Football Poets

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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The Kids With the Covered Carts

THE KIDS WITH THE COVERED CARTS

The neglected pitch is dry and rough
The goalposts taken down
An abandoned ball all scuffed and grubby
And the side-paths overgrown.
Bleak, unloved and empty
The ground no longer used
Nothing left to shout for
To keep the kids amused.
But wait, there is some movement
I see the bushes part
And slowly looking left and right
Comes a kid with a covered cart.
He stops and looks behind
And another boy appears,
He too has a covered cart
That has seen a good few years.
They nod and smile and nod again
And remove the tattered covers,
Tossing out four ragged balls
To share amongst the others.
And the others start arriving
As the word had spread around
That the village kids were gathering
To reclaim the abandoned ground.
Deep in the heart of Zululand
With nothing to their names,
These kids who have so little
Make a plan to play the game.
The balls are made from old cloth pieces
Their ‘boots’ pretty much the same
And the joy that I see on their faces
Just makes me turn and weep,
They have created something from nothing
With their love of a game that runs deep.
There are projects that help kids like this to succeed,
But so much more could be done,
They all need our help, our love and support
To go out and play the beautiful game
Under the African sun.
Ianthe Exall

May 2015

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Buying The League

After last season’s disappointment,
When things just didn’t work out,
Fosun have made the decision,
There’ll be no more messing about.

So calling on Jorgé Mendez,
To consult his little black book,
The players started to arrive,
And Wolves took on a different look.

Nuno Espiríto Santo arrived,
And brought his coaching team,
But when I saw the quality of the players,
I thought it must be a dream.

Loans for Bonatini, Jota and Boly,
And John Ruddy on a free,
But Fosun’s cheque book had to come out,
To get the other three.

Roderick Miranda and Barry Douglas,
Cost a paltry four and a half mill,
But the seventeen million they paid for Neves,
Makes him the star that tops the bill.

With the twenty-five million spent last season,
That’s a forty-seven million spend,
But the bad news for all our rival clubs,
Is that here the story doesn’t end.

Today Fosun announced,
That they’re prepared to still spend more,
To bring in a top class striker,
One that can score goals galore.

When Man City bought the Prem title,
And then Chelsea followed suit,
I was disgusted like everyone else,
But now I don’t give a hoot.

I’ve suffered years of mundane football,
Hoofball, huff and puff,
Now my eyes and brain have joined forces,
To scream enough’s enough!

I yearn for Premiership football,
Perhaps Champions League one day,
And for the first time in decades,
It feels like we’re on our way.

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Wanted Man (at Hounslow Central)

Wanted man at Hounslow Central
Wanted man outside the Stoop
Wanted man on Chiswick High Road
Wanted man at Botanic Kew

Wanted man outside the Beehive
Wanted man in Osterley
Wherever you might look tonight a wanted man you’ll see

Went to sleep in Uxbridge
Woke up in Syon Lane
Now I’m wondering why I’ve ended up
In the bowels of GSK

There’s somebody set to grab me
Anywhere that I might be
And wherever you might look tonight
There’s a kettle without the tea

I got sidetracked by the SEAT
Stopped to get myself a map
Walked the wrong way down the New Road
straight into a honey trap

Wanted man outside the Griffin
Wanted man at Button’s back,
Wanted man at Sainsbury’s local,
dipping in there for a snack

Wanted man on Brentford High Street
Wanted man in Gunnersbury
Wherever you might look tonight a wanted man you’ll see

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