Welcome to Alan McKean & Glenn & …..
When I returned from a trip away last year, there was someone who had just started submitting to the site : Peter Goulding – and what an impact he’s had! Pete has to be one of our most poular and prolific poets.
Having just returned again from holyers, I’m enjoying catching up with another new crop : a warm welcome to Rob Lyn, Angela Stevens, Mark ‘Seahorse’ Staniforth, Glenn Walker and Alan McKean.
I’m reproducing a poem apiece from Glenn and Alan below. Glenn has been writing with real passion about his fears of Bradford City folding.
Alan McKean obviously works (or did) at Bolton Wanderers Reebok Stadium. He has been giving us a wonderful insight into the behind-the-scenes activies at a Premiership club. Fascinating stuff.
City ’til I Die
My heart beats faster with each passing hour,
My nerves are flaying at the thought,
A once proud club is at deaths door,
No solace can be sought.
No floodlit nights, no sunlit days,
No breathing in the thrill,
No fears, no tears, no joy, no pain,
No singing out at will.
No Wolves or Wembley, no Liverpool,
No great escape or more,
No heroes, foes or enemies,
No last bus home, no score.
No red and gold, no tales be told,
No dancing girls, no sound,
Only emptiness and decay is left,
On the Bradford City ground.
The ghosts of heroes from years gone by,
Wander through the gloom,
Whilst the pain and torment we suffer now,
Is pending on our doom.
One hundred years, ten thousand tears,
A million questions, why?
But no matter what the answer is,
“I’m City ‘Til I Die.”
© Glenn J Walker July 2004
And as for Alan McKean : So many good contributions to choose from! Being a big old softie, I’ve gone for two moving tributes.
Maine Road – Late 1950’s
I remember walking with my dad
To watch the mighty Blues
Ply their trade at Maine Road.
When you’re six or seven
A mile and a bit walk seems a world away,
Even when you’re small hand in large.
As you tramp through late 1950’s Manchester,
With it dark and damp winter streets
And its hissing trolley buses,
You anticipate, in your six-year-old way, the game.
But your first port of call
Is the “Big Alex”
So dad can have a pint before the match.
All the dads inside, with a pint
All us kids outside, with our crisps and lemonade.
It was acceptable then.
Time to go, the Kippax calls.
Will Bert Trautmann play, or Joe Hayes?
At six or seven, you don’t care,
You’re just happy to be there,
With your dad.
Special days back then.
The results weren’t that important to you,
Just being there, was.
City centre grounds were like family gatherings.
You stood in the same spot each fortnight, with the same people around you.
Players weren’t paid in telephone numbers
Tickets didn’t cost an arm and two legs,
But then, the grounds were tatty and smelly.
Times change, and the Blues now play in luxury,
And results are everything.
All games must be won.
The faithful now demand results
In exchange for their costly tickets.
© Alan McKean July 2004
Thanks dad (Died 1983)
The Groundsman
Lovingly, tenderly
He walks his hallowed turf
And ponders the dreams to be played out there.
From Arsenal to Manchester United to-
Almost any team, depending on the cup run.
He knows each blade of grass,
Knows when to cut,
When to water
When and where to make repairs.
Each square inch
Has been lovingly tended
Over the long summer break.
A long cut, a close cut
His decision.
As the opening game approaches,
The pitch is cut to perfection,
Marked out with precision.
The image seen is a tribute to his art.
The manager,
The players,
The Tv pundits,
All congratulate him on the outcome,
Before they start their work on his masterpiece.
He knows that his grass must stand the test of time,
But he’s just as professional as the players.
He knows it will.
The players also acknowledge his craft.
A professional.
© Alan McKean July 2004
For Richard at the Reebok Stadium
but for all groundsmen, who create the arena
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
Gacina Bozidar
3rd February 2023
Gacina Bozidar
3rd February 2023
joe morris
3rd February 2023
Stuart Butler
2nd February 2023
Denys E. W. Jones
30th January 2023
joe morris
29th January 2023
Crispin Thomas
25th January 2023
joe morris
23rd January 2023
Denys E. W. Jones
23rd January 2023
joe morris
14th January 2023
Crispin’s Corner
In Memoriam
Kick It Out & Christmas Truce
Latest Comments
5th December 2022 at 8:11 pm
Stuart, you are not alone, in your dichotomy of doubt
but without dissention
you stand alone
in hogging our attention!
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16th November 2022 at 11:04 am
[Football on soiled turf]
This is a wonderful phrase which I shall be using from now on!
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15th November 2022 at 3:54 pm
Well said Crispin. One of the reasons for The Ball 2022/23 is exactly this – that FIFA need to know. The Ball is essentially a petition to FIFA to honour their commitments to the UN Sports for Climate Action Framework. They signed up; they should act. The Qatar tournament takes the World Cup in the opposite direction to that commitment. And 2026 looks like it’ll be even worse.
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8th November 2022 at 2:06 pm
Hi Guys
Re ‘Lets Boycott Qatar ‘ poem
You probably hate me banging on..and problably know (like me) that my/your not watching the World Cup in Qatar will make no difference.
Of course it won’t. That’s not the point.
OK someone might possibly eventually publish a minimal drop in terrestrial TV viewer numbers, but I fear that is unlikely.
But please above all, do go on writing poems about the World Cup, as/you we have always done. I hate to think a poem or two of mine might l make you feel bad about comenting on a game or country …or that I’ve put you all off about wanting to contribute.
So we’d love to hear from you and read your thoughts and observations, as ever on what’s going on.
Some of us have been here since Football Poets website birth/inception for the Euros 2000 ….
All my best wishes
Crispin
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18th October 2022 at 10:06 am
Shoot! (Something we’ve also been screaming in vain at our team all season !)
Great memories Joe . Before Shoot, it was Roy of the Rovers comic too, dropping through my letterbox.
Anxiously waiting each week to see if they survived in the mexcian jungle after an ambush..or a pre-season earthquake!
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3rd October 2022 at 8:32 pm
Thanks for the kind words Sharon. Yes, it was a shame with Billy Shako, but with five subs now being allowed, he might yet make it off the bench. Even if it’s just a cameo to close out a poem.
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2nd October 2022 at 1:49 pm
John, your new book is an absolute delight and more please. It’s a shame ‘Swapping Shirts With Shakespeare’ never made it off the bench, but quality football poets light up the writing fields like Roman candles. Go well.
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4th September 2022 at 12:42 pm
Great memories Greg. Took me right back.
Today I stand on a small terrace in the hills where I live watching Forest Green Rovers in L1, and keep up with Chelsea on highlights. It’s a far cry and a world away from those times when I lived as a child within walking distance of ‘The Bridge’ – just off the Ifield Road, which led to Fulham Road. The Blues were rubbish for so long, but we loved them and somehow we stayed in the old First Division for so many seasons. And of course we got to see Greavesie at his impudent best, scoring goals for fun. Mad unpredictable games where we’d score 4 and let in five.
The looming floodlights in the dark and mist on magic night games. The big games when the ground heaved.
I don’t think we ever realized how magical and incredible it was back then. The atmosphere and arriving there so early – like you said.. just to make sure you got in. Back when Bovril, tea and cake and roasted peanuts for sixpence a back were just about all on offer.
Good times.
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4th September 2022 at 12:37 pm
see above
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18th August 2022 at 10:20 am
To put it politely!
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