LearnEnglish Sport would like to thank the Football Poets website for allowing us to use these poems.
Listen to poem
Have I missed the point of Football’s appeal?
The love and belonging I can see is real
An excuse, if you like, to kiss and to hug
To wear scarves and sport banners, belong to a club.
And the sport is exciting
The drama, the spills, writ large on our screens,
Full of passion and thrills.
It’s the Beautiful Game, it’s benign, life affirming -
It’s the aggression I find pretty scary.
For me it displays what I hate about the Right
With its blind allegiance to the Monarchy,
A determination to fight
On the pitch and on the terrace that’s tribal, nationalistic,
With Union Jack-the-lads looking hard and sadistic
Masculinity gone mad, enough testosterone to sink us,
It’s the expression of aggression, I don’t get.
And yet - I remember Football Scores
On Grandstand, on Saturdays, sometime after Four -
Me and my brother would close our eyes, and try hard to guess
The results by the tone of the announcer’s voice.
Win, Lose or Draw, Dad would sit in his chair
Checking his Littlewoods coupon
And we’d have to shut up, couldn’t talk, wouldn’t dare.
Or we’d watch as he became an indoor Footballer from his chair.
He’d twitch and he’d groan, legs going, kicking and weaving,
As he followed the game, attention never leaving
The action on the box.
And how he’d leap from his seat, let out a huge cheer
If his side seemed anywhere near scoring a goal.
Or he’d jump, shout: "Offside!"
"Come on Ref, are you blind!"
And I’d watch amazed and happy at my Football Dad
Be proud, try to comment when he’d turn to me and say -
"Did you see that? What’s he doing? That’s a free kick Ref!"
It really made my day
To see Dad - that distant figure -
Transmogrify into Dad of big emotions
It was awesome and beautiful to see,
And I’d hold my breath, and make a wish,
A wish that he’d have some left over,
Please, for me.
Now Dad sneers, says players are soft
And that in his day they bloody well wouldn’t want to hug and to snog.
It’s a different generation.
And I’m not sure if it does say anything about the Nation
When huge emotion on the pitch spills over into aggravation
In the crowd.
Or is it the other way round?
And what is that saying out loud about us?
Is it defusing, or using, or is it abusing?
A necessary reality? A mass display of nationality?
An expression of masculinity on the macho side?
A tribe? All of these and more?
In my life Football’s been on my margins,
A male sub-culture, with alien message.
But maybe I should look closer
Maybe it holds one of the keys
To us.
Or did I miss the point yet again and that really
It’s Just A Game?
Listen to poem
I was never
That close to my Dad.
He was a Chindit.
And
Fighting behind Japanese lines
Gave him
20 years of
Mood swings
And irrational
Bursts of unpredictable
Temper.
But one Sunday
Afternoon
After the Pub.
He taught me
How
To trap the ball.
To kill it stone dead.
How to use
Your brain
And body
Together
In
one movement
And so control
The world.
And when I played
In the street
I found that if
I dropped my shoulder
And wriggled
My hips
I had a natural
Untaught body swerve.
I could go past Players
As if they weren't there.
I could get
To the bye-line
And put the ball
On to the centre-
forward's
Head.
And when I see
A match
Today
On a big ground
Or a rec.
And a player has a number 7
On his back.
And he traps
The ball
Wriggles his hips,
Beats the full-back
And crosses the ball.
My Dad's alive again.
And I'm 5 again.
That's why I like football.
It plays tricks
with time.
Listen to poem
yeah we're the new age football men and women
we're really really into everything
we never make team changes 'til we have to
and only when we've checked with the I Ching
alternative united one world one team one aim
one pint of cider vinegar just before each game
and a manager so mellow he never wears a suit
one team he suggested a crystal in each boot
but he lets us train at Avebury where the atmosphere's so fine
we jog among corn circles because it helps us to unwind
and after one or two defeats to help us lift the gloom
we listen to whale music in our dressing room
where the baths are scented lavender -there's Tai Chi at half time
it stops us being aggressive beyond the half-way line
and the boots the kit they're hand-washed in Ecover
we drink spring water sometimes ginger tea
but we always hang our wind-chimes on the goal-posts
because the game's improved so much since Feng Shui
now our goalie he's a vegan he watches what he eats
he likes to wear loose clothing on Yoga type retreats
and his style is based on Buddha he's calm serene and true
and he smiles upon the goal-line as every ball goes through
and our back four they're all chanting the Krishna way they play
and our full back's like Saint Francis he gives everything away
and the match itself is meaningless because every Saturday
we prefer to see the game in a much much deeper way
cause we're the new age football men and women
we're learning how to make the game more green
we're unisex especially in the hot-tub
because it's good for reaching out within the team
and we've learnt so much about deep-rooted anger
before each game we strip off we lie down
because we like to feel the vibe between each other
and feel the energy at every football ground
Listen to poem
Because You only need a Ball -
Any Ball! Rag Ball! Leather Ball!
Tennis Ball! Tin-Can Ball! Stone Ball!
Any Ball - Foot-Ball!
No Kit - No Pitch - No Commerce!
Playing in Backyard - Backstreet -
Playing in School-Time : Home-Time :
Lunch and Tea-Time! Playing on Sunday.
Birthday. Deathday. Holiday.
Seven-Days-A-Week-Day.
Because - Anywhere in the World
You only need A Ball!
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