Poems tagged ‘Forest Green Rovers’
No-one Loves It When You’re In The Danger Zone.
Even if your owner’s an eco millionaire
When the bubble bursts a bit you learn to fight despair
Remembering that months ago we had ourselves a time
Cheering dancing in the stands the champagne flowed like wine
We moved up another peg and fell behind so low
Shipping goals for fun it seems like there’s no tomorrow
Lost all our best players and some fans stayed away
We’re fighting hard to stay afloat up on Another Way
Hanging on for dear life until our form comes home
But no-one loves it when you’re down there in the danger zone
Our winning coach forgot to wave as he slipped out the door
The new guy feels the pressure we’ve seen it all before
You cannot let the stress take hold belief can never stop
When you’re up with the big boys who’ve been there at the top
Some say the team ain’t good enough some say that we are lost
Some think we’re on a crisis course and wanna change the boss
Some say it’s lack of fitness or bad luck on the day
Survival is the goal right now re-group and find a way
Feels like we’ve had more injuries than we have ever known
But no-one loves to watch a team down in the danger zone
You keep the faith and passion through ev’ry new defeat
You keep on singing for the team and drumming to that beat
You keep believing we’ll be back to where we wanna be
And when we are the ‘stay-aways’ will roll on up you’ll see
I know that we can do it still of that I have no doubt
You have to stay strong in your heart when you are down and out
To be a fan brings ups and downs it’s something that you learn
And when we find our feet once more the good times will return
Cause everybody loves it when you’re up there at the top
For fans endure a crazy ride the passion never stops
It’s mighty strange this game we love this team we call our own
But no-one ever loves it when you’re in the danger zone
This Is How It Feels To Win The League
searching for the words that can uncover
all the stuff you go through deep inside
expectation and anticipation
when you climb aboard to share the ride
this is how if feels to be rewarded
when you’ve given ev’rything you can
this is how if feels to be excited
this is how it feels to be a fan
this is why we go through what we go through
even though it often feels insane
even if we sometimes stop to wonder
this is why we do it all again
and this is what it’s like to be devoted
what it means to give your heart and soul
this is what it’s like to climb that mountain
that is what it’s like to reach your goal
let the big boys go on being big boys
let them list their cups and histories
we are what we are and now we’ve done it
this is how it feels to win the league
for a hundred years we lay unnoticed
humble days all spent below the bar
in a place that nobody had heard of
off the track and under their radar
high upon a hill with sheep for neighbours
where the hills and valleys rise and fall
meagre crowds and fighting for survival
now at last it’s time to stand up tall
this is what it means to share that journey
to be part of something so unique
this is how it feels to have a vision
and to see it flower week on week
and we don’t care who has the biggest fan base
we know where we’ve come from in the past
and this is how it feels to lift the trophy
how it feels to win the league at last
challenges ahead we’ll face together
in our little rural hilltop home
laying markers down for all to follow
we’re no longer doing it alone
and they can all us tin pot small time vegans
let them say we have no history
we know what we are and what we’ve been through
and this is how it feels to win the league
Now ~ Swindon Town v Forest Green Rovers
Now I’m not sure if there’s a debate here
About determinism and free will,
Or whether there’s just some sort of reflection
On 60 years spent going to the match,
That LS Lowry feeling of being lost in a crowd,
That loss of sense of self that meant strangers were friends
And friends were never strangers,
For all was empathy and understanding,
And the boot was never on the other foot.
And you can talk as much Sociology,
Psychology or Philosophy as you like,
But the reason you trudged fortnightly to the game
Was because you enjoyed it and because, really,
How could you do anything else?
Who would do anything else?
You went because you loved the game,
And because you had loyalty to your mates,
And because you had a loyalty to your home town,
And because you had loyalty to your team,
And because the team was your town and your town was your team,
And because you were your town and your town was you,
In a syllogistic spiral that counted
For nothing when you put your scarf on –
For the minute wage differences that existed in a one-industry town,
And the fact that footballers didn’t earn much more than anyone else,
Meant that a happy commonality and solidarity
Suffused the town of Swindon!
And so you never imagined that your
Carefully choreographed movement
To and from the ground through the red-brick
Terrace streets of England
Was like some sort of scene from The Wasteland,
Nor did you see it as some sort of extension
Of typical male industrial working class historic traditions,
So that even when you were wearing the height of mod fashion,
You were in fact an anachronism,
For who would think like that?
Nor did you think, when you carefully read
Your programmes at half time,
Or when you re-read them at home,
Or swopped them, or used them,
So as to build up a store house
Of memory and fact and knowledge
About every facet and aspect of the game of Football
That you were, in fact, following i
In the footsteps of working class autodidacts,
The people who caught a glance at the classics
Within the rhythm of the pistons,
Or studied art or poetry or philosophy
Behind the foreman’s back,
Or beneath the chief clerk’s nose or by the ganger’s shovel,
Or by the candle in the attic;
And now just think, how many brilliant minds there were,
In that faceless crowd of so-called untutored intellect,
Living lives that The News Of The World
Never ever dreamed of,
There, in Swindon,
Richard Jefferies’
‘Chicago of the West.’
Children At A Game
between the pitch and concourse
the seconds ticking on
her dad was early in in the queue
to beat the half time throng
not one to miss a second
his daughter stood alone
the sound of clanking seats was heard
as she watched on alone
her figure framed and caught in time
a tunnelled silhouette
these are the days of childhood
that she will not forget
I thought about when I was young
before I ever knew
the threats of relegation
or what some fans go through
the rollercoaster journey
when first young fans embark
upon this crazy sea we sail
from playing in the park
to going to your first live match
with friends or mum or dad
excitement and emotions
that all of us have had
the magic spell of moments
the day it all began
the pitch that spread before you
when you became a fan
there’s nothing that can beat it
and nothing quite the same
than being close to players
for children at a game
Fogged if You Do Fogged if You Don’t
you run the ‘gamut’ Rovers
upon this hill so high
you never know if rain or snow
or fog will wander by
and so it was on nights like this
with no wish to be bitter
you know that if it had gone on
we could have ‘mist’ a sitter
it’s hard to be a referee
to stand up like a man
I never felt that it would clear
as soon as it ‘ve gan’
our keeper stood out warming up
much clearer than you’d think
but then again you have to say
he was in fluoro pink!
It’s tough to blame the man in black*
or climate change this time
sometimes it seems it has to be
you can’t pump in sunshine
he ‘ummed ‘and ‘ahhed’ in our back yard
the banter grew and grew
and turned to munchies and to food
as banter oft will do
and if ‘gammon’ or if ‘gam off’
the will he or the won’t ?
it’s always true – fogged if you do
you’re still fogged if you don’t
I couldn’t see my drum stick
i couldn’t understand
i couldn’t see my own coffee
clutched there within my hand
nor could I see my mate James Bee
but of one thing I’m sure
‘our Jim was singing to himself
“I’m not seeing anymore”
and though I knew not were he was
I shouted back somehow
and I replied like Johnny Nash
‘I Can’t See Clearly Now’
as fog rolled in I cried to Jim
from deep down in n my soul
“at times like this if this persists
I‘d love a nice Fog Roll!
and right away I said to Clay
who stood there as you do
it’s fine that you be next to me
but I just can’t see you !
and when at last the game was off
with all our hopes bereft
“is there a new date (slice) arranged?”
asked Andrew as we left
but as I turned to make reply
he vanished and was gone
a phantom fan lost in the gloom
and answer came there none
I’d Never Heard Of Forest Green
I’d never heard of Forest Green
nor had I glimpsed The Lawn
when I first came to live round here
just as the Eighties dawned
I’d always loved a bigger club
at home in London town
but found myself upon this hill
right opposite the ground
fast forward forty years or so
and now they are a part
of ev’ry weekend ev’ry year
I’ve taken them to heart
through years of non-league struggles
to where we are today
upon the verge of something new
that could be on its way
we stand upon the threshold
though we’ve been here before
the little vegan village team
who’ve made their mark for sure
who’ve placed the climate and the Earth
as valued as each game
who garner fans from far and wide
but rile some just the same
there’s still so much to play for
up here upon the hill
our little ground it rustles now
where once it sat so still
where sheep and cattle roam and graze
and valleys stretch so green
the setting here is quite surreal
the strangest I have seen
but ev’ry time I make my way
past cottages and trees
I pinch myself and feel the joy
to share such times as these
who knows if this will be our time
we cannot get ahead
we’re only half way down the road
to put this league to bed
and though this Covid virus blows
and will not go away
our football and our longing
it keeps the blues at bay
and are we ready I’m not sure
we have so far to go
just how we get there I don’t care
and that is all I know
I’d never heard of Forest Green
nor had I glimpsed The Lawn
when I first came to live round here
just as the Eighties dawned
I’d always loved a bigger club
at home in London town
but found myself upon this hill
right opposite the ground
fast forward forty years or so
and now they are a part
of ev’ry weekend ev’ry year
I’ve taken them to heart
Something Happ’ning On The Hill
there’s something happ’ning on the hill
belief is growing as it will
with far to go this time around
we keep our feet upon the ground
but confidence is there to see
in Rob and Richie’s Green Army
away fans loathe our vegan fare
our hilltop ground is way up here
it’s bitter when the cold kicks in
but nothing matters when we win
and when at last we get to see
our wooden stadium we’ll be
a football vision green and clear
but still we will miss coming here
arriving early just to park
and finding places in the dark
the fans who climb it ev’ry time
the little wooden match day sign
that sits beside the roundabout
when we are walking in and out
but standing in the South Stand here
the drumming and the atmosphere
reminds us of our non-league dream
for this our little village team
and though we’ve not been there before
the League One beckons here once more
but these are early days it’s true
we’ve been on top it’s nothing new
and usually we find a way
to let our lead just slip away
but this time there’s a diff’rent feel
it’s like we’re on a rolling wheel
it’s in our hands to see it through
to make those dreams and visions true
where ev’ry man’s a vital part
and plays with passion and with heart
and always show they’re proud to
be a part of Forest Green FC
but while it’s happ’ning on the hill
excitement mounts the way it will
and hopefully this time we’ve found
a way to keep feet on the ground
but confidence is there to see
in Rob and Richie’s Green Army
Get Me To The Match on Time
The day started well enough: a walk to town
In the soft light of soft autumnal sunshine,
Ridge and furrow with kine in the fields;
Drunken Swindon fans trying to walk straight,
Whilst Lord John bantering with the Old Bill;
Stroud’s farmers’ market full of season harvest,
Sundry chats about the match with passers-by.
But then! Chaos at Merrywalks bus stop!
Too many wound up young men, youths and boys,
All chanting, singing, provoking and taunting,
For a double decker number 63,
Let alone the paltry single decker
That belatedly hove into view,
Bound for Nailsworth and Forest Green.
Alas!
All normal rules of patient queuing
Went right out the window in a manic surge
(As Bob and I were addressed by an elderly woman:
‘Is there a football match on?
Do you remember Jimmy Johnstone?
Celtic and the European Cup?
I went to school with him.’),
We became mere spectators, mouths agape,
Politely listening to this memory,
As the queue behind us rapidly filled the bus.
And so, we decided to retrace steps and hail a taxi.
A lone driver shook his head; the other ranks were bare.
And so, we decided to walk up Rodborough Hill,
And so, to my home to jump on bicycles,
To arrive at the match in good time.
As we climbed the hill, a number 40
Cotswold Green bus, Stroud to Wotton under Edge,
Was coughing on its circuitous way;
We waved it down. It stopped. We paid five pounds:
‘Cash only on this service, my friend.’
The bus inched its way forward between two lorries,
One with scaffolding poles protruding
Into the very tight passageway.
The right-side back window got smashed to bits;
The bus got stuck. The driver got on his phone.
We waited and waited and waited.
Then plucked up courage and asked for our money back,
After the shortest bus journey of my life,
Perhaps twenty metres in total –
But full of considerable incident.
We ran up the hill and to my house
In Coronation Road; a quick word with Trish,
(‘You haven’t got your helmets on.’)
And then biked hell for leather along the A46,
(My red and white scarf tied to the panniers
Attracting the attention of car drivers:
‘Forest Green! Swindon wankers!’ etc,),
To ascend Star Hill, past the once Jolly Forester,
Once home of Forest Green Rovers,
To reach the haven of the car park and the bike racks.
We carefully locked our bicycles.
We then climbed the hill past the traffic jams
And seeming gridlock of coaches and cars,
To take our place in a serpentine queue,
The clock ticking madly,
Players already on the pitch,
Frustration rising with the turnstile deadlock:
‘Sorry’, said one solicitous steward,
‘We’ve only got two turnstiles on today.’
Another, less solicitous:
‘You shouldn’t all arrive at the same time.’
I pondered on the nature of free will,
And temporal-spatial coincidence –
But thought it best not to mention that
As my bag was searched,
Instead I plaintively replied:
‘Honestly, if it wasn’t for mutiny on the buses,
No taxis and then a bus crash,
We wouldn’t have done, mate.’
Rollercoaster Mesmerising
rollercoaster mesmerising
gung-ho goals show tantalising
like some throw back from before
like some fifties sixties score
just like you’re a kid again
out there in the sun and rain
game so open from the start
both sides being ripped apart
soft defences common sense is
leaft like banners on the fences
so swashbuckling in attack
still so shaky at the back
never safe at two goals up
felt like Derby in the Cup*
felt like Torquay New Years Day**
back three back four disarray
entertainment off the charts
from sublime to mad in parts
you score one and we’ll score one
nine goals going in for fun
we score six and you score three
is this how it’s meant to be ?
even with our final goal
still not really in control
was there something in my pie
pinch myself and dry my eye
barely time to cheer or speak
I could take this ev’ry week
never boring when I’ve been
up here watching Forest Green
The Little Village Team
this is a poem
’bout a little village team
up on the hill
at the top of Forest Green
they’ve been around
for a long long time
started out here in 1889
they wear green now
some find it barmy
but we still call them
the Black and White Army
known worldwide
right across the land
New York City
to our own South Stand
food’s all vegan
pitch is organic
and if we don’t score first
please don’t panic
we’ll keep trying ’til the final whistle
and if we don’t make it
we’ll see you in Bristol*…..
( ..and Swindon* and possibly Torquay*?)
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
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
Clik The Mouse
6th November 2024
Alex Saynor
6th November 2024
joe morris
29th October 2024
joe morris
17th October 2024
Denys E. W. Jones
16th October 2024
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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