Football Poets

A Welcome in November

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

Paul Hunter
Anthony Emmerson
John Hodgeon
Ben Craig

A welcome to all our contributors from Gloucester school in Germany :
click here to see all their poems
Tom Atkins
Emily Attenborough
Talitha Brown
Jake Fleetwood
Bryan Gibson
Jack Greenwood
Jade Heard
Natalia Liddell
Yasmin Leigh Hough
Nicholas Martin
Darren Hicks
Kaleigh McLauchlan
Billie Millar
Curtis Murray
Brendan Powney
Brodie Ronaldson
Amy Sewell
Bai Turagabeci

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

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Idol

Not much rain that month they say
May of nineteen forty six;
the ache of war, still in the bones,
where Cregagh boys kicked tries
down at Malone and dodged the sixes
from the next-door cricket pitch.
Wednesday the twenty-second
an ordinary Belfast day,
but some alignment of the spheres,
some sorcery, conspiracy of Gods,
some fate; a child was born
a boy, blue eyed, dark haired
different from the rest,
and soon this world would come to worship,
to call him great, “the one”, the best.

A slight kid, “too small, too light” they said,
to kick a ball for our Glentoran,
as they watched him claim the greens round Burren Way.
But a Bishop’s wise eyes
watched, and saw the spark of a messiah,
a message arrowed down the wires to rainy Manchester:
“I think I’ve found you a genius.”
Your fate was sealed that day.

At just fifteen uprooted from the green of Ireland
Busby’s newest babe.
In red they led you down the Warwick Road,
where Munich’s ghosts still strode and whispered in the stands. Perhaps they never knew back then,
of magic in your feet, the future held in those two hands.
Two years you waited,
training every day,
and scrubbing the muddy boots of legendary men;
until at seventeen
your dream came true named on the sheet,
a number on a shirt,
they let you out
to play.

How did it feel, that walk out of the darkness,
trembling in that deafening wall of sound?
A wide-eyed kid, still damp behind the ears,
let loose to run with giants;
the chance to walk on hallowed ground?
Did you see that day, the world waiting at your feet?
That every ragged kid on every street
would take your name?
The shimmy through the papers, from the back page
to the front – a beautiful face
for the beautiful game.
Did you start to feel that devil’s trident pricking at your heart,
the flashbulb lightning storm of words, the demons,
slowly picking you apart?
Yet in those golden scarlet years,
was no other God but you,
no other game, no other team.
And from the Streford End the faithful sang your name,
while you played out
their every dream.

The clubs, the clothes, the cars, the girls,
the champagne-comet trail you blazed.
While we just watched;
glazed-eyed in the glory of of a supernova superstar.
“Those were the days”, your days, and ours.
Your face upon a million walls,
while your feet danced through defences like Irish mist,
to tunes no one else could hear.
Each passing year we polish up the memories;
The big men cried the day they laid to your rest.
For their brilliant, blue-eyed Belfast boy,
their youth,
their dreams,
their Best.

© Anthony Emmerson

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Boro Fan

My friend John’s
a Boro fan,
supports the Boro
rain or shine,
win or lose.
He says
someone has to.

It’s how you tell
a real supporter.
He’ll be there, will John,
fair games, fouls,
good days, bad ones.
He says
someone has to.

Every season
these new signings
with wages bigger
than anyone dreamed of
when John was a boy,
they don’t suffer.
He says
someone has to.

Most of them leave,
they get injured, they don’t
come back from holidays,
their wives complain,
it’s too cold, boring,
they catch the plane, John knows
most of them don’t last.
He says
someone has to.

John agrees with them,
it’s cold and boring.
They’re right, not wrong,
they don’t belong,
don’t know the song,
haven’t put the years in
on the terraces
the thick and thin years.
He says
someone has to.

It’s John. He has to.
It’s a job for life
being a Boro fan.
He tells me again,
he says
someone has to.

© Gordon Hodgeon 14/11/2008
I wrote this for my friend John, who is indeed a Boro fan. He says every word is true.

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One Day.

One day, I tell myself,
One day.
The Black and white ribbons
will flutter aloft.
Attatched to some iconic silverware.
In some far distant stadium.
In London or elsewhere.
One day, I tell myself,
One day.
How many will come close,
to soaking up the noise,
as glistening in the sun
or lights,
or pouring rain.
One day I tell myself.

One day.

© Paul Hunter
The life and times of a Newcastle fan.

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Liverpool Rule

Liverpool rule, winning the game,
We don’t submit even when it’s shame,
Red is the colour even though sometimes grey blue and yellow,
Cause all of our chaps are brave strong Anfield fellas.

When the whistle blows
The crowd always cheer,
They are the fans that we hold so dear.

When the ball
Hits the net,
It’s usually our scorers
Who are winning that bet.

Champions League is the game we love the most,
It’s much better than all the rest,
We easily pass the group challenge test,
and head to the finals,
Go Liverpool you are the best .

We like to write poetry in our spare time,
Our manager likes it done with Spanish twang,
Please don’t tell our wags that we can be clever,
As they are away at the minute
Spending on the never never!

This is the end of my Liverpool ditty,
I hope you found it really quite wiity,
We are not a serious bunch,
And maybe you could
Come round for lunch.

© BENJAMIN CRAIG
CAUSE SOMEONE WITH THE SAME NAME AS ME WROTE ABOUT FOOTBALL POEMS AND I THOUGHT I COULD DO THAT TOO,
I AM EIGHT YEARS OLD

Editor
One of our youngest and always welcome!

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