Poems tagged ‘Premier League’

The penultimate weekend

We knew it would come down
To this day,
This penultimate weekend
The final drum rolls
That Premier League percussion
Rumbling across the days
Of Sabbath and rest
A thrilling frisson
Of activity, tension
At snapping point
37 games and one or two to go
Down by the Cottage
Where the River Thames flows
And tomorrow
The Theatre of Dreams
Rehearsing their lines
A Sunday matinee
Who knows?
Manchester United and
Arsenal go head to head
While down at the bottom
The Hatters
Will be searching for
Mesmerising milliners
At the London Stadium
The sun will have its
Hat on
Luton Town
Must hope
Burnley searching
Among the debris
Of their season
For nuggets of gold
Lowry will be clasping
Desperate hands
And closing rheumy eyes
Relegation like a
Guillotine over
Charcoal mills
Tumbling down those
Well sculpted hills
Yet it could be
At Turfmoor
Where match stick
Kids and dogs
On the corner of
Their factory gates who
Once oozed industry,
Diligence and
Industrial might
You can never tell
Will it be Forest
Peering through
The canopy of trees
That comforted them
Season through season?
And yet at the top
City are very much
On their now traditional
Starting point
Of the grid
They’ve seen this before
Neck and neck with Arsenal
Purring and humming
With North London melodies
Will the Cottagers bring it
Home to breaking point
For the incomparable City?
Hearts thumping
Magical arteries?
Or will Pep pip the Gooners
Once again
We can hardly look
The Gunners visit the
Theatre of Dreams
Centre stage,
Treading the boards
Where United’s Fergie
Once orchestrated
The mood music
At Old Trafford
Arsenal will be
The invited guests
To the party
They must hope
Of a lifetime
It’s been 20 years
Now since Arsene Wenger
That purple prose polyglot
A man of so many languages
Football through and through
Lifted so many Premier League
Titles at the Emirates
And halcyon Highbury
Tomorrow could be Arsenal’s
Day of days
A penny for your thoughts
George Graham
Since you were the catalyst
For Arsenal
In those tantalising last
Seconds at Anfield 1989
Or will it be City again?
A quartet of Premier League
It could happen,
Edge of seat scenarios
Surely the greatest team
Since, well United and
Liverpool were kings
Of both England and the
Rest of Europe
Klopp now leaving on the last
Train on Lime Street platform
Surely the Merseysiders
Will narrowly miss out
On the jubilant jubilee
The final words
Of this classic novel
It’s been a masterclass
Undoubtedly so
What a season
But come the end of the
Weekend we will know
Who’s who
The destiny of destinies
Red or light blue
It surely will be
London or the North West
Of England’s cultured
Neatly drawn contours
Battling for the
Ultimate honour
The icing on the cake
As an impartial neutral
It’s Arsenal
Because London is our home
But the Citizens
Of City, Manchester you know
Will be upright and respectable
It’s too close to call
City and Arsenal
Top prizes for one and
All, Premier League
Those last but one shows

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The Tractor Boys are back

So Ipswich Town are back
In the Premier League
Boiling furnace
Let’s go crazy in the fenlands
It’s been simply ages
Since the agricultural heartlands
Of Suffolk witnessed
Seasonal harvests of goals
And goal scorers
Fallow grounds and
Hollow defeats
For seemingly an eternity
Nothing to lift broken spirits
At Portman Road
The end of the world
If not quite
For decade upon decade
But then the Phoenix
Rose from the ashes
And today the Tractor Boys
Ploughed the ultimate furrow
Ipswich now buoyed
By the memory
Of victorious Sir Alf
The man who reluctantly
Danced with the World Cup
When his mind gave him
Permission to do so
Back in 1966 for England
But then Crawford and Phillips
Had been hot as the sun
Up front
Several years before
Before Ipswich won the old
First Division
League Championship
Barely believable
But future generations
Of Tractor Boys
Have planted the seeds
Of another revolution
Sir Bobby Robson
Yet another England legend
Once coaxed and nurtured
The sprightly striplings
Of Eric Gates, Trevor Whymark,
The much missed David Johnson
Goals in every suburb, town
Village and City
Of the British shires
Mick Mills at the back
Like an immovable door
None ever passed his way
Kevin Beattie, stern, solid
As the brick wall made of
The strongest cement
And Clive Woods
Finding his feet in the
Heather and gorse
Of prickly defences
A winger of the highest class
Teasing, twisting, humiliating
Dropping shoulders, dummying
With dashing distinction
Then floating crosses for
Johnson who never shirked
Headers and persevered
Until whistle’s end
Ipswich so close to winning
The old First Division
But then narrowly missing
Out by a hairs breadth
A red combine harvester
Named Liverpool had far
Too many missiles in
Their elegant repertoire
Never mind
Perhaps their day will come
Still, let’s bask in the glow
Of today’s Ipswich
Back on nodding terms
With the millionaire elite
Of the Premier League’s
Movers and shakers
Like that richly furnished
Mahogany cabinet
We’d always varnished
With loving care
The loveliest porcelain
Ornament that time
Will never forget
Welcome back Ipswich
One of those oldest friends
Save me a seat at the
Emotional reunion
When the Premier League
Gathers together again
In August, it should be
In august surroundings

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The top three battle it out

And so the Premier League
Hits the final straight
It’s good to be Friday
But tomorrow promises
To be even better
Even more virtuous
Boats on the Thames
Over the weekend
For traditional
University head to head
Since time immemorial
For Oxford and Cambridge
Read Manchester City and
Arsenal while never overlooking
Liverpool on their shoulders
Tally ho chaps
Let the battle commence
It could be the most
Gripping Premier League
Title race
Since both Liverpool
And Arsenal arrived
Together at the
Finishing post
At an Anfield
Fever pitch
And Nick Hornby
Was poised to pen
Literature that sung
In our hearts and his
1989, Tony Adams
Alan Smith and then
Michael Thomas
The game now at boiling point
Another crashing, dramatic
Crescendo of noise
The last kick of the game
It certainly was up for grabs
Much loved Brian uttered
Thomas through and then jabbing
The ball into the net
The old League Championship
In the Gunners pocket
Now though Arteta’s artists
Poised for a reproduction
Of that scintillating moment
When football simply
Went above the call of duty
Surpassing all other nights
Arsenal, it could be their
Season of seasons
The fans think they deserve
It for being who they are
It’s their prerogative to be
League Champions
Since their history demands
Yet another trophy
At the Emirates
Odegaard, Saka, Rice,
It has to be inscribed
On that gleaming silverware
And nobody would begrudge them
Yet more glorious feats
Of skill, strength and athleticism
Passing from Mount Olympus
But then there’s City
In their rear view mirror
Threatening to overtake
If heavy traffic gets in their way
Pep’s football painters
Manchester City are clinging onto
The coat tails, never
Underestimate football’s classicists
Always playing from memory and instinct
Serene as the softest breezes
From the whispering winds
Silence please
The top three heavyweights
Are preparing their assaults
For the crucial finishing line
The winning feeling
The open top bus parade
Around those local streets
Where so many victorious fans
Gathered from everywhere
Last but not least Liverpool
But of course
Klopp’s last throw of the dice
Anfield is presumptuous
And almost expects
Almost as many as trophies
As their fierce rivals
Glinting reflections of
Yesteryear when Bill Shankly,
Bob Paisley, Bertie Mee
And George Graham
Then the professor Arsene Wenger
Who was remarkably unbeatable
During that season of Invincibles
While City were profusely thankful
To Joe Mercer, Malcolm Allison,
Manuel Pellegrini
Gave City status and stature
Recognition in the shadow
Of Fergie’s United
Manchester United
Who set the tone and pitch
Manchester’s giants
Now boasting and gloating
Premier League titles
Crowned on the same day
At season’s end
So the Premier League
Lifts the handbrake
Presses the accelerator
Pedal, go for it
Let this one go
To the final day
Of the season
Radios by the ear
On terraces of tears
And trepidation
Then that indefinable
Feeling of
Yes we’ve done it
Lap of honour
The Premier League
Is theirs, ours,
How we relish it

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Spurs – top of the Premier League surely not

And now for something
Completely different
Startling and totally
Spurs are top of the
Premier League
Gasps of astonishment
On the Richter scale
Colossal shifting of
Tectonic plates
Surely not
Last located as
Ruling emperors
In the land of trophies
That was the era
Of revolution
Rampant materialism
Spurs win the old
First Division
In the days of Cliff’s
Summer Holiday
Adam Faith’s warbling
Breathless tonsils
Adored by the screaming
Girls from the beehive age
The personification of
Youthful rock star
Back in 1961 and 62
The Double Diamonds
Of White Hart Lane
Intoxicated our souls
With classical intonations
Spurs once monarchs
Of North London
In the throne room
Along the Seven Sisters Road
Spurs once marched
Imperiously down
Well trodden pavements
With Bill Nick
Bill Nicholson’s Double
Almost an ancient artefact
Deeply buried in the
Haunted crypt of decades
Long since gone
But of course Spurs have
Been top of the house
Before but now consigned
To the yellowing pages of
History, historic
Football literature
Kings of the castle
Once but not since
The dawn of the Sixties
Steel shutters guarding
Their impenetrable fortress
When Terry Dyson streamlined,
The sumptuous flowering
Of only one Bobby Smith
A player written in golden scriptures
Learned in the arts of the striker’s
Finishing school
Then there was Danny Blanchflower
A member of Bill Nick’s
Midfield nobility
A player of regal status
Statesmanship and subtlety
Poise and sitting aloft
With the crown of authority
Upon that always receptive head
Groaning with idealism
Never flustered, ruffled
Or rumpled, just in charge
Of a centre circle
Vastly knowledgeable
A model of footballing
Erudition who once snubbed
Red book of life
Then there were the days
Of Hoddle and Waddle,
Crooks and Archibald
Ricky and Ossie
Presiding over their
Rugged landscape
Of Cup Final glory days
And who could ever forget
Nice One Cyril Knowles
John Pratt, Mike England
Just impassable
You’re not coming in
Without a ticket sir,
Steve Perryman Tottenham
In his bloodstream
From birth
Genetically dependable
Captain of the ship
Land ahoy ladies and gentleman
Perryman a leader by nature
And nurture
Lifting the FA Cup in 1981
While our pals from the pampas
Ossie and Ricky
Gingerly skipped across
Old Wembley’s timeless charms
Teachers of the tango
To Tottenham’s lively dance floor
Fleet of feet,
Dainty and dextrous
But never Strictly
Now though today
Tottenham are back at the top
Not for long the noisy Gooners
Neighbours must hope
Since these are infant days
Of autumn and September dews
Mists and mellow fruitfulness
Crunching, sweeping
Playful yellow leaves
The last conkers
Of the season
Now just a fleeting reminder
Of back then
Winter awaits
Judgments reserved
It’s a long and gruelling
Season spanning endless
Bridges of the present
There’s a long way to go
So be prepared for the
Marathon, Spurs
Next May and Premier
League debating tables
Have yet to whisper
And mutter triumphant
Your winning trophy
After 60 years of drought
Is not even an embryo
Or thought

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Premier League round up.

So North London
Reigns supreme
Rivalry intensified
The fires of antagonism
Leaping flames and pouring
Smoke gushing forth
From the Tottenham Hotspur
Stadium and the Emirates
Arsenal and Spurs level pegging
At the top of the Premier League
Smouldering animosities
Passions overwhelming
Locked in loathing
Nothing between them
A rare sight
But both leading the way
Spurs yesterday straightening
The trilbies and boaters
Of Luton’s Hatters
Who must have thought they’d
Turned a corner at Goodison
With a first win in the top flight
But even happy Harry Haslam
Would have been downcast
And disheartened
By Luton’s brave facade
Against Spurs stylish carriage
Sadly not enough on the day
For the team that the Stein brothers
And Lil Fuccillo once graced
With Bedfordshire graciousness
Not quite the way they
Would have wished to see
Premier League newcomers
Doffing their hat at a rakish tilt
Today of course Arsenal
Never the amiable neighbours
Finally shut the door in the face
Of Manchester City
Three precious points for the Gunners
1-0 to the Arsenal, a familiar refrain
Almost the National Anthem at Highbury
Land of Hope and Glorious Arsenal
Emirates immersed in title
Winning fantasies
Yesterday though in the land
Of Lancashire hot pots and
Lowry’s matchstick men
And once thriving industrial mills
Burnley in the best company
Of Vincent lost in the world
Of Chelsea’s threshing machine
Four of the best from
Mauricio’s men from the Bridge
Sterling in the finest currency
Chelsea up and running
Then Roy’s Palace find
Their butlers and servants
Standing guard
At the gates of
The Forest predators
Foraging for scraps
And discovering no goals
A rigid stalemate
Selhurst goal-less
A pointless exercise
But a pleasant day
For South London bathers
In October’s lovely
Saturday of warmth and willingness
Not for the lack of trying
Then Everton’s Toffees
Chew the fat at Goodison
And emerge from early season’s
Stressful travails
Cherry picking through
The Bournemouth fields
A bumper harvest of three
To soothe the savage breast
Easy but never that easy
For demanding Evertonians
Then back at the Cottage
The thatched grandeur
By the River Thames
Fulham, plain sailing
Against the steely glare
Of Sheffield and its
United’s now blunt Blades
This could be a season
Of cutting comments
At Brammall Lane
At this stage
History is racing away
For Paul Heckingbottom
If omens are needed for
Sharper wits and survival
Then it has to turn
For this must be uncomfortable
Watching for those
Who have seen it all before
You fear the worst
But the season is still young
Meanwhile Old Trafford
Shakes off more August
And September rust
Manchester United slow
And sluggish out of the blocks
And in danger of sinking into
The stinking cesspit of struggle
Yesterday United sting
Brentford’s bees
Venomous in the dying embers
While the Hammers
Meet the Geordie Toon
Honours even
A score draw most welcome
In claret and blue hearths
While the Seagulls of Brighton
Find Klopp’s Liverpool
In generous mood
With yet another share of the spoils
Autumn in blue and white stripes
Crunching of leaves
By seaside serenity
And finally in the Midlands derby
Wolves and Villa
Clash over the garden fence
They must stop meeting like this
Draw of course the outcome
We sensed from a mile away
The Premier League
Now rests its weary limbs
For international break time
Yet again

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Another Premier League season

Oh well that’s another
Premier League season tucked away
Into the cherished cupboards
Of yesteryear
Momentoes of the loveliest niche
Of our minds and senses
Etched into the essence
Of our soul and sentimental corner
Of our precious lives
Manchester City and West Ham
Crowned as European Champions
In their respective ways
City claiming the more
Prestigious of trophies
But the Hammers rightly
Elated by perhaps
A once in a lifetime experience
In historic Prague
Perhaps another moment
In the esteemed literature of
The game
Living in the future
It’s a mirage of possibility
But the cynics say
Never again
We’ll prove the doubters wrong
Europa League holders
Next season. Oh no
In the land of fantasy
And hyperbole
Some Hans Christian Andersen
Anecdote where mystical myths
Will laugh heartily at claret
And blue ambitions
Shakespeare insisting
From the distance of time
Long, long ago
Per chance to dream
Claret and blue devotees
Just bathe in the luxuriant
Waters of a UEFA trophy
Champagne for breakfast,
Lunch and tea throughout
Summer’s beautiful days,
Nights, in perpetuity
And then there was City,
Treble top, 180,
Premier League, Champions League,
FA Cup, surrounded by baubles,
Exceptional in victories
In classical and valuable pearls
Diamond diadems, vastly impressive
Rewards for heartfelt exertions
There’s almost a lovely poignancy
About football’s emotional playground
When the defeats of the past
Could never be our lands of glory
And exultation
We hope to win one day
But then never do
So we mutter disconsolately
Dropping our heads and tears
Where nobody can see us
Relegation followed by
Promotion, childish laughter
Then adolescent awareness
Of jubilant evenings
When losses become history
And Declan Rice
Lifts that magnificent trophy
Everything is complete
Ribbons, bows and streamers
Glitter and confetti
Bus top parades
A giddy, dizzy cavalcade
A million cherries on the icing
Of that memorable cake
Pep does three times
And enduring smiles
Football, hey
What a game

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Gunners still lead from the front.

Still the Gunners bring
Out the cavalry and infantry
A battalion of the battle hardened
Red blooded in method
And intent
Today rolling back
The years to Cup Finals
Of 1950 and 71
When Liverpool were
Professionally dealt with
By Arsenal
And beaten with a clip
Around Merseyside ears
But this evening
Beauty and disdain
Combining with rich
Magenta colours
Across the Emirates
Today, boldness in
Their hearts
Those first stirrings
Of sophistication
Coursing through their
Touches of class
Like the first issues
Of the King’s stamp
Arsenal top by a point
And Liverpool fumbling,
Stalling, not at any
Of the races at least
Two or three furlongs
Behind Anfield’s
Stumbling artisans
A gulf in quality
Wider than the Mersey
A long way to go though
Yet City still breathing
Down Arsenal’s necks
With yet more spit and polish
Over the Saints and Southampton
A thick coat of emulsion to
City’s liking
With stunning embellishments
Artistic bells and whistles
Worthy of exhibition
At the Tate or the
Portrait Gallery
Lovely sweeping motions
Of the transformative brush
Straight lines, cat’s cradle
Of passes intricately woven
Painterly patterns
Across the lush, autumnal
Green of the Etihad
Four more for City
Haaland only one this time
But still capable of more
Miracles of scoring
A phenomenon,
A blond Viking of a
Goal scorer
Goals galore
In his vast armoury
Now Newcastle
Hammer out five
Against the Bees
Of Brentford
Honeycombs in
West London soured
Slightly it has to be said
Geordies dancing though
To the Saudi sounds
Of billions of pounds
Resounding and bounding
Forward, at long last
Newcastle, now a ripe
Juicy fruit, full of
Pep and piquancy
Although without City’s Pep
Goals reaching St James Park
By the lorry load
Consignments of glad
Tidings, perhaps the corner
Has been turned
While today news
From the Palace is
That the Sunday monarchy
Is still in residence
Crystal Palace, full of
French verve and joie de vivre
Under Viera’s reign
Beat a Leeds where the
American dream of Jesse
Is but an optical illusion
At Stamford Bridge
The Potter is manipulating
His clay with stylish
Chelsea finding dash
And dexterity
This is a Bridge
Very much closer
To Graham’s liking
Wolves hounded and
Then terrified by
The Chelsea onslaught
From all sides
Three and it should
Have been much more
At the Amex
Spurs now blowing hot
And cold along the cooler
Sea fronts of Brighton
A win to North London
But still on the outside
Looking in at the top
Conte, mourning the
Loss of his fitness coach
But uplifted by the only
Goal on the South Coast
Condolences to one and all
Further along the Southern tip
Of England
Bournemouth rejuvenated
After several hiccups and blips
Finding sanctuary of peace
Against hapless Leicester,
Foxes driven away by the
Smell of delectable Cherries
Gary O’Neill modest and quiet
Bournemouth, a gentle work in
Progress, content to be men
In the middle
Comfortable to be who they are
Everton meet United
It could be an evening to
Remember for North West
Highways and byways
Anything could happen at
Goodison and probably will
Local pecking orders
And noses pushed out of joint
Toffees and Red Devils
Locked in a vice
It could be a stale mate
Or a waterfall of goals
Pounding down from
On high
Or a tentative trickle
From the leakiest tap
We shall see

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Premier League again

It’s the Premier League again
After a fortnight in cold storage
Weary and frayed around the edges
But still in the rudest health
Doctors give it the all clear
Put the stethoscope away
All is tickety-boo
Right as rain
Go for it football
At lunchtime
Those noisy North London neighbours
Arsenal and Spurs
Renew acquaintance
For the umpteenth time
Same record, same classic
Piece of vinyl, that timeless
Track from the iconic album
Hypnotic beat, London calling
Across the land, clear the decks
For red meat and passionate
Intensity, no love lost here
Arsenal in the land of invincibility
Mesmerising in the extreme
One touch, two touch, passes
Strung together in colourful beads
Occasionally reminding you of City
At their most unbeatable
A force of nature
Perfection on a plate
For luncheon repast
A most satisfying antidote
To the UEFA Nations League
We’ll have seconds, please
Then the Cherries of Bournemouth
Find the honeyed Bees of Brentford
Sheer nectar and ambrosia
Palace await Chelsea
Second London derby
An abundance of capital
Where capitalism finds
Its spiritual home
Chelsea loaded with well endowed
Riches and Palace perhaps
Mourning the loss of Her Majesty
Who pinned her colours to Arsenal
Down at the Cottage
The industry of Fulham
Hatch and plan victory
But the thatched roofs
May belong to country retreats
Fulham meet Newcastle
Newcastle, white and black and white
Stripes. In the mind’s eye
Football’s zebras on the plain
Guarding their territory
Wandering, then gazing
Critically, calm, but
Ready for confrontation
At the Cottage
Then Liverpool, Klopp’s
Heavy metal monsters
Excavating memories of Shanks
Rippling through the mirrors
Of the past, a shimmering artwork
Then Bob Paisley sighing admiringly
From the heavenly terraces where
The Kop sung their weekly hymns
In affectionate homage to their
Beloved greats, parishioners in red
Robes all in one note, accord
Never walking alone, a concert of
Well-oiled throats
Brighton are the visitors to that
Topical venue of
Labour party busybodies
Trading promises and platitudes
We’ve heard it all before
Politics and football
Just incompatible, they simply
Don’t work, but then sodium
Met potassium,
It could be an explosive thriller
Brighton flying at the moment
At altitudes of the highest
Footballing plateau
Liverpool against Brighton
Sea gulls in bracing winds
Undeterred by Liverpool’s
Trophy- laden cabinets
Bulging at the seams
A meeting of great minds
Finally, the Saints of Southampton
Worshipping in St Mary’s pews
Neither here nor there
Hanging on by the fingertips
West Ham against Wolves
Personal recollections
Of the 1970s when jeans
Were flares and shoes
On platforms at East Ham
Waiting patiently for
Five of the best for claret
And blue tendencies
Paddon, Jennings, Robson
Brooking and all
Oh, the Premier League
How we’ve missed you so

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Source: https://footballpoets.org/news/poem-tags/premier-league/