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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.

Scary times

I have never known a time so scary
Where football came to a halt
And should the season end so soon
It won’t be football’s fault
This nasty man-made virus has caused all sport to cease
And even the Champions League;s in doubt
Which is Uefa’s top show-piece

But spare a thought for the lower leagues
Where clubs rely on gates
If no one enters through the stiles
Some will be in dire straits
But this could go on longer yet
Much longer than most though
How will clubs survive this mess
To pay those players they bought.

Instead they’ll have to sit this out
In times of house arrest
Football may never be the same again
And could leave most clubs oppressed
It’s a very worrying time for clubs
Without money they can’t get by
No income received and staff to pay
No TV rights from Sky

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Reds go twenty five clear

Liverpool 2-1 Bournemouth

Hendo misses the action
With a hamstring injury
Klopp scoffs at the mere thought
Of comparisons with Shankly

They toppled another record
By Shankly’s men in 72
22 Anfield wins on the trot
A top flight record held by few

Wilson in for Lerma’s low cross
Hundred club Mo joins the brass
Mane completes the comeback
Goal line hero Milner is pure class

07 03 20

number7
© emdad rahman

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Hornets sting Reds

Watford 3-0 Liverpool

Liverpool’s unbeaten season hopes
Reach the end of the Vicarage Road
They were second best at every turn
In every aspect it showed

Watford now move out of the zone
Thanks to a rampant second half
Klopp actually seemed relieved
The gaffer passed the polygraph

Troy Deeney with the third
Ismaila Sarr at the double
It won’t halt the title charge
They’ll be back on track no trouble

29 02 20

number7
© emdad rahman

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An early history of Honved in Rhyme

Now there’s a once famous team who wouldn’t spring to mind
Turn your gaze East and travel back in time
Once fixed upon Hungary seek the Red and Black
Once called Kispest, the great Honved stand out from the pack

Kispest, once merely a village, certainly birthed a great team
Encompassed by Budapest, in the ’50’s one of the best seen
On the auspicious 3rd of August 1909 they were formed
From humble village beginnings a legend was born

Success though had to be put on hold
A win in the Maygar cup 1926, many more myths would be told
That beautiful ground Bozsik must have erupted in exultation
Born proper a team that would capture a nation

Our next milestone is ’43
That shining star Puskas the fans would now see
’49 esteemed coach Seale arrives
Now the cups will come, the victories, the club thrives

But Communism came along coincidentally
Only giving a model for the league which was key
All clubs nationalised; Honved captured by the army
Seale had a plan in mind, he got it right down to a tee

Military conscription meant to Honved many players came
Now decked out with the best, awaiting fame
Seale had watched the continent’s front-runners
Italy, twice world cup winners in the ’30’s, only two clubs made up their numbers

Thus Honved would be the frame for the nation
Hungary, Olympic champions in ’52, they caused a sensation
England, considered the best, were put to the sword twice
All culminating in the ’54 world cup final, but alas loss had to suffice

Back locally Honved matched the national side
4 titles in the ’50’s, they were well in their stride
During that decade came a prestigious European exhibition
England’s finest Wolves, however, were firmer in their ambition

The political stage would provide an event unsurpassed
To crush revolution the Soviets invaded, for the club the dye was cast
In Bilbao for the European cup they were
A refusal to return home proved a downward spur

A tour of the Med quickly commenced
By now FIFA had declared them outlawed in status and sense
A draw with Madrid preceded a win over Barca’
But only some would return to the might Maygars

With FIFA’s declaration of illegality some returned
Yet for the very best Hungary was spurned
Puskas cemented his legend with Madrid’s famous Whites
He would go on to provide some sublime sights

And therefore our wee historical poem is complete
We have seen the great Honved on many stages compete
Perhaps the finest Hungarians ever seen
By this the legendary Red and Blacks we mean.

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Empty shells

A bird flew north over Italy
Over Naples’ volcanic home
Which worshipped Maradona in his prime
Flew over Lazio and the Olimpico
Climbed up its high ellipse
Heading for the evening sun
On her distant seven hills
Then followed the Arno
Sought out the delicate drooping flower of Fiorentina
Wilting now
A tangible absence
So much tumbleweed.

The bird flew on and saw,
North of there, charades behind closed doors
Unspeakable masques and bergamasques,
Venezia and Udinese
Donning the plague doctor’s mask
Playing inside an echoing shell
Doors closed, distances kept,
Life on hold

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Wherever We Find Ourselves

Wherever we find ourselves
Life we know on hold
Terraces we stood on closed
Seats in stands lie cold
Rituals on match days
Little lost routines
How they seem quite futile now
In these current scenes

Silly claims like who is best
Who sits at the top
Who’s for relegation
Ev’rything on stop
All now quite irrelevant
Time to love and care
Time for isolation
Time to learn to share
Time to help your neighbour
Be they young or old
Even if your shirt is green
And their shirt is gold
Even if their shirt is red
Purple pink or blue
Even if it’s black or white
Or some other hue

Like a flood it vanished
In a flash so strong
Ev’rything we know and trust
Or relied upon
Blown away to catch us here
Finding in our hearts
What keeps us together
Though we’re far apart
Thoughts they turn to something else
To our fellow man
Caught up in this strangest time
Few can understand

Wherever we find ourselves
Life we know on hold
Terraces we stood on closed
Seats in stands lie cold
Rituals on match days
Little lost routines
How they seem quite futile now
In these current scenes

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The two situations

Football was played when I lived through horror
In those fearful uncertain days I could listen
BBC WORLD SERVICE
in my Sarajevo flat

In those early days of the war
I was stressed but I listened to the
commentary of FA CUP semi final
Liverpool v Pourtsmouth
It was very sunny day of the April 1992

Something is different now,
There I was listening that BBC commentary
in the early April of 1992 and the shooting on the streets

But for me, in that horror,
there was the football somewhere else,
Far away

Now football is stopped everywhere
I can’t be closed in the appartment listening
the commentary of
some far away match as well

For the moment there are not the matches,
But nothing is going on the streets,
Nothing ! Fortunately In the manner of Catch 22

But only in the manner of Catch 22

This time is not quite comfortable either

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Way Back In The Fifties -Revisited

way back in the fifties new Queen on the throne
all we had was comics in our basement home
tennis balls ice cream vans football in the street
coalman came on Fridays life was so complete
Blow Football clockwork trains plastic spaceman suits
heavy leather footballs toe capped football boots

Tony Hancock Doris Day Sooty and Dan Dare
we drank pop we played tag and football everywhere
round the block on bomb sites we would run and dream
one day we’d be famous and in the England team
Judy Garland Billy Wright Frank Sinatra too
Cowboy annuals Lost In Space Piglet Owl and Pooh

Saturdays the ‘Pictures’ every week we’d go
Uncle Mac and Children’s fave’rites on the radio
through my bedroom window floodlights from the ground
when they scored or at the end you could hear that sound
blokes in caps and raincoats glrls in frilly skirts
teddy boys in drain pipes smoking after work
when the Coronation came didn’t have TV
we were all invited round to watch at number 3
then at last it happened that great moment came
two big kids called Phil and Les took me to a game

I still can’t remember much couldn’t see a thing
I was only little but I could hear them sing
“Maybe It’s Because I’m a Londoner” I could hear them say
caught up inthat teeming crowd as they moved and swayed
my Nan knitted my first scarf sewed on all the names
I waved my old rattle at so many games
walking back at five o clock transistor radios
listening in to Sports Report in the rain and snow
rushing home for tea and cake Dixon of Dock Green
sometimes during Doctor Who my old Gran would scream
“don’t go far and just keep clean… don’t stay out too late”
we’d shoot off at nine a.m and not get back til eight !

way back in the fifties before technology
long before your IPods or your PS3
back before Bill Haley Elvis Rock N’ Roll
it’s all still engrained in here written in my soul
back back way back way back in the day
back before the Beatles Bieber Jessie J
they say when you’re looking back everything looks cool
wish I’d concentrated more when I was at school
time plays tricks but memories nothing can erase
I’d give all to go back to those chlldhood days
didn’t need ‘no nothing’ conkers drove us on
we built dens and made it up as we went along
sliced bread jam sandwiches home-made lemonade
yeah …back in the nineteen fifties …..we all had it made

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Social Distancing

Usually, it’s an acerbic reaction
An emphatic ‘bothered’ and ‘bemoaned’
Whence learning of:
“All matches postponed”

But this time around
We nod and agree when it’s intoned
For containment of COVID-19
Is the combat condoned

Coughing or sneezing ‘uncovered’
Is roundly disowned
And the collective goal
Is a virus dethroned

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Angels Only Whisper

Angels Only Whisper

It’s not possible for Liverpool to play behind ‘closed doors’
We might not hear them but there will always be 96 roars.
And the spirit of other Reds, ashes buried in the kop goal.
Anfield can never be empty, while inside is every lost soul.
The Kop may look deserted, to the cameras and naked eye.
Flags and banners may not wave, no red scarves held high.
A ghostly, unreal atmosphere, never seen at Anfield before.
Near silence to greet whatever the result, win lose or draw.
Because Angels only whisper away from their heavenly home.
Behind ‘closed doors’ or not, my club will never walk alone.

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