screamed “hoof it out man”
Calm composed was
Bobby Moore

Goals from Hurst and Peters surely
Gave the lions the right to roar
Sir Roger cool the ball was over
Ask the Captain
Bobby Moore

Hail Roger Hunt and Jackie Charlton
Cohen, Stiles and Alan Ball
Bobby Charlton Hurst and Peters
Banksie Wilson
Bobby Moore.

© Jules Rimet

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