Poems tagged ‘Leeds United’

How low can you go?

Football chants can be a source of great joy.
I was at Elland Road one Saturday
when the home fans taunted hapless local
rivals Barnsley, whose full back had just shanked
the ball into the stand where I was sitting,
by singing, ‘Have you been watching Torquay?’
What a cheek I complained, albeit true.
We were bottom of the Football League,
heady heights to us today. Football chants
can also be a source of great shame.
Many are out of Torquay fans’ reach. We
never play Man U so can’t riff on Munich;
nor Liverpool’s poverty, we have food banks ;
but a Yeovil player’s suicide? Too low.

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Oi Ref…Swap Goalie?

“Oi Ginger! Go in goal?
Jimmy, you’re no good so ‘n so
You’re as useful as a fork for sipping soup”,

“Ginger, I know you wanna play full- back
But six-two down, us getting thrashed
You in goal, there’s a chance we might improve”.

Sporting a raging bleating hump
I gave leather spherical a thump
Spat on me gloves, crossed myself in prayer
Dancing back to guard the battered goal
Cursing Jimmy, the so ‘n so
Firing daggers at him via a flaming glare.

Punching a corner unopposed
I’m dancing on tip toes
Twelve years old the saviour of the side
Wallowing in wondrous self esteem
I’m every London-Irish captain’s dream…
That young fella, Enda called to stem the tide.

In the eighteen yard box on me Tod
Rising rueful from the dewy sod
Smell of dubbined leather neath me chin
A gorgeous face beside the goal
Smiles, applauds, and stops mid-stroll,
“Hello Ginger bhoy, I’m Enda’s cousin, Erin”.

Making saves, struggling to talk
Fazed by simmering brown eyes, here, from Cork
A welcome distraction to keep the deficit at six
Braggadocio insists I scream, n shout
Inspiration of a sculptured marble pout
Leaning on my post, a blade a grass between moist lips.

The final whistle blows…six-four
Enda roars, “Three Cheers”, (Can’t recall who for?)
I’ve other stuff in mind than to shake a muddy hand
Striding across a sodden field of green
All of a sudden, my recently discovered dream
Sped off in the front of a Transit van, with Enda’s mam.

Christening Hooley, a table full of mates
Enda mentioned, Erin emigrated to The States
Wed a good for nothing lazy get, gave up the ghost
I prefer to recall the day, fate deemed I go in goal
Simmering brown eyes caressed my soul
Blade a grass twixt moist lips, pouting ‘gainst a post.

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Heaven Struck By Thunderbolt (R.I.P Peter Lorimer)

The strike of a thunderbolt blasts past Heaven’s Gates
and God says to Jack Charlton
“‘ere’s one of your mates,
I know Trevor and Norman
will be both happy too,”
as he nods to Saint Peter
to let Lorimer through.

“There’s a place for you Peter
out there on that wing.
Now be easy with your shooting
cos your shots don’t ‘arf sting.”

So he met with his Leeds team- mates
and they reminisced of the past
as Revie watched proudly
at Peter having a blast.

So Rest in Peace to the Scotsman
with the right foot of power
that terrified free kick walls
and made goalkeepers cower.

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Big Jack Charlton – 1935-2020

Hard nosed and rock solid stopper
Ashington lad who never give up
A rock beside Bobby Moore
When England won the World Cup

With the greatest Eire team of all
Euro 88, Italia 90
USA 94, Jack, the folk hero
Both sides of the Irish sea

With Leeds a one club man
League, FA Cup, a good craic
An entire career at Elland Road
Goodbye, farewell big Jack

11 07 20

© emdad rahman

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Big Jack’s Gone – Jack Charlton RIP

football through and through

‘Big Jack’ towered over all

hard man leader boss

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Leeds United 1970

Mick Jones, feet slightly splayed, white boots bearing
Down on goal, muscle and heft and steaming;
Alan Clarke, malice and cunning, rat-sharp,
Arms isoscele’d, sleeves gripped tight, net keen.
Lorimer of the thick hair, burl, looking
To kill with a kick that fat old leather ball
With no twist or swerve – mere velocity.
Johnny Giles, wily as an Irish poet;
Bremner an undying flame, constant heat.
Charlton and Hunter: would you dare argue?
Cooper, dark, otter sleek, wing back before
Such things were. Poor Madeley: ‘utility’.
But how to speak of Gary Sprake. Remembered
For error and mistake, and for being Welsh.
Reaney and Gray must await another day.
I was no Leeds supporter, but at twelve
This was the team that stamped itself into
Memory’s mould, which has not loosed its hold.

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Source: https://footballpoets.org/news/poem-tags/leeds-united/