Football Poets

Ali Turganbekov

Ali Turganbekov, from Kazakhstan
This young boy
With his beautiful shining glorious smile
Won the Super Cup last night
And proves that however we walk
Wherever the path leads
Whatever the obstacles
No matter the journey
We never walk alone.

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Football Literacy

The poetry in motion
Upon a football pitch
Whence a Dalglish angles punctuates
The essential wisdom
And simplicity of a game
Thus spake Shankly, Busby, Stein
Scottish Steel hewn from the
Collective nouns of Caledonia
Cleaved rhyme reason and glory
From Keegan, Best and McNeil
Dust off old boots in search of lost youth
When streets were packed with dreams
The coats and jumpers that lent themselves
To makeshift goalposts and half arsed goals
The ironic prose
Of players lost for words
Ideas spent like washed out kits
And spelling skinned the names on shirts
Whilst verbs and adverbs
Rain down from a terrace
Teeming with wit
And football poets dream
Of words for goals
Of titles earned
Heroes Villains speak ‘Football’
Aye Football, with its potent language
In black puma boots
And fingers stained with print off Saturday’s Pink
In the vocabulary of romance,
Grassroots metonymy and metaphor
Lend us your boots, football is the food of love
Still beautiful, beautiful game.

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I weep for football

I weep for football

Football is dying, the game’s lost the plot
The powers that be? They care not a jot
The Premier League – a Millionaire’s Row
The seventy-two left just have to kow tow.
The small clubs may flounder, whilst seeking respite
The big clubs just laugh, and show their delight
As leagues one and two go under the cosh
The Premier League taking all of the dosh.
The money they spend on one single player
Could keep four CLUBS going, in place of a prayer.
Slowly, clubs vanish, slowly, clubs go
They scream “will you help us?” the big clubs shout “NO”
The more that we help you, the less there’s for us
We’re happy to throw you under a bus.
Top heavy and bloated, they don’t give a toss
They see lower leagues as nothing but dross
I weep for the game, I weep for the fans
All money goes upward, gets shovelled in vans
The cash pile grows higher, see how fast it can go
To agents and players based in Monaco

One day
The cash cow
Will die

I weep for football

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For Paul Carlile

He would have been 50, God bless you Paul.
He died at 19, he went to the match, that’s all.
4 helium balloons in the Anfield breeze sway.
Beneath the eternal flame, lit all night and day.
2 Birthday balloons say ’50’ 2 say ‘Love You’
2 helium balloons are red, 2 balloons are blue.
4 beautiful red flowers, spell out Paul’s name.
A message and picture are hiding from the rain.
Liverpool score again, much to The Kop’s delight.
If only Paul Carlile was in that crowd tonight.

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This Means More.

In vast shipwrecks of seasons dreams
Amidst the clack of fans who scorn
The overpriced and misplaced signs
When boots of better days were born
Our sense of joy with fleeting runs
Those hazy mazy wingers brimmed
And bossed midfield our favourite sons
We smiled beguiled and paid a flim

We note our scenes our glory days
Of cups and leagues and derby duels
We dream as kings on paupers pay
And give the world to beat the blues
The fizzing football scorched the grass
Like Roman candles hopes they shine
The pace picks up pass move and pass
But hopes soon dashed – results unkind

Those precious plants are sown with grace
With faith as mustard seeds
And through the rezzies come the stars
Cleaved from our self-same streets
Endure in shadows steadfast how
Desire for badge and sweat for shirt
Rise like bread but ever know
That football gods are dust to earth.

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Football Holy Trinity

Football loves its trinities
And like the Holy Ghost
Always feels more at home
When the other two are close

Hansen, Souness and Dalglish
Or the 3 Jocks as they’re known
Leaped right over Hadrian’s Wall
And made Liverpool their home

Henry, Viera, Pires
Wenger’s football musketeers
Giggsy, Keane and Scholes
Fergie’s northern cavaliers

Kendal, Ball and Harvey
The School of Science not of chance
Maradona, Luck, and the Hand of God
Led the lions a merry dance

Peters, Moore and Hurst
Owned swinging London like Kate Moss
Whilst Charlton, Best and Law
Showed Benfica who’s the boss

Bremner, Clarke and Giles
Don Revie’s crew of steel
Whilst Stein had Lions of emerald gold
In Johnstone, Murdoch and McNeil

The white arrows of Real Madrid
Like angels flying free
They had Gento and Di Stefano
And with Kopa that made 3

Ball, Lee and Summerbee
At Maine Road they were Kings
Whilst Deyna, Gadocha, Lato
Brought defences to their knees

Smith, Mackay, Norman
The glory boys of Spurs
Cunningham, Regis, Batson
The Baggies favourite words

Rapinoe, Morgan, Lloyd
Gave the women’s game its swag
Trump hoisted by his own petard
Beneath the rainbow flag

Yeats, St John and Cally
In Shankly’s vision they all shared
Pele, Jairzhino, Tostao
The wonders of the world

Van Basten, Gullit and Rijkaard
Dutch masters on the ball
Puskas, Hidegkuti and Czibor
Perhaps the most magnificent of all.

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Football and Heartbreak

Football teaches us boss lessons about love

especially the heartbreak

how emotions rule over flags raised

and inside the head is screaming “You must’ve seen that!”

and of course the offside rules never really make much sense

And we look the other way, or through our fingers

from behind the relative safety of a sofa

always thinking that it will get better

the result will go our way

because we know what it means to hopelessly hope

beyond reason and even truth

each new season starts new boots new shirts new hope

and off we go again, willingly, with no lessons learned

but Love, the one the Greeks name Eros,

he’s red-carded, early bath, transfer listed.

Game over.

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