Poems tagged ‘Football Poets’
John Arlott and football
I was thinking back on sacred days
Of Saturday and Sundays
When John Arlott must have pondered
Lightly on cobble stone roads and streets
The feeling, weight and sentiment
Football’s greater insignificance
In the general scheme and world of things
Cricket, though transcended its mud caked beauty
Arlott might have passed learned comment
On its end to end, box to box
Penalty area explosions
Battles royale, the 90 minute therapy
For heaving and seething masses
Loyal fans to the bitter end
Fluctuating fortunes
But Arlott never pinned his colours
To the mast, like Hardy
A lingering concern
Perhaps for Pompey
But never its chimes
Arlott could never understand its urgency,
Its necessity for immediacy
When football should have been spread over
Five Test days in snoozing introspection
Sitting by third man boundaries
Rather than caught up in managerial expletives
Arlott preferred the sedateness of the
John Player League before Sunday sermons
John Arlott must have been aghast
At the emergency of it all, the chaos
And 20 minutes of culture from Bruno Fernandes
Facing Manchester United when they were two down to Wolves
And the referee was about to blow the whistle
Cloughie blowing a gasket
No, not for Arlott the terrifying speed
Of football’s motor racing velocity
Rather the summer bliss of sun kissed
Days by boundaries, deckchairs
The pavilions, the pigeons at cover point
Cricket spoke to Arlott,
Resting easily on careworn shoulders
At times, rather than the blood and thunder
Of Old Trafford, the old Highbury and Anfield
Cricket had art, the gentle murmur
Of conversation, a profound philosophy
Sweet cover drives, literacy
Lyricism in every pull, hook
And bludgeoning drive
How could football provide
An antidote to early morning
Strains and stresses
When emerging from the
Sleep of yesterday’s sleepy afternoon?
How could Portsmouth be the be all
And everything, the curative balm
To football’s permanently injured
Who were never fit for the afternoon
Of Saturday 3pm pleasure
Arlott was never a terrace resident
Amid Anfield’s passionate throng
The Kop far too overbearing for
Arlott’s daily routine of
Red wine, good company, Radio 3
Cake, slow, slow, quick but
Essentially calm, considered,
Savoured for the always tranquil soul
Always reserving verbal diamonds
For the Gillette Cup Final at
Season’s end
But Arlott acknowledged
Football in its August
Seamless transfer of power
But quite possibly identified
With its frightening
Physicality, physique,
Arms and legs locking in battle
The crunching thud of tackles
Designed to hurt and count
Passing Arlott could appreciate
Like a fine, crisp Chablis
But cricket was Arlott’s fondest
Pilgrimage of the day
Cricket was a reassuring theme
From summer’s soothing repertoire
Of pleasing cracks to the Lords Tavern
Arlott could indulge in shimmering similes
On cricket’s village green domains
Rather than those awkward observations
On off side laws, sprays and VAR
The goals that should never have been
Those furious bones of contention
Football’s eternally muddied oafs
In Arlott’s eyes or maybe
There was a soft spot for Jimmy Dickinson’s
Record of appearances for never pompous
Pompey,
Arlott, cricket predominantly
But partial perhaps to
The colourful shade of football
Jesse Lingard
To be Jesse Lingard
Or not to be Jesse Lingard
That is the question why
Whether it be nobler to suffer
The slings and arrows
Of outrageous wage demands
A mind motivated by dirty lucre
The filthy obscenity of excessive
Wealth, Distorted by money
Polluted by the stench of hundreds
And thousands, millions no less
Of floating reams of fivers, tenners,
Twenties, fifties
A mountainous multitude of more
And more, unimaginable, barely
Believable riches
And yet we knew that Jesse Lingard
Is clearly concerned only with
Financial security rather than
Footballing prowess
Feathering nests now
Rather than later
Pampered impossibly
From those early days
At United,
Of course the superstar
When Sir Alex bestowed
Upon Lingard the accolades
And adulation of youth
But now Lingard stifled
And overwhelmed by
His overweening ego
Now Forest join in with
The great auction market
Brian Clough of course
Brought us the first million
Pound Trevor Francis
But now Lingard falls
Headlong into the net
Of temptation, the
Astonishing spectre of
200 grand a week
A moral maze of abomination
The repulsive greed
Football strangled by
Rampant desire, thousands
Of noughts in bank balances
Throttled by the grasping
Hands of capitalism
But before you sign
On the dotted line
Jesse Lingard
Just remember the
London Stadium fans
Who just want you
To play rather than
Build up your accumulating
Fortunes.
And then Lingard
Found his clearing
In the Forest
Hammered into
History
Claret and blue
No longer
In the Irons
Vision anymore
How we love football language
Now here’s the story so far
Football’s baffling and head
Spinning ambiguities
The lack of clarity
The familiar adjectives
When transfer gossip
Reaches its loudest crescendo
The strange pronouns
The repetitive descriptions
For instance, wait for it
West Ham are closing in
On player A or B
Even C
Closing in on signings
Suggestions of
Stealthy movements
In the undergrowth
Approaching their prey
Sneaking covertly
With suspicion perhaps
Or possibly hunting down
Said player in captivity
Endangered species
Under threat of extinction
Ready to be caught and
Arrested, perhaps
Loitering with intent
In the neighbourhood
The hush hush
Clandestine operations
Of the July transfer window
Broja interested in move
To West Ham, then Chelsea
Change their mind once again
Broja has preferences
Irons in the fire
That’s appropriate
Broja from adorable Albania
Remain where you are
You’re going precisely nowhere
Then there are the advanced negotiations
That are so close to resolution
You can almost touch and feel them
Are they so advanced you can barely see
Them over football’s idyllic scenery
Perhaps they’re over the rural hills
Far and away and somewhere
In deepest middle England
Where football fans gather their
Thoughts and plan their expeditions
For next season’s home and away
August opening day of the season
Inevitabilities
Then there are the talks this summer
Over dozens of players
How enormously flattered they must
Be to be spoken of in glowing terms
Discussions of fees, all the minutiae
Of agents wrangling over their cut
For their prized assets
Millions of pounds whirring in their eyes
Like those seaside amusement arcades
On those delightful one armed bandits
Yesterday the 20 year old Albanian
Nurtured by Chelsea is considered
As a reasonably likely claret and blue
Acquisition for the Hammers
But then the probable becomes the
Highly unlikely,
It’s all open to interpretation
Since Broja is highly desirable but
No longer reasonably likely
So that’s final or a moderate
Possibility yet to be clarified
Before the tug of war
Between the parent club
Falls on stony ground
Finally round the clock talks
Become a subdued whisper
All change of heart and mind
Summon Broja back into
Chelsea’s greatest and latest
And yet again Jesse Lingard
Is still Wanted by David Moyes
Implying the Wild West baddie
Stealing from banks in cowboy mode
Then we discover that West Ham
Would love James Ward Prowse
To be in their well equipped ranks
Big name midfielders as opposed
To little names from some remote
Spot of Britain
And finally supporters will be buzzing
Like those traditional bees of summer
Or the dancing wasps that dart in and out
Of the balmy hawthorn bushes or the
Glorious yellow and red roses
Of the football summer pre-season
Hullabaloo
Last night the sleepy suburb
Of Hertfordshire
Awoke to Boreham Wood
Holding claret and blue
To the most honourable of 1-1
Draws. A minor shock but
Friendlies should never be
A barometer of any form
Since this is the dress rehearsal
For more dramatic contests
Of Premier League substance
And finally the Suffolk Tractor
Boys of Ipswich are banished
To the side lines
Defeated but hopeful of
A renaissance one day in
Exalted company
At the top table of the Premier
League’s feasting grounds
When Sir Bobby Robson
Once trod the sacrosanct
Green grass of Portman Road
But we prepared for football
And its linguistic complexity
When signings are talks
Or just advanced in their thinking
Closing in, waiting to pounce
On signings
Almost but not quite over the line
Or the goal line in which case
VAR in friendlies!
Now that’s an excellent idea
But back in the transfer window
Multi billion pound
Superstars
With extortionate billions
On their mind
At the right time and place
Football’s lovely literature
Never ceases to wonder
Keep waiting for golden boys
West Ham
Summer
Summertime dreams
Lounging by lethargic sun beams
Football finds its transfer speculation
For constant illumination
Without expectation
Claret and blue anticipation
You have to be joking
Amid the languid smoking
You scan the papers
For the shock headline makers
The intriguing rumours
But then the humours
Become stale and vapid
Just as the heartbeat became rapid
West Ham searching for Lingard,
Sarr, Dennis and anybody willing
As long as we don’t have to pay the shilling
Ward Prowse never douse the hopes
Those themes and tropes of yesterday
When Hammers revelled in their yearly
Holiday, close season, your birthday
As the matches we fondly remembered
But then our hopes became dismembered
Buy as many players as you can
Before your face loses its tan
Once again it’s City Manchester of course
Let’s cheer until we’re hoarse
On the opening day of the new season
There can be no reason
West Ham meet Pep’s Premier League
Winners, those versatile plate spinners
In a class of their own
You can be sure there will
Be nobody out on loan
City will be looking for their
Hat-trick
Be sure they’ll click
With clockwork precision
You’ll be sure their decision
Will be right and bright
At the moment there’s only one more
In the claret and blue fashion parade
Yet Hammers bubbles will never fade
Aguerd in defence of the realm
Try not to overwhelm
Him at the helm of the London Stadium
As opposed to the Palladium
But now Mark Noble and skipper
Has retired, the midfield needs
To be drastically rewired
A striker or centre forward
They so desperately need
Somebody lithe and sprightly to feed
An assistant to Bowen and Antonio
In our portfolio
There has to be that elusive goal scorer
Without which we’re considerably poorer
A Brazilian with the sublime genius of a Pele,
Garrincha or even Carlos Alberto
Just for good measure
A national treasure
The Happy Hammers now at leisure
Be prepared for August opening stages
And don’t forget their wages
Those pampered Premier League stars
Foot loose in their fancy, ostentatious cars
West Ham now is the time to invest in the best
Before we resume
And there’s nobody in the room
With the class and technique
Of the unique
Splash the cash but
Not before you clash
With ever pretty City
A joy and elation
An exquisite celebration
Surely not a third Premier League
Title, and words
Unheard of, Again
When, it’s improbable
Perhaps within the realms
Of the probable. That
Successive hat-trick
That will really stick
In the craw of those we adore
West Ham, Premier League
New season, remodelled
Maybe mollycoddled
Exciting, biting, witty
And gritty
Come on West Ham
Your fanatical audience
Awaits again around us
At the London Stadium
From the bus
As they assemble in their
Huge droves from
East End groves of learning
Earning their keep
Gathering like sheep
Fans, fanzines, pies and chips
Where once Docklands and ships
Once harboured our wishes
Among the shoals and fishes
Another season for the Hammers
At Stratford’s finest
Certainly not shyest
East London
Pride, another shot
Narrowly wide
Come on you Irons
No whines
Next season will be ours
For endless hours
Thomas Hardy and football
Now Thomas Hardy
182 today. Hard to believe
Somehow. Time flies
But England’s finest lyricist
Or word painter, consummate
Novelist, literary genius
You wonder which football
Ground, Dorset lad
Giving rise to suggestions
Of Hampshire
Pompey or Portsmouth
Naval connections
Once of Premier League
Heights, rubbing shoulders
With Manchester City,
But Portsmouth scarf around
His celebrated literary neck
Perhaps on first name terms
With Pep Guardiola
Or Jimmy Dickinson,
Once a Pompey giant
Or maybe Hardy was a hardened
Cherries fan,
Red and black Bournemouth
Allegiances, a regular at Dean
Court or latterly the Vitality
Stadium, shaking the foundations
Of this slumbering corner of this
Dorset beauty spot, Wessex in
His blood.
Or perhaps Hardy was a Saint
Of the Southampton parish
Where once Kevin Keegan,
Mike Channon, Phil Bowyer
And Alan Ball plied their trade
At the cosy, snug Dell
Where goals rained down from
All points of the Hampshire compass
So Happy Birthday Thomas Hardy
Come on Pompey, the Saints and the
Cherries
Your cherished heroes
From terraces from far and wide
Hardy’s poster boys
Your idols from long ago
Happy Birthday Thomas
You’ll support them for
Ever more.
What- no football tomorrow?
No football tomorrow
Football in a
Desolate wasteland
Of concrete worlds
And hollow echoes
Of yesterday
The Premier League
Rests its aching
Ligaments, tendons
Ankles, legs and
Arms
Its wars and battles
Injured cruciates
Stilled, at bay
Mend those
Agonised sprains
The excruciating pain
Of the crunching tackle
That should have been
A penalty. Not given.
We’ll never know
Why. Then
Recovery, complete
Re-charged batteries
But still
The fans yearn
To be among family,
And friends
The warm
Communality of
It all, where once
The meat pie
Timed to coincide
With half time
Pleasantries
Lively bon
Mots
And bonhomie
Followed by
Thermoses
Of tea and
Contemplation
No football tomorrow
Though, it’s unheard
Of, unthinkable
None of those
Boyish, boisterous
Chants of terrace
Cheering and bellowing,
Salty compositions
Yet fondly sung
No VAR for this week
At least
No referees with sprays
Where corner flags
Strike up lifelong
Alliances wth goal
Posts while cross
Bars wait for
Another day
In the wintry
Gloom, but who
Cares
We’ll miss football
At Saturday lunchtime,
Afternoon, a rarity, almost
An oddity and then
We conclude football
Will never be the same
Without its traditional
Continuity
So we’ll long for those
Hugged touchlines
The wing wizardry
That plucked heart
Strings across our
Dreamscapes of
Being at the match
With the people
We love
So tomorrow we’ll
Scan the papers
For scraps and
Remnants of
Transfer gossip,
Resounds
Endlessly,
Interminable
Propaganda
But for Jesse
Lingard we’ll
Roll out the
Carpet for
The West Ham
Parade around
Our streets
Sadly, though
Football without
Throat, noise,
Volume or poise
A soundless chasm
Where nothing
But stillness
Survives
Emptiness around
Terraces that once
Shook with joy
Next weekend
Though
The FA Cup
Trundles into
A million perspectives
The Fourth Round
Restores our faith
In football humanity
Since tomorrow
It’s only speculation
And if only
We’d played
At home again
Victory
Would be
Ours in our
Eyes and ears
A Quiet Game of Football
I’ve heard commentators say it was the game of the century
That it was the greatest there was in our living memory
“It would only be fair if both sides could win”
Was heard in the grandstands above the din
And at the end of the day with such a close result
It could never be said that game was dull
When it’s four nil at halftime and the crowd’s gone home
And the team getting thumped have got Stockholm Syndrome
The pundits will say football won on the day
And we’re lucky to see such powerful play.
While I listlessly stare at a circling seagull
I never heard it said once that the game was dull
When the referee constantly stops the play
And both teams appear to be in disarray
All the crowd can do is mumble and groan
And your team scarf hangs like a heavy millstone
Even though some games are just one big lull
You won’t hear it said that the game was dull
As one of the players succumbs to an injury
And you wish all the rest would be put out of their misery
Cos it’s slow and its sloppy and they’re not even rivals
Because neither team can even get into the finals
The commentary is loud and they’re hotly debating
In a desperate attempt to hold on to some ratings
Can’t you get it into your thick skull
You will never hear it said that a game is dull.
My Grandpa Jack- West Ham supporter
What on earth would
My grandpa have thought
Of this current generation
The modern zeitgeist
West Ham through and
Through, long suffering
Polish and polished
In the arts of following
The game from the
Objective safety of
The grand arm chair
With antimacassar
To cushion the blow
When the Hammers
Were beaten and overcome
As a barber with
Scissors he would crimp,
Cut and chop the locks
Of Moore, Hurst and Peters
Bovington, Birkett, Dear
Redknapp of course
With the studied
Attention to detail
Courtesy and politeness
With delicate fingers
Clippers oozing civility
And propriety,
In an age when short,
Back and sides
Were in vogue
And the Mods
Met the rockers
If asked
Grandpa Jack
Would oblige
Anarchic skinheads
With a number four
Perhaps more
Then the dashing
Mohicans would
Laugh at the absurdity
Of their sculpted scalp
Follicles like spiky
Cactuses relaxing in
Summer heat
But Grandpa Jack
Would smile warmly
At their arty
Expressions of
The outrageous but
Hey it was the Sixties
And Grandpa Jack
Would never object
To startling revelations
Of the new and different
He loved West Ham
Because they represented
The underdog, always
Locked in struggles against
The ever present anxiety
Of the relegation trap door
And yet he might have
Re-assured us that
West Ham had won the
World Cup
Indeed they had
When the end of July
Was his seminal moment
The barber knew best
Of infinite wisdom
That day when
Grandpa Jack quite
Properly put down
Brush, scissors and
Clippers
To acknowledge West Ham
Thanks Grandpa Jack.
Touchline Shouting
Touchline shouting, that’s all I ever hear,
I’m so confused and filled with fear.
I’m only ten years old and football should be fun,
But with all this noise I don’t know which way to run.
“Get back in defence!” my manager shouts.
Dad shouts, “Get up front and deal with these louts!”
Loud mouth supporter, who knows all the rules.
(He takes the rest of us for fools)
Shouts, “What are you doing lad? Your head’s in a spin!”
Is it any surprise, with all this din?
I am only a boy, so why do you all try to destroy, what I’d love to enjoy?
FOOTBALL SHOULD BE FUN!
——————————————————————————–
© Simon Icke
The Poetry of Euro ’21 (Football Poets 2000-2021)
none of us can know how it will happen
no-one here is really really sure
we’re struggling now to get our heads around it
and wishing it could be just like before
but after everything that we have been through
in what has been the strangest saddest year
we may not know if we can go or be there
but suddenly a tournament draws near
so all we ask is keep your poems flowing
soon so soon the games will have begun
and may our rhymes reflect these times..it’s coming
the poetry of Euro ’21
for in the Spring in Stroud back in 2000
we poets sat outside of Mills Café
and in that courtyard round a wooden table
a plan was hatched that still remains today
where once our football words were only spoken
at gigs or when we’d meet up in some bar
with all our thoughts confined to bits of paper
the chance at last to spread our verses far
the idea seemed preposterous and crazy
perhaps we were indeed the only ones
but somehow with the help of Dave* and Stuart
the Football Poets website had begun
we launched in June when Summer brought the Euros
to Belgium and to Netherlands that year
and to our joy the poems came in numbers
from those who loved the game from far and near
and meanwhile in that hazy crazy summer
we stood or sat with eyes glued to those screens
as flags they flew on pubs and cars and buildings
we followed in our numbers with our dreams
and hopes grew strong although our group looked daunting
that golden day when when we beat Germany
only to lose out to Romania
with that despairing last gasp penalty
we drowned our sorrows barely three days later
and we all swore we’d win the thing next time (!)
when we went down to Glaston’bry for Bowie
and Coldplay made an entrance there so fine
before we knew of masks or isolation
before the kind of past year we’ve all known
before our media became so social
before we could not live without our phones
but we’re still here whichever clubs we follow
and all our words arrive here just the same
reflecting still in voices loud and booming
our love or loathing for the People’s Game
and from that fateful meeting in 2000
the friends we’ve made.. the journey on the way
we carry on regardless and remember
the plan we hatched that still remains today
and after everything that we have been through
in what has been the strangest saddest year
we may not know if we can go or be there
but suddenly a tournament draws near
so all we ask is keep your poems flowing
soon so soon the games will have begun
may all our rhymes reflect these times..it’s coming
the poetry of Euro ’21
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!
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Latest Poems
kevin halls
10th November 2024
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10th November 2024
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10th November 2024
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6th November 2024
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6th November 2024
joe morris
29th October 2024
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Crispin’s Corner
In Memoriam
Kick It Out & Christmas Truce
Latest Comments
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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25th April 2024 at 1:56 pm
Thanks Joe,
you might like to write a poem yourself on the same subject…
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23rd April 2024 at 4:03 pm
Hi Denys
With you all the way on the abolition of FA Cup replays. What are they doing to the game?
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