Football Poets

A Welcome in March

In March 2008, we welcomed the following new contributors to this site :

Sean & Dominic Bates
Andy Wilson
Tony Kinsella
Kimberly Mack

And we welcome back, a blast from the past :
David Foulkes who last posted in 2006.

And a very welcome, welcome back, to the Barnsley Resident Football Poet – Ian McMillan who last posted in 2002.

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

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I Like Football

I like football because it’s fun
When I play I like to run
I like to dribble, I like to score
I love my football and I’m only 4

I like to wear my England kit
It looks real cool and a lovely fit
The number on my back is 7
And my boots are Nike size 11

It’s British Premier Soccer today
And daddies come to see me play
If I play well or do my best
I’ll get a medal like all the rest

Then when I grow up big and tall
My job will be to play football
I’ll play to thousands in the crowd
Oh how i’ll make my daddy proud

© Sean Bates
Written by Dominic Bates aged 4 nearly 5 with a little help from daddy.
Skegness
England

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Sheffield Derby day

I hear that there’s talk of a Manchester derby,
Of Liverpool and Everton too,
Celtic and Rangers, forget it,
And the Villa when playing the Blues.

What’s that about Southampton and Portsmouth?
Newcastle and Middlesborough – no,
And the mighty Ipswich and Norwich? No way –
Or Roma against Lazio.

Argentina v England is small fry,
Scunthorpe and Hull is just a game,
We all know the true derby is Sheffield’s
Is the only one that’s befitting the name

It’s the one at the real home of football,
The one where the great sport began,
There’s nothing quite like it anywhere,
The true game for a real football fan.

Fergie and Wenger who are you?
Rafa and Jose – get real,
You’re all on the back of the home of the game,
United and Wednesday, the real deal!

They’ll feel the earth moving in April,
When the Blades and the Owls clash again,
Its no earthquake this time, I can tell you,
Just a clash between real Sheffield men.

The Owls and the Blades are preparing,
To lock swords once again at the lane,
Nails will be bitten, and throats will be hoarse,
Not an inch will be given again.

The noise level, well it will be deafening,
And the tension will be thickening the air,
When the Blades and the Owls both take to the pitch,
And serve up some real football fare.

Liverpool and Manchester get watching,
To a real football city you’ll bend,
That’s why it’s the best, a real derby game,
Sheffield – the home of football –

THE END.

© Andy Wilson 20.3.08.

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(to make up for missing out Tony in the February welcome, I’m including two of his poems 😉

La Philosophie de le Myopique

If a tree falls
In the forest
When nobody is there
Apart from Arsene Wenger
Does anyone see it fall?

© Tony Kinsella
Complex philosophical debate made accessible.

It Is Now!

I Have A Dream
One Small Step For A Man …
Ich Bin Ein Berliner
They Think It’s All Over … It Is Now!
In the Parthenon of eloquence
Ken Wolstenholme makes perfect sense
The immortal words
He was heard to utter
As – just like a knife through Bratwurst
Hurst began to sway and stutter
And launch an English exocet
In the back of the enemy net.

But I hope you won’t mind
If we pause and rewind
To the oft neglected
Start of the sentence …

Here’s Hurst … he’s got … some people are on the pitch …

He’s got … what?
What was Ken about to say?
Can anyone solve the mystery?
Before he was interrupted
By a slice of history?

He’s got … no one to beat except the goalie?
He’s got … Charlton up in support?
He’s got … Nobby dancing a paso doble?
He’s got … Jimmy Greaves distraught?

The final lines were pure perfection
So I hate to stoop to farce
But I imagine in my surreal reflections …
Here’s Hurst … he’s got a lovely arse!

© Tony Kinsella
I have a weird obsession with the nondescript words that come just before or just after words which have gone down in history.

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Coming home from Stockport.

The striplights on the ceiling of the train.
Are driving me insane.
My now tubular brain
Is peering at the rain
On the window

My God its only Leeds.

If only someone was here to listen I would plead
That there’s nothing to even drink or read
If only my team wasn’t so out of form
Maybe I could get warm.

How I’m sick of thesel lips, my troublesome travelling twins
The bottom curls above the top
And won’t stop
Its his job to remind me
That money
Plot,
Sleep,
and points are lost,
Chapped and ugly.
Apparently,
the buffet shut early.

What will I tell myself in the morning?
What will I tell the taxi driver?
What will I tell my son in years to come?
About all these Tuesdays
The forgotten ones.

Defeat, and Wednesday’s miserable boozeless fridge at two and three AM,
Sitting in the silence of a council house waiting for the milkman.
My girl who owns the fridge has seen the score on Sky.
And the loving note she left informs “be quiet or you will die”.

Players
Money
NightClubs
Girls

I’ll take
Saturday’s hopeful fry-up
The smell of the washing, the humped-backed footbridge
It used to walk me up and serve Saturday
Like a favourite dinner,
Always different,
Always the same.

Now everybody talks in quiche’s

“We couldn’t fault them for effort, sometimes you’ve just got to hold your hands up and say….”

Goodnight.

© David Foulkes

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Football & The Scorpions!

We are the Scorpions
the best team around
when our legs get going
our feet don’t leave the ground
when our feet don’t leave the ground
the ball won’t leave our feet
so shout out Scorpions
a team your never beat

© kim2008
this is the team my husband plays for!

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