Football Poets

A welcome in October

In my humble opinion – a quality month!

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

Harry Owen
Louis Spence
Jon Smith
David Serjeant
Su King
Dawn Croarkin

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

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

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A Word with Wilf

Were you looking down, Wilf, were yer with me Dad
Sitting with John Widdowfield and Harry, his young lad
Weren’t the fans terrific, did yer hear them roar
Didn’t Boro start well and what a time to score
How about their boots now, that stadium ‘n all
It would have been amazing to see you on the ball.
Just to watch Juninho must’ve made yer grin
Bet you had a chuckle when that penalty went in.
Hope it made you smile, Wilf, hope it made you day
And every other Boro fan not here with us today.
I saw you play at Ayresome in 1953
Me Dad stood in the Holgate and got me in for free.
I met you just before you died, in the cafe on Marske stray
We talked about the old times yer made me laugh that day.
I drank with Steven Gibson the night the cup was won
And through the tears and umpteen beers I said how well he’d done
I told him that we loved him, the way me Dad loved you
He said, ‘Look I’m no different just Boro through and through’
Next time I pass your statue I’ll linger for a while
But if I look real closely I know I’ll see you smile
It’s been a long old time, Wilf, but didn’t they do us proud
The chairman and the manager the players and the crowd
It’s been a long old time, Wilf, at last we’ve done it right
We’ve gone from that great darkness and come int the light.

© Louis Spence
Been a Boro fan for 55 years and managed to see the great Wif Mannion (Boro legend) play when I was 5. I did meet him as the poem says and I did drink with Chairmen Steve Gibson on the night – it commemorates Boro’s first trophy after 128 years of trying. In 2004 they won the League Cup beating Bolton in the final.

The poem is a paean to Wilf, Steve Gibson and every other long suffering Boro fan, past and present.

Thank you for your time. Louis Spence

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Ode to an Unsung Hero

His name is Claude Makélélé,
And to no one will I yield
In my admiration of the colossus
At the heart of the Chelsea midfield.

The oldest player on the team
His experience was immense
With his endless running and tackling,
He was the first line of defence.

He may be small in stature,
But for his heart we all can vouch;
He never knew when he was beaten
And he could out- jump Peter Crouch!

His work as defensive midfielder
Meant he rarely scored a goal.
But the pundits recognised his worth;
They called it the Makélélé role.

He only scored two goals for us;
And the first was rather tame.
But the second was a scorcher
Against our chums at White Hart Lane.

He wasn’t valued at Real Madrid
He was paid a fraction of his peers.
But when they sold him off to Chelsea
They won nothing for the following three years.

Mourinho based the team around him
And his talent he did revere.
When we won the league in 2005,
He named him Chelsea Player of the Year.

Now, sadly, he has left us
He will be impossible to replace.
We shall miss his skill and workrate,
And his happy, smiling face.

We’ve been promised exciting signings,
Like Robinho, and even Kaka.
But they’ll never replace the one I love;
I shall really miss you, Maka.

© Su King

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Reflected Glories

Reflect me some glory, reflect me some fame,
reflect me the taste of the Beautiful Game.

Reflect me some honour, reflect me some style,
reflect me the talent, the vision, the guile,

that intangible something, the gift beyond price,
instinctive, elusive, the throw of the dice

that produces the winner whose every touch
is Brazilian, or German, Italian or Dutch.

Reflect me a Pele, a suave Beckenbauer,
a Charlton, a Shearer, the man of the hour.

Reflect me a taste of their talent, their will,
reflect me their stardom, their footballing skill.

Reflect me Cup Finals and Premier League wins,
the lifestyle of monarchs, forgiveness of sins.

Reflect me the dazzle, reflect me the wealth,
prolonged adulation, the fitness, the health –

you heroes, you superstars, talents sublime,
reflect me, reflect me, reflect me your time!

Then reflect me reflection, reflect me a look
at myself in the mirror, my page in the book.

Reflect me the moment to study my face
and accept that I haven’t the skill or the pace

of a Rooney, Robinho, Ronaldo, Gerrard,
but there just may be something of equal regard:

a talent less public, unsullied by glare,
of the countryside, writing, of teaching and care.

Yours are skills of the finest, real footballing bliss,
and I wish I possessed them – but let me say this:

Mine’s a gift no less worthy, a gift no less true,
so allow me the chance to reflect it … to you.

© Harry Owen

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Bramhall Lane Haiku

winter gloom
outside the stadium
a lone drunk salutes

© David Serjeant 2008
I’m not a Blades fan, but I live nearby. I witnessed this touching scene a couple of years ago one cold December night. First published online at 3 Lights Gallery.

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“leukaemia’s Goal ”

If i had a football
I would kick it only once
Straight into the goal post

A referee’s whistle blows
A mission to beat the goalie
A wining ball it takes

The net sways in the mission
A ball that missed the post
In our hands we hold

A goal that is high
Surviving the mission
Hope beat an illness

A sufferers goal

© Dawn Croarkin
Supporting Quality of life for teens with cancer

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THE PLAGIARIST’S FOOTBALL ODE

We’ve wandered lonely as a cloud
To understand the rest of the crowd
And from here to meet upon the heath,
Where football fans can gnash their teeth.

Alas poor success I knew him, Hooray!
To know is to love and dream of today,
Whether to suffer the Trings and Harrows
Of outrageous pitches and rotten furrows.

Food, food everywhere
From a hut the Burgers they’ll make.
I sated my hunger without a care
And how my gut does ache.

Floodlights, floodlights burning bright
Glaring despair as black as night.
This ancient manager is wholly dross
The entire back four, his albatross.

There’s a whisper down the line
That he’s sacked our Number 9
And the Club are being sold to a billionaire.
But the truth’s a bitter pill,
The Number 9 is just ill
And the sale is to a butchers son from Ware.

And did those feet in ancient time
Walk on the terrace of the team sublime.
That do so tread as dread with fear
The relegation now that looms so near.

The quality of mercy is not strained
It relieves the look that is so pained.
The look that says the season’s over
– For a few months now a jilted lover.

© Jon Smith

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