A Welcome in November

In November 2009, we welcomed the following new contributors to this site :

Gary Tear

Mikey Walton

Hy Money

Obviously, a warm welcome to all, but a particularly warm welcome to Hy, who is Hyacinth Money, an esteemed photographer, the first female photographer issued a pass at Crystal Palace.

Her tale was charmingly told by our Palace friend, John J O’Connor, and now Hy has added her own contribution.

Click on the names above to see that person’s poem(s), or browse some selected first efforts below :

History Revisited

“We were there”, they all would say,
Regaling stories from “their day”,
As if they thought we would not see,
Silverware at LFC,

Now I am not a pessimist,
Thus when the stories did desist,
I did recount quite happily,
Delicious, fictitious memory,

Now “I was there” with crowds en masse,
Rejoicing the incisive pass,
The finish with such poise unseen,
Our cheering to uplift the team,

Against the odds, against the wall,
Booming out our battle call,
Striving for the win we ache,
(Palpitations each mistake!)

And then as if by cosmic force,
With roaring voices going hoarse,
The Reds adhere to our demands,
Causing rapture in the stands,

Final whistle cements the glee!
Opponents treated gracefully,
Family, friends, they start to phone,
For We Will Never Walk Alone

The drinks they flow; the bars we pack,
A Big Red Army, on the attack,
(N.B – No confusion with the “Commy”
This units packed with “Scouser Tommy!)

…But as I wake from such a dream,
It begs the question – It would seem;
Will I ever see for real,
This atmosphere I long to feel?

I think… As if it’s plain to see,
It wasn’t fictitious memory!
Indeed I saw a night so full,
In a far off place called Istanbul

© Mikey Walton

St James’ Park forever…

IF you can keep your name when other clubs
Are losing theirs and blaming it on the latest coup,
If you can trust yourself when Ashley betrays you,
But make allowance for his betrayal too;
If you can wait for him to go and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied to, don’t believe his lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating him,
And yet don’t like, nor talk of Dennis Wise:

If you can dream of promotion – and not make it your master;
If you can drink brown ale – and not make fighting your aim;
If you can meet with Ashley and Llambias – what a disaster
And treat those two impostors with great shame;
If you can hear the Gallowgate sing – then they have spoken
Their bitter memories of McKeag, Gullit and Cort,
If you can watch the team we give our lives to, broken,
And stoop and build ’em up again with undying support:

If we can make one heap of all our winnings
And risk it on last seasons’ utter dross,
Relegation a chance to start again at our beginnings
And never breathe a word about our loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after Ashley has gone,
And so hold on lads ‘n’ lasses when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

If you can play Scunthorpe or Swansea and keep your virtue,
Or play with Man U or Chelsea and not lose the common touch,
If neither mackems nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the pitch with determination and grit
With ninety minutes’ worth of distance run,
Yours is (and always will be) St James’ Park and everything that’s in it,
And – which is more – you’ll be a Geordie, my son!

© Gary Tear

Angry Goals

Angry Goals

They were grunting and chomping like chimpanzees
when the black man got the ball.
“Chuck him some bananas” the crowds were heard to call.
“Hey you black man listen. I’ll tell you what to do
Go and join your brothers in the cages of the zoo.”

I watched the black man closely,
looked for signs of strain.
Does he hear their evil chanting?
Does he feel a stabbing pain?

But his face like chiseled ebony,
not a sinew did he twitch
perhaps their ugly voices
just dissolved above the pitch.

‘Twas many moments later,
without a backward glance,
he thundered the ball in the back of the net
the ‘keeper stood no chance.

As the ball punched a hole in the netting,
so his fists punched a hole in the air
directed towards the now silent crowd
as if to say “you dare!”

And so it was, week after week.
Christ! Will they never let up
but he kept on scoring those angry goals
’till his Team they won the Cup.

The black man was called up for England.
He scored the most goals of all
but the memories still haunted him
he remembered their mocking calls.

But now, it’s a different story
with an England shirt upon his back
they can scroll his name in the Hall of Fame
no one cares if he’s white or black.

© HY Money Nov 8th 2009


Source: https://footballpoets.org/news/2009/12/01/a-welcome-in-november-2/