Poetry Archives

This archive contains every poem that has been published on Football Poets. They are listed ten-per-page in reverse chronological order so the most recent poems appear first. Click or tap the arrows in the corners of the page to navigate between pages. It's easier to use the search form below to find a specific poem.

Natural Evertonian

On my arrival in Lyon
I checked at the hotel

The room 116 !

Oh my ticket for
Lyon v Everton says
the row 16

But again
the seat number was
207 and my date of birth 21/07

That is what I call

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The People’s Cubs

Jordan Pickford can do it all
Can become a legend like Neville Southall

Johnjoe Kenny can grab some fame as
Apprentice to our passionate pounding Seamus

Mason Holgate gets illumination cash-free
From rubbing shoulders with Jags and Ashley

Michael Keane can add his name
To Roy and Robbie in the hall of fame

Morgan Feeney’s heritage is Moore than handy
Bootling up the river to the Dock of Bramley

Benny Baningime’s from another great river
Thrown against the Lions and making tackles all a-quiver

Tom Davies with his hair and rolled-down socks
Energizing future captain in our energized cauldron dock?

Dominic Calvert-Lewin, that masked man, who?
Getting heaps of kemo sabes from Dixie to Lukaku

Ademola Lookman, jinxing angel with two wings
Look, man, you lively lads are future Dixie’s kings!

Hey David Henen will you get your chance?
And whatever happened to Shari Tarasaj?

What about other loanees, Galloway and Browning, On-
-Yeku and Connolly, Keiran Dowell and Pennington?

And we need Luke Garbutt backing Bainesy’s Wonderwall
With mod crossover music, from Wigan’s northern soul

And come on Ross Barkley, in your heart you know it’s true
It’s not about the money, it’s the diamond that is you!


When You Win A Game

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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Fourth Round at the Etihad

It will be a pity
If we lose to City
But it won’t be a big surprise
Promotion is the aim
Not one day of fame
And Nuno has his eyes on the prize.

And if the cup final
Goes down the urinal
Well some may think that’s tough
But surely it’s right
To reach the top flight
And the silverware will come soon enough.

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The United Trinity


The oppressive greyness of the sullen sky
Could not engulf me as I stood enthralled
By the revered statue of The United Trinity,
Always loved and respected
From here to infinity.
More than a monument to footballing glory,
Those three fine men immortalised here,
Leading players in the Manchester story,
United they stand
And United they were.
George Best, Denis Law, Bobby Charlton,
Football greats who have gone down in history
For their skills on the pitch with that round leather ball.
They all are now facing Old Trafford,
And will always be there standing tall.

Ianthe Exall October 2017

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Epic Football Events

All things must pass
happens on the football grass

How to remember the forgotten
untold stories and unsung heros

Not only by dreaming
or studyng

Not only by reading or not reading

Not only speaking about Ancient Greece
and understanding its game

Maybe by watching EVERTON

The Pogues can be as important
as Irish football side

But all things must pass on the grass

The Goal scoring is not a song
But people gather and sing only
for the little thing in the history
of Humanity : the goal scored

But somehow the football stops everything
Football is stopped time

Whenever you watched the game
you will remeber it forever

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Why I must support Swindon Town at Forest Green

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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Night Games

there’s a certain spark
when the sky turns dark
and we gather from village and town
there’s something right
about the light in the night
when the floodlights loom from the ground
at night games

so you chat with your friends
and you try to pretend
that confidence runs through your veins
so you look at the time
and you say we’ll be fine
and you try to believe it again
at night games

its that magical land
where we sit or we stand
in the same place that we’ve come to know
and the eyes they adjust
as a fan’s eyes must
and the stage is contained in a glow
at night games

it’s a theatre like scene
with a pitch in between
as we go through the stuff we go through
the shadows appear
as we strain and we peer
and the nerves start to build as they do
at night games

but you’re there and you’re back
under skies that turn black
with a feeling of hope ev’rywhere
it’s hard to explain
as we stare through the rain
and the ball seems to slice through the air
at night games

you get fog rolling in
as proceedings begin
or the warmth of some late Summer night
but the atmosphere shakes
as the South Stand awakes
and victory’s there in your sight
at night games

and later alone
as you wind your way home
you reflect on the effort you’ve seen
but the lessons you learn
will not stop your return
like a moth you’re drawn back to the scene
at night games

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Roy and Ray

With those air miles, Roy, you could tour the moons of Jupiter.
Ensure the planets are in correct formation,
no-one stepping beyond their sphere.

Your Wikipedia page has crashed my computer
somewhere between Gravesend and Neuchȃtel
and I’m back to pen and paper

to consider the passage of Europa,
the year Roy and Ray were in its orbit
four hundred years after Simon Marius.

Now the Simon we drink to is Simon Davies
and Europa Passage a side-street in Hamburg.

Roy, Grasshopper of Zürich: one among many.
Ray, you know your exits on the Orbital Motorway:

hornets, eagles, bees near a depleted cottage.
Five spells in the dark and the brightest of suns still ahead.

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Motty – The Man The Coat The Mike

some of us started with Brian Moore
and never knew the truth about Stuart Hall
but the first commentating I ever heard
were Kenneth Wolstenholme’s old skool words
and Archie McPherson’s a passionate Scot
but none of them prepare like brave Johnny Mott

Peter Jones had a fabulous style
and David Coleman by a country mile
Bob Wilson’s quite thoughtful and mild
and Glenn Hoddle still drives psychics wild
Barry Davies had a powerful throat
but John’s got a beautiful sheepskin coat

now Loads find ‘Greeny’ feisty and rude
but Alan’s got passion and attitude
Jimmy Armfield’s got depth and soul
and Jacqui Oatley broke the mould
Jimmy Hill drove me totally potty
but for stats on acid you couldn’t beat Motty

here among the sheep at FGR
you might not know him or where we are
but he likes saying “truthfully” a lot
and Bob Hunt* is the finest we’ve got
win or lose man he’s always there
getting quite excited tearing out his hair

‘but Motty’s the one for the real classic lines
one of them’ll probably last for all time :
“For all of you watching in black and white
Spurs are all- yellow” he said one night
and here’s another that was really well meant:
“The World Cup’s a truly international event”

but I think of Motson wherever I go
standing in a blizzard knee deep in snow
notes in his hand cap on his head
looking like Dell Boy longing for his bed
serious expression standing all alone
telling us “It’s off!”….. as if we didn’t know

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Source: http://footballpoets.org/poems/