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 :
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
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
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
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.
“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
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
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!
My Account
Latest Poems
John Gilbert Ellis
28th November 2024
joe morris
26th November 2024
Denys E. W. Jones
26th November 2024
Gacina Bozidar
26th November 2024
Wynn Wheldon
26th November 2024
joe morris
17th November 2024
Crispin Thomas
17th November 2024
kevin halls
10th November 2024
joe morris
10th November 2024
Clik The Mouse
10th November 2024
Crispin’s Corner
In Memoriam
Kick It Out & Christmas Truce
Latest Comments
27th November 2024 at 5:55 am
‘You’re Supposed To Be At Home’ is an excellent and moving poem Denys.
You start off thinking it’s just about another oft-sung chant, one we personally heard a lot last season throughout our second relegation in a row here at Forest Green(FGR) ! I always love poems where you think they are saying one thing and then they suddenly pull you deeper to somewhere or something else else.
I’m currently helping in a local school for FGR in a voluntary capacity using football to help young students with reading. At an upcoming session we will tackle racism, just like we did in workshops at football schools and grounds when we first started this site 24 years ago. I’m gonna try and weave your poem into a session.
We’ve added it to the Anti- Racism/Kick It Out section under Crispin’s Corner.
Best C
See in context
26th November 2024 at 1:59 pm
Great poem and great to see you back Wyn.
Don’t leave it so long next time my friend!
More please.
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13th September 2024 at 6:14 pm
Welcome to Football Poets Beth
Great evocative poem Beth….
More please !
Haiku always welcome.
Hope we (FGR) get to play you again soon
Best
Crispin
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26th July 2024 at 6:25 pm
Great poem Mike Bartram. Eddie was a legend, affectionately known in Liverpool as, “the first hooligan.” Even the hoolies were well dressed in those days. The amazing thing was he was only 26 when that picture was taken. He’d played for Everton youth team and was well known to the players. He never got arrested. They threw him out and he climbed back in, just in time for Derek Temples winner.
I used the picture of him being tackled to the ground on the front cover of my book, “Once Upon a rhyme in Football.” It’s worth looking on youtube and finding the re-enactment of the Wembley scene. Frank Skinner and Baddiel went around to Eddies home in the 1990’s and acted it out on the green outside. It’s hilarious, especially all the effort they put in to get Eddie sober enough to shoot the scene.
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10th July 2024 at 6:07 pm
Hi Crispin,
I don’t know if you’ve see the picture in social media today…
a picture of a teenage Lionel Messi cradling a baby in Africa as part of a photoshoot…. the family had won a lottery to have their baby pictured with him….
the photographer has just revealed that the baby is actually in fact Lamine Yamal!!!!
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26th May 2024 at 2:30 pm
Hi Denys…
Re Man City:
OK it was 20 years ago but Criag Wilson did write this and a few others on them back in 04/05.
BTW I’m more Forest Green Rover since 2014 (and Chelsea) these days . I drum and am a standing season ticket holder .
Best
Crispin
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29th April 2024 at 2:47 pm
Hi Denys,
Yes Richard Williams you’re a brilliant wordsmith, my friend. When I first saw your football poetry I thought it was the superb Guardian sports and music writer. I once had the honour of sitting next to Richard Williams while at the Independent on the sports desk. He writes about music and sport with immense knowledge and authority. I’ve read a couple of Richard’s books recently. Great writer rather like you Richard Williams the Pompey fan. Congratulations on promotion.
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28th April 2024 at 5:59 pm
Thanks Denys. Yes your replay poem was superb.
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26th April 2024 at 4:46 pm
Nice work, Joe. You were quick off the mark with that! Good one from Richard Williams too I see.
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25th April 2024 at 7:33 pm
Hi Denys,
Thanks mate. I’ll do it now.
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