|

Poetry Archives

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

Be the first to leave a comment »

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

Be the first to leave a comment »

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

Be the first to leave a comment »

Rave On Sven RIP

“football is
beautiful and cruel”
rave on Sven

Be the first to leave a comment »

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.

Be the first to leave a comment »

My Big Comeback!

This was to be my comeback stage.
Playing once more at my advanced age.
This big match took place in my head.
It was a dream last night I had in bed!

I came on as sub to ‘change the game’.
To live up to my old ‘hot shot’ nickname!
I had opponents worried from the start.
When they saw me clutching my heart!

But it was a false alarm so I carried on.
Sadly, even in my dreams my pace had gone!
So much for my new replacement knee.
And without my specs, I could hardly see!

I didn’t touch the ball in my cameo role.
No raids down the wing…no sight of goal!
I couldn’t leave the ground to nod the ball.
Because my lift off engines chose to stall!

This wasn’t the footy dream I had in mind.
A ticking clock, I was hoping to rewind!
Also, I noticed a strange lingo players spoke.
Words like ‘pivot’s I heard before I awoke!

This new terminology was a bit of a shock.
Apparently we faced some kind of ‘low block’
What all this meant, I had to hazard a guess.
And in my day, I was never instructed to ‘press’.

But, my memories remain, press clips and so.
Of how it used to be, all those years ago!
A few hat tricks and the odd ‘5 star’ display.
In those good old days, when I used to play!

The morale of this story, my sad dream and tale.
Is that dreams mean nothing, if in them you fail!
And that real comeback, that I planned in head.
Well that idea, I have put well and truly to bed!

Be the first to leave a comment »

Football Eh?

Football’s back, the crowd’s go wild,
brand new kit for every child,
the beautiful game is back in play,
where players strut and display,
their outlandish haircuts, bold and bright,
a fashion statement, it’s quite a sight.
Tattoos inked with reckless glee,
players pose because they’re on TV,
offside flags go up and down,
strikers’ smiles turn to a frown.
Yellow cards are flying high,
Red cards wave as players cry.
Referee squints at the big, bright screen,
is it a goal, or just a dream?
A goal’s been scored, the fans all shout,
but wait, hang on, VAR’s ruled it out.
Top of the league, the fans all sing,
the manager’s hailed as the king,
but when they’re bottom, he is hated,
sacked in the morning, see you later!
A few weeks in, it’s like it’s never been away,
only another nine months to go,
Football, eh?

Be the first to leave a comment »

New season.

New season
Familiar songs
Different days
Billiard top green
Surfaces
Thick, horizontal
Lines and
Symmetrical hopes
And dreams
Freshly painted terraces
Turnstiles oiled
No longer rusty or careworn
Forlorn remnants of last season’s
Headlines and back page glorification
Today, this weekend
The klaxon call to arms
Ammunition primed and ready
At Arsenal
City, just synchronised
As usual for a record breaking
Fifth successive Premier League
Land of paradise
Even now in the middle of August
It just feels like the beginning
Of spring
It feels as though Manchester City
Have no time frame or
Specific moment
But the leading contenders
At the top are sure
To be breathing fire
Down the necks
Of the bourgeois elite
Liverpool will take their slot
In the top six
Under Arne’s Anfield army
The Kop will gather
In their plush all seated pomp
Rather than swaying and surging
Like the Albert Dock in full flow
With only a whispering murmur
From Shanks, Bob Paisley
And Joe Fagan
From the inner sanctum
Of the Boot Rooms
Of the past
It’s the start of another
Nine month marathon
Where points will be shared
In the intimate gatherings
Of the Vitality Stadium
Where Bournemouth will no
Longer be punching above their weight
And the Premier League newcomers
Who are the Tractor Boys
Of Ipswich will be fondly
Recalling Sir Bobby and Sir Alf
Coaching geniuses
Undoubtedly so
One a League Championship winner
And the other FA Cup winners
In 1978 and Osbourne
Never looked back in anger
And then the Saints
Southampton back among
The holier than thou
St Mary’s will be
Bulging at the seams
Ready to acclaim
A modern day Terry Paine,
Mickey Channon, Phil Bowyer,
KK, Kevin Keegan and dear
Bobby Stokes, oh dearly beloved
Lawrie at the helm
Always calm, no sweat
Guardsman, ramrod straight
But this season
The Premier League promises
A contest of thrills
Spills, the mysterious
VAR with its mystical aura
The goals that should have been
But never were
The ones that took centuries
To decide but then
Needed the services of another
TV screen
Just in case the vision
Was blurred
And incurred the wrath
Of the home faithful,
Football no longer
The province of certainty
And immediacy
Just lost in a raging whirlwind
Of penalties given
Because the ball hit the back
Of elbows or
The edge of finger nails
It’s the Premier League
Season, yet again
Blow that whistle
It’s good to be back

Be the first to leave a comment »

Ten to Three (Darlo at Home)

So, the season’s started ‘alright’…
Marine gave us a fright,
but a goal mouth scramble
right at the death
and Bradley Stretton
made it right.

It’s a point on the board!

“But it should’a been more,”
matey-boy says,
and others agree,
over pre-match pints
and a burger and fries,
beating the queue,
at the hatch at the Farm.
Chewing the cud
and sharing news –
plenty more home shirts,
white and blue;
just minutes to go…

For Darlo at home.

Darlington; Darlo;
known as ‘The Quakers’;
traveling down to the Mini-Makers
and bringing a crowd –
who are already singing,
already loud –
seeking a point (or three)
of their own
for the board;
they’re up for it, boys,
that’s for sure…

“2-0 Darlo written all over it,”
matey-boy says; but few agree.
Nip for a pint.
It’s ten to three…

#rowanthepoem

Be the first to leave a comment »

Crucial Stops at Critical Times

After all that transpired: injuries, bereavements, heartaches,
relegation to No.3 before a transfer back to Cardiff Met:
crucial stops at critical times.

After everything you didn’t plan –
the sun behind a cloud over Mumbles,
the re-take when you stepped off your line:
crucial stops at critical times.

After everything you thought was right –
research on penalty takers in the whole League of Wales,
a cancelled engagement with the Gowerton guy:
crucial stops at critical times.

After all you never thought would happen:
a narrow win at Caerphilly Castle,
Briton Ferry for the soul’s dark night:
crucial stops at critical times.

After everything that wasn’t good enough:
the diet they said you over-carbed
with extra beer though you hadn’t won.
But now the final’s here and what do we find?
Crucial stops at critical times.

After all that happened in lockdown:
the virus and its lingering insidious effects,
with all the Dunkin’ Donuts trainers said
would dull your edge, but now you’re one ahead –
with an engraving primed –
making crucial stops at critical times.

Be the first to leave a comment »

Source: http://footballpoets.org/poems/page/4/