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Toto, RIP
Toto,
you broke our hearts
but as life departs
we can only weep and pray
and thank God that we saw you play
Analeptic Athletic FC
Football has always interjected into my life:
intervened at my lowest points
in reparative fashion, putting a smile on my face
and mapped a path, back to the rat-race;
It has capped my highest highs
reminding me that they don’t last
that the next match
or the next season
will bring another set of struggles
another gaggle of glitches….
but always
a sentient solution is summoned….
at any succession of mud-splattered pitches!
UEFA Nations League?
So, answers on a postcard
On the subject of
The UEFA Nations League
Another bout of head scratching
Confusing imponderables
Rather like the earth being flat
Is there life out there?
It’s a week ago
Since Lee Carsley
And his brand new England
Set up the signpost for
Another foray in another direction
Some distant,
Unheralded location
A destination to who knows where?
Or just a fuss about nothing
The UEFA Nations League
Second rate, utterly inconsequential
UEFA sending out some meagre
Consolation prize
To an England team,
Stuck between the devil and deep blue sea.
Do they whip themselves
Into a genuine frenzy of excitement?
After the loss of two
Successive Euro Finals
And yet Irish eyes were tearful
At the Aviva last week
The Republic of Ireland
Green with envy at England’s
Promised land
Firstly a liberal sprinkling
Of Rice, Declan,
Initially of the Emerald Isle
But now lion hearted
England, fires the sweetest shot
A goal across the bows
Of Dublin and County Cork
Where the pumps of a thousand
Literary bars of Guinness
Once rang to the palpitating poetry
Of Joyce and Yeats, Oscar
At his wildest and most expressive
Then, just to rub salt into the wound
The Importance of Being Jack Grealish
Since it was he who completed
A spellbinding tapestry
Of wonderful, one two
Intricacy and the consummation
Of a marriage made in heaven
Close passing at its most dazzling
England carving through
The Republic of Ireland
A knife through butter
Grealish almost too smug
After declaring his Irish
Ancestral bloodstream
Then at Wembley on Tuesday
Finland finished off finally
Harry Kane, yet again
Goal scoring expertise
When most needed
But the UEFA Nations League
We sigh with reservations
Since none told us
About its job description
Its rightful place
In football’s bigger picture
An international anomaly,
Maybe, or yet another competition
With no vivid rhyme or reason
The jury has to be out on
This one, will the members
Please deliberate at both
Half time and full time
Since the World Cup now
Feels like some unfamiliar
Stranger to dear old Blighty
Another two years to go
For England to flow
And don’t England know
We’ve been here before
Palace of Tears
In the fanfare seasons when we get spoiled,
delight openly weeps.
A change from the usual stress attacks,
brought on by a lack of clean sheets.
Not a tin pot, or F.A. Cup,
or division won in years.
Disappointment sits, stares, and lingers
behind sunken red eyes and blue tears.
Elegantly euphoric promotions,
and grandiose upsets,
take centre stage with stellar players
who we’ve wept for once they’ve left.
Comedic defence and bovine strikers
bring wicked cries of laughter.
This we accept is who we truly are,
and it’s for us to rightly remember.
Like asking an ocean to dismiss
some of the rivers which bring it life.
If we can’t cry with joy and pain,
then the stars might as well ignore the night.
A Saturday Afternoon In Winter
Stride a littered path
Meld with pouring blue-clad crowd
Tense hope unites us.
Clanking turnstile squeeze
Concrete steps to bird’s eye view
Pie? Chips? Kit-kat? Tea?
Tinny music plays
Hi-vis cluster at tunnel
At last! Legs burst forth!
Expectant roaring
Ref’s hand high. Breathless hush. Shrill!
The precious first kick….
Pass, cross, pass again
Possession lost – tackle back
Foul, free kick, ball sails….
Their goalie hugs it
Strong kick lofts the ball forward
Boot connects. One down.
Despair engulfs – but
Fresh hope blossoms in sad souls –
Cutting pass to wing.
Man hacked down. Crowd growls!
Players rage. Ref waves yellow.
Free kick short. Wasted.
Their cross lands sweet. Shot –
Taut muscle blocks. Phew! I love
That solid player!
Tip-tap, lose ball. Sigh.
Tip-tap, back pass, tip-tap. Sigh.
Nose, bum, toes – all cold.
Corner. Shirts bob up.
Strong neck fires ball. Net bulges!
I burst with rapture!
But it’s the Cup! We
Need another. Nerves jangle.
Ball scrambled over…
It is theirs. Hearts bleed.
Their fans, then whistle, taunt us.
I drift home, grieving.
Today’s the day war broke out
For today was the day
The nation’s darkest hour
The outbreak of the
Second World War
85 years ago today
That sombre dawn when the guns
Were fired and the
Bombs of destruction and
Carnage across the globe
Tore through dumbfounded cities
Millions of villages
Ripping out helpless nations
Football stunned and paralysed
By the low, dull thud of grenade
The rattling chorus of bullets
Pumping out horrendous death
Seemingly indefinitely
A five year barrage of brutality
Killing fields and broken hearts
But football had to stop
On the day Neville Chamberlain
Subsequently declared war on Germany
Poor Blackpool for it was they
Who were top of the pile
Top of the old First Division
But never to taste the nectar
Of trophies at end of season
Revelry, if only
Hitler had not
Lost his temper
Sir Stanley Matthews
Dreaming of delirious waltzes
On the wing
Still shuffling and shimmying
Deceptively, mockingly
But never to be a winner
During that fateful season
Stan Mortensen, Bill Perry,
Jimmy Armfield in later years
So we’ll never know now
If the Tangerine Seasiders
From the Golden Mile
Of Blackpool would ever
Have paraded the League championship
So the wailing sirens went
The nation hid in underground
Railway stations
Forming lifelong friendships
But no football any more
For the time being
Just wiped out completely
By terrorism and frightening
Tyranny, imprisoned by
Evil forces
Flattened but hoping
That one day commonsense
Prevailed, but it was six
Years without football
Unthinkable but true
No more local derbies
Good natured,
Cheerful ribaldry
Managers at war
With opposition dug outs
But then, suddenly
A library of quiet
Silence,
Those nefarious Nazi
Murderers and barbarians
Saw to that
And yet it could have been
So different on this
Third day of September
If only Blackpool could
Have continued winning ways
Lancashire hot pots
Would have tasted of
Liquid gold
And football would
Have thrived and
Not put on hold
Stuck at the Bottom with You
Well I don’t know why we’re feeling this fright,
But it’s clear that something ain’t quite right.
And our noses feel so out of joint,
Three games played and not a single point!
Clowns in the Boardroom,
Snowflakes on the pitch,
Stuck at the bottom with you.
Now we kicked off against Brighton,
And they beat us by three goals to nil.
Then at Spurs we let four more in,
So again a case of Satis Nil.
But the Cherry on the cake
Was when Bournemouth scored three late,
When we’d thought a two-goal lead was enough…
After that we don’t know what to say.
Thank God here’s an International Break.
And then it’s Aston Villa we play –
Might sneak a point or three from that game.
Meanwhile there ain’t much that we can do,
Cos we’re… stuck at the bottom with you!
3/9/24
Denys E. W. Jones
The great Svengali
We thought we knew Sven
But of course we did
Even though the inscrutable Swede
Always kept everything
Locked up inside
From time to time
He would throw his head
To one side in anger
Baffled and livid
Incensed at himself
Because he thought it
Was his fault
His responsibility
In his debut World Cup
2002, it was a valiant attempt
But just short of the line
Then Becks came charging to
England’s rescue
That famous free kick
Against Greece
The last gasp equaliser
That sent us to yet more
World Cups and Euros
A never ending cycle
Of so close and yet so far
The edge and precipice
Where glory met Sven
On Mount Olympus
Before the cold shoulder
Of reality sent shivers
Down England’s spines
But Sven was never downhearted
Persistent with European
Art movements in his blood
The cultured approach
That England welcomed so
Delightedly, let’s learn
The pass and move mantra
Live from Nordic shores
Keep the ball on the deck
The long ball dinosaurs
Should now become extinct
Sven Goran Eriksson
We pay tribute to you
In passing to football heaven
Forget and forgive private
Misdemeanours, just recall
The Swede who changed the
English obsession with up
And under
Who always did things his way
The right mindset
RIP Sven
Rave On Sven RIP
“football is
beautiful and cruel”
rave on Sven
Happy Birthday Match of the Day
Happy Birthday Match of the Day
60 years old today, hey
And there we were thinking
That you were only 59
Where have the years
And decades gone
Since you arrived in
The world of
Harold Wilson’s
White Heat of Technology?
Swinging London
Possibilities and
Potentialities
Everything had life
Colourful vibrancy
London’s finest feelings
Everything rocked
Everybody danced
In Trafalgar Square
Fountains of any age
When Bobby and Nobby
Brought home the 1966 World Cup
To our doorstep, our village
Our city, the sprawling, stretching
Metropolis and then nationwide
Then, suddenly as if by magic
Match of the Day
Arrived, a bonny, bouncing baby
Healthy, screaming with joy
On that distant day, Kenneth Wolstenholme
From a fledgling BBC 2
Also in its infancy
Made that momentous introduction
Welcome to Beatleville
She loves you, yeah yeah
We came to idolise and worship
Match of the Day
Every Saturday
Initially at tea time
Just as dad threw his cap,
Scarf and rosette
Onto the rosewood dining table
Pools coupon tucked away
Discreetly but excitedly
Dad loosened his braces
Dug ravenously into his
Egg and chips feast
Match of the Day
He cried as if just
Promoted at work
With just a couple of shillings
More in his wage packet
Dad just had to be home
For black and white
Highlights of the big matches
Little cameos and snapshots
Of Saturday’s sweetest
Fragrances, burgers all around
On heaving, sweating terraces
Put the kettle on love,
It’ll be on shortly
Football as you’ve never seen it before
Football on the telly,
Said the doting husband
To his shocked wife
Not again she groans
With doleful despair
But it’s Match of the Day
From Anfield
Liverpool against Arsenal
Pass the ketchup, love
Before the opening credits
Of men in thick raincoats
Women with hair curlers
Large gatherings of football’s
Working class solidarity
Men with chiselled faces
Straight from the factory
Milling around Victorian turnstiles
Bobble hats perched strategically
On perfectly combed hair
Some in workaday suits, shirts
And ties
Must look good for
Match of the Day
Football from Highbury,
White Hart Lane, Anfield,
Old Trafford, Stamford Bridge
When Chopper Harris was but a boy
Giles, Lorimer,
Tambling, Venables,
Law, Best and Charlton
United’s Holy Trinity
White, Dyson and, Peter Thompson
On his debut Match of the Day,
Ian Callaghan, Roger Hunt
All par excellence
Football’s master crafstmen
In 1964, it was a revelation
A novelty, rather like
That treasured
Porcelain ornament
On our mantelpiece
But to this day
It still chants
That lovely old signature tune
In our head
That refuses to go away
Firstly reminiscent of
A wartime ditty
From our local brass band
But now associated
In the mind’s eye
With Jimmy Hill’s face
And a thousand cardboard
Cut out images
More extended highlights
Of the game’s spectacular
Moments to digest and drink in
First the late and deeply missed
John Motson, who just adored
The factual and obvious
Barry Davies, perfectly eloquent
Short, succinct, economical
With every word, sentences
Weighed carefully and lovingly
Jimmy Hill presiding like
A Roman emperor
Beard bristling with wisdom
Today Match of the Day
It’s your 6Oth birthday
Don’t forget the candles and cake
The drinks are on us
Saturday nights
Would never seem
The same, without you.
About This Site
Welcome to Football Poets -- a club for all football poets, lovers of football and lovers of (alternative) poetry. Discover poets in every league from respected internationals at the top of their game to young hopefuls in the school playground.
Publish your football poems here and then discuss them with your team mates and fans. We're archived by The British Library, so your masterpieces are in the safe hands of a world-class keeper. What a result!
My Account
Latest Poems
joe morris
17th November 2024
Crispin Thomas
17th November 2024
kevin halls
10th November 2024
joe morris
10th November 2024
Clik The Mouse
10th November 2024
Clik The Mouse
6th November 2024
Alex Saynor
6th November 2024
joe morris
29th October 2024
joe morris
17th October 2024
Denys E. W. Jones
16th October 2024
Crispin’s Corner
In Memoriam
Kick It Out & Christmas Truce
Latest Comments
13th September 2024 at 6:14 pm
Welcome to Football Poets Beth
Great evocative poem Beth….
More please !
Haiku always welcome.
Hope we (FGR) get to play you again soon
Best
Crispin
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26th July 2024 at 6:25 pm
Great poem Mike Bartram. Eddie was a legend, affectionately known in Liverpool as, “the first hooligan.” Even the hoolies were well dressed in those days. The amazing thing was he was only 26 when that picture was taken. He’d played for Everton youth team and was well known to the players. He never got arrested. They threw him out and he climbed back in, just in time for Derek Temples winner.
I used the picture of him being tackled to the ground on the front cover of my book, “Once Upon a rhyme in Football.” It’s worth looking on youtube and finding the re-enactment of the Wembley scene. Frank Skinner and Baddiel went around to Eddies home in the 1990’s and acted it out on the green outside. It’s hilarious, especially all the effort they put in to get Eddie sober enough to shoot the scene.
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10th July 2024 at 6:07 pm
Hi Crispin,
I don’t know if you’ve see the picture in social media today…
a picture of a teenage Lionel Messi cradling a baby in Africa as part of a photoshoot…. the family had won a lottery to have their baby pictured with him….
the photographer has just revealed that the baby is actually in fact Lamine Yamal!!!!
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26th May 2024 at 2:30 pm
Hi Denys…
Re Man City:
OK it was 20 years ago but Criag Wilson did write this and a few others on them back in 04/05.
BTW I’m more Forest Green Rover since 2014 (and Chelsea) these days . I drum and am a standing season ticket holder .
Best
Crispin
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29th April 2024 at 2:47 pm
Hi Denys,
Yes Richard Williams you’re a brilliant wordsmith, my friend. When I first saw your football poetry I thought it was the superb Guardian sports and music writer. I once had the honour of sitting next to Richard Williams while at the Independent on the sports desk. He writes about music and sport with immense knowledge and authority. I’ve read a couple of Richard’s books recently. Great writer rather like you Richard Williams the Pompey fan. Congratulations on promotion.
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28th April 2024 at 5:59 pm
Thanks Denys. Yes your replay poem was superb.
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26th April 2024 at 4:46 pm
Nice work, Joe. You were quick off the mark with that! Good one from Richard Williams too I see.
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25th April 2024 at 7:33 pm
Hi Denys,
Thanks mate. I’ll do it now.
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25th April 2024 at 1:56 pm
Thanks Joe,
you might like to write a poem yourself on the same subject…
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23rd April 2024 at 4:03 pm
Hi Denys
With you all the way on the abolition of FA Cup replays. What are they doing to the game?
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