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Poems tagged ‘Forest Green Rovers’

Waiting For The Day

Crispin Thomas

Tuesday, August 21st, 2018

everything I ever did
couldn’t keep emotions hid
back when I was just a kid
ev’ry time we’d play
captured by a moving ball
from the time when I was small
have I really changed at all ?
waiting for the day

even now the merest sound
turns my head and heart around
as I start to near the ground
do you feel the same?
in your blood and in your bones
hard at work or in your home
with your friends or on your own
waiting for the game

in the morning when you wake
feel the longing feel that ache
always seems so much at stake
as the time draws near
no-one realy understands
how devotion rules our plans
what it is that makes us fans
still it pulls us here

you can try but can’t explain
moments filled with joy and pain
still we come back once again
in the same old way
this is how it’s always been
following your local team
ev’ry time the same old dream
waiting for the day

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An FGR and Walter Tull Declamation

Stuart Butler

Wednesday, August 8th, 2018

Let the living answer the roll call of the dead:
Walter Tull of Spurs and Northampton Town KIA 1918;
And now the names from Forest Green:
Harry Watts was born in 1891 in Avening.
Harry joined the 6th Signal Corps of the Royal Engineers
prior to outbreak of war and became a Corporal.
He received the Military Medal in 1915.
Ernest Beale was born in 1897.
He worked as a brass worker before joining up.
He died in 1916 at Exeter Hospital of meningitis.
Names from another century come back to haunt us:
Walter, and Ernest, and Harry,
Names once shouted over a football pitch,
‘Give it to Walter’,
‘Over here, Harry,
‘Shoot, Ernie’;
The imperatives of a football team
Replaced by new orders in khaki, with
Night patrols, barbed wire and machine guns;
Muddied football boots forgotten
In the trench foot fields of Flanders;
The clamour from the ground and stands
No match for whizz bangs, mortars and howitzers;
The fogs of a November match,
Innocent memories in a gas attack:
‘Over the top tomorrow, Harry’,
‘Keep your head down, Ernie’,
‘Stay quiet. Don’t shoot, Ernie’,
‘Don’t worry, Harry. We’ll get you to hospital’,
‘Where’s Walter?’
You may have known each other,
Played with or against each other,
Trained together,
Boarded ships and trains together,
Relieved each other in the trenches,
And who knows?
Some of the Nailsworth, Shortwood and Forest Green players
Who survived the war,
May have searched for your body, Walter,
Before and after your last breath and memories,
Memories of Spurs and Northampton,
And childhood,
And a grandmother who had been a slave,
And you, an officer now,
Revered and loved by his men,
Searching for you out there in no man’s land,
As you breathe your last breath,
In whatever corner of a foreign field,
Which will always be an England,
Where the wind rushes.
And, who knows?
They may have talked of you,
That fine footballer, officer and gentleman,
When gathering in the Jovial Forester,
Toasting you with Stroud Brewery beer,
But then forgetting you as times grew hard,
As the wind rushes by.

As the Wind Rushes by.

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Brand New Season

Crispin Thomas

Wednesday, July 25th, 2018

brand new season same old same old
blank green canvas big clean slate
new beginnings better endings
grab the handrail take the bait

brand new season same old same old
keep on longing live the dream
keep on burning keep returning
every whisper every scream
brand new season free of moaning
mending bridges club and fan
time to move together forward
destination in your hand

brand new season brand new challenge
brand new players brand new day
bang that drum and raise your voices
throw the negative away
brand new moment on your doorstep
stadium to tiny ground
Forest Green to Barcelona
village hamlet city town

brand new season same old same old
brand new hope in every fan
chasing titles to survival
since the journey first began
brand new season same old same old
check your senses check your purse
nine long months of tortured pleasure
will the worst comes to the worst?

brand new season same old same old
armchair pub or in the stand
brand new kit revamped programmes
get on board if you still can
brand new season same old -same old
keep on dreaming keep on track
keep on chasing keep on trying
brand new season welcome back

brand new vision brand new longing
brand new chance to make it so
let the football do the talking
let’s go lentil………here we go

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When You Can’t Be There

Crispin Thomas

Sunday, April 15th, 2018

no-one can explain it
no-one understands
Sometimes it’s impossible
and way out of your hands
off somewhere or hard at work
you had to wash your hair
but ev’ry fan know how it feels
when you can’t be there

if you’re with the ‘big boys’
and always being shown
in pubs or clubs or online streams
or maybe yes at home
it’s quite another world away
from what it’s like down here
on good old local radio
when you can’t be there

your mates confirm they’re going
you hurry time along
but still you build up for the game
the rituals go on
and there with just the radio
it’s often hard to bear
imagining the way it looks
when you can’t be there

and everybody’s different
the things that they go through
entwined with all the other stuff
this life bestows on you
the other world you love and loathe
and those for whom you care
who either get or can’t believe
your longing to be there

so sometimes from my trusty dial
they help me understand
the beauty of a real live game
for ev’ry football fan
where commentators are like friends
whose nervousness we share
they make it oh so sweet again
When you can be there..

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Why Can’t We Be The Llamas ? ( at Forest Green)

Crispin Thomas

Wednesday, March 7th, 2018

the Vegan pies entice us in
surrounding views they charm us
our nickname’s The Green Devils…..
why can’t we be The Llamas?

we’re in the middle of nowhere
we’re miles from the Bahamas
when balls are pumped into our box
they don’t exactly calm us
we flirt with struggle constantly
we’re always courting dramas
our long gone shirts in black and white
resembled old pyjamas

our badger mascot loved the club
he came here from Las Palmas
he never burrowed anywhere
and always waved to farmers
but now we’re into everything
we’re working out our karmas
alternative – you name it
there ‘s nothing here to harm us

away fans breathe the open air
in freezing panoramas
with ev’ry match a knife edge
abound with melodramas
but still we’re just a village team
our drums are ours not Ghana’s
and when the big sides turn up here
they always still alarm us

the media they swarm around
for titbits like piranhas
and everything’s organic here
the pitch and the bananas
samosas come around on trays
there’s sometimes Chai and Chanas
and no-one could have foreseen this
not even Nostradamus

the vegan pies entice us in
surrounding views they charm us
our nickname’s The Green Devils…..
why can’t we be The Llamas?

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When You Win A Game

Crispin Thomas

Saturday, October 28th, 2017

anyone who’s been here
anyone at all
anyone who loves their club loves them rise or fall
if you’re superstitious
if you have a dream
you endure the ups and downs
following your team

ev’ryone goes through it
ev’ryone’s the same
but ev’ryone gets energized
when you win a game

pressure’s always present
pressure ev’rywhere
even if the manager
swears it isn’t there
pressure on the terraces
pressure on the pitch
pressure if your club is poor
pressure if you’re rich
but no one can describe it
no one can explain
and no one hides their feelings
when you win again

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Why I must support Swindon Town at Forest Green

Stuart Butler

Wednesday, September 20th, 2017

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 50 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.’

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Here For The Salad?

Crispin Thomas

Friday, August 4th, 2017

this is when you pinch yourself
dust that scarf from off the shelf
we ain’t scared of no-one else
we are FGR
brand new season brand new era
can you feel it drawing nearer
see our vision growing clearer
raise that concept bar

seats of green lie silent waiting
local hearts anticipating
eco-friendly no debating
living out the dream
days like this will linger longer
time to rise up and be stronger
and confirm that we belong here
up at Forest Green

Forest Green ? But where I hear?
in the middle of nowhere?
Did the salad bring you here?
here to FGR
Wembley mem’ries back in May
blow those cobwebs all away
now it’s here so come the day
come from near and far

perched up on our hillside home
clock our fan-base how it’s grown
see our pitch by solar mown
up at the New Lawn
come and taunt us if you dare
world is changing we don’t care
we’re just grateful to be here
swapping meat for Quorn

we’re prepared for mocking chants
we reply ‘Give Peas A Chance’
come up here and take a glance
this is who we are
call us upstarts when we score
tell us that our menu’s poor
our agenda’s something more
this is FGR

close to Stroud but could be Mars
vegan food electric cars
beer’s organic in our bars
in our bright green home
here where grazing sheep will greet us
we boast Q-Pie and fajitas
green agendas? you can’t beat us
we are on own own

catch the wind that turns the mill
by our home upon the hill?
call us anything you will
“hippies -blah blah blah”
‘fairy tale’ tags out of date
laced with jealousy and hate
we don’t punch above our weight
we are FGR

all those seasons we have known
changing football’s face alone
in a league that’s all our own
we are FGR
are you open can you take it?
are you ready to embrace it?
can you feel it can you taste it ?
up at FGR

this is when you pinch yourself
dust that scarf from off the shelf
we ain’t scared of no-one else
we are FGR
brand new season brand new era
can you feel it drawing nearer
see our vision growing clearer
raise that concept bar

seats of green lie silent waiting
local hearts anticipating
eco-friendly no debating
living out the dream
days like this will linger longer
time to rise up and be stronger
and confirm that we belong here
up at Forest Green

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The Soul of Forest Green

Stuart Butler

Tuesday, July 25th, 2017

I went searching for the soul of Forest Green,
Wandering intuitively, ad hoc
Inferentially, without any
A priori knowledge or insight:
It was a tabula rasa wander.

Northfields Road smacked of enclosed fields
(‘Its only bondage was the circling sky’),
And Eighteenth century food riots,
With Captain Swing riding over in Horsley,
While dark satanic mills in the valleys
Stood where weavers once combined for justice.

I crossed the threshold of a century,
Past chapel, school, and blacksmith’s workshop,
Through labyrinths of handloom weavers’ paths,
Along a valley far below the flood threat
Of countless springs and teeming brooks and streams,
Along The Rollers, Chestnut Hill, Star Hill,
And so to the Jovial Foresters,
Where the players used to change for the match,
(Victorian post box in its roadside wall),
Past a blue plaque to Private Charles Marmont,
Died of wounds 21st May 1918,
Aged 20,
Buried Forest Green Chapel Graveyard,
And so to where Joseph Weight used to work
(A Nailsworth Conscientious Objector),
Before he faced the tribunal’s judgement
On whether he really had a conscience.

And this is how I found the soul of Nailsworth –
In Newmarket, Shortwood, Horsley, Forest Green,
Wandering up and down through space and time –
And even though this felt a world away
From Stroud, let alone a new stadium
By the motorway at Eastington,
We can magnify small differences:
My DNA takes me back to Bronze Age migrations,
From the western fringes of India,
Thence to Anglo-Saxon invasions
Of what we now call England.

We’re all migrants, aren’t we?
It doesn’t have to be a vampiric
Trope of metempsychosis:
Soul might be in the imagination,
Not a landscape or topography.
We’re all migrants, aren’t we?

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Sometimes (FGR 3- 1Tranmere R )

Crispin Thomas

Thursday, May 18th, 2017

sometimes words are hard to find
to just express in prose or rhyme
the magnitude of this promotion
this relief and this emotion
felt in ev’ry single fan
and longed for since the rise began
who dreamt of this through thick and thin
the scrappy loss the narrow win
who came up here to sit or stand
so often with their heart in hand
the quiet seats that saw it all
the final noise to heed the call
but now our hearts beat louder than
some drum and bass or garage band
like shackled prisoners breaking free
we’ve fin’lly made it to the league
and care not what they say or do
the day we find out dreams comes true

it’s hard to work it’s hard to sleep
the sounds and images that keep
repeating over in our brain
they rumble on just like the train
or coach or car that brought us home
from Wembley that we made our own
we hold our breath we count to ten
but then re-live it all again
and just like little children do
we realize that dreams come true

the changes burst like sun through mist
that some at first tried to resist
convinced they could not work or last
content to wallow in the past
those seasons that would end in tears
for some it lasted decades – years
a century in black and white
the darkest depths that begged for light
the struggles here that they endured
the endless longing oft ignored
when for so long what kept hopes up
was some big draw here in the Cup
the ship that nearly ran aground
until by chance a hand was found
whose vision beckoned green and new
to prove that sometimes dreams come true

but now with concepts blown aside
the moans and groans replaced with pride
we rub our eyes we can’t believe
this thing that we’ve at last achieved
and though the road looms large ahead
with tougher tests and days ahead
how great that now after so long
we’ve fin’lly found our voice and song
and sound and look like the real thing
what dramas will next season bring?
it just reminds us – me and you
that yes ..sometimes ..dreams do come true

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Source: http://footballpoets.org/news/poem-tags/forest-green-rovers/page/4/