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Best Famous Football Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Football poems. This is a select list of the best famous Football poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Football poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of football poems.

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See also: Best Member Poems

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by Philip Larkin | |

Träumerei

 In this dream that dogs me I am part
Of a silent crowd walking under a wall,
Leaving a football match, perhaps, or a pit,
All moving the same way.
After a while A second wall closes on our right, Pressing us tighter.
We are now shut in Like pigs down a concrete passage.
When I lift My head, I see the walls have killed the sun, And light is cold.
Now a giant whitewashed D Comes on the second wall, but much too high For them to recognise: I await the E, Watch it approach and pass.
By now We have ceased walking and travel Like water through sewers, steeply, despite The tread that goes on ringing like an anvil Under the striding A.
I crook My arm to shield my face, for we must pass Beneath the huge, decapitated cross, White on the wall, the T, and I cannot halt The tread, the beat of it, it is my own heart, The walls of my room rise, it is still night, I have woken again before the word was spelt.


by A E Housman | |

Is My Team Ploughing

 "Is my team ploughing, 
That I was used to drive 
And hear the harness jingle 
When I was man alive?" 

Ay, the horses trample, 
The harness jingles now; 
No change though you lie under 
The land you used to plough.
"Is football playing Along the river shore, With lads to chase the leather, Now I stand up no more?" Ay, the ball is flying, The lads play heart and soul; The goal stands up, the keeper Stands up to keep the goal.
"Is my girl happy, That I thought hard to leave, And has she tired of weeping As she lies down at eve?" Ay, she lies down lightly, She lies not down to weep, Your girl is well contented.
Be still, my lad, and sleep.
"Is my friend hearty, Now I am thin and pine, And has he found to sleep in A better bed than mine?" Yes, lad, I lie easy, I lie as lads would choose; I cheer a dead man's sweetheart, Never ask me whose.


by A E Housman | |

Twice a Week the Winter Thorough

 Twice a week the winter thorough 
Here stood I to keep the goal: 
Football then was fighting sorrow 
For the young man's soul.
Now in Maytime to the wicket Out I march with bat and pad: See the son of grief at cricket Trying to be glad.
Try I will; no harm in trying: Wonder 'tis how little mirth Keeps the bones of man from lying On the bed of earth.


by Billy Collins | |

Invention

 Tonight the moon is a cracker,
with a bite out of it
floating in the night,

and in a week or so
according to the calendar
it will probably look

like a silver football,
and nine, maybe ten days ago
it reminded me of a thin bright claw.
But eventually -- by the end of the month, I reckon -- it will waste away to nothing, nothing but stars in the sky, and I will have a few nights to myself, a little time to rest my jittery pen.


by Howard Nemerov | |

Poetics

 You know the old story Ann Landers tells
About the houseife in her basement doing the wash?
She's wearing her nightie, and she thinks, "Well, hell,
I might's well put this in as well," and then
Being dripped on by a leaky pipe puts on
Her son's football helmet; whereupon
The meter reader happens to walk through
and "Lady," he gravely says, "I sure hope your team wins.
" A story many times told in many ways, The set of random accidents redeemed By one more accident, as though chaos Were the order that was before the creation came.
That is the way things happen in the world: A joke, a disappointment satisfied, As we walk through doing our daily round, Reading the meter, making things add up.


by James Wright | |

Autumn Begins In Martins Ferry Ohio

 In the Shreve High football stadium,
I think of Polacks nursing long beers in Tiltonsville,
And gray faces of Negroes in the blast furnace at Benwood,
And the ruptured night watchman of Wheeling Steel,
Dreaming of heroes.
All the proud fathers are ashamed to go home.
Their women cluck like starved pullets, Dying for love.
Therefore, Their sons grow suicidally beautiful At the beginning of October, And gallop terribly against each other's bodies.


by Robert William Service | |

The Alcázar

 The General now lives in town;
He's eighty odd, they say;
You'll see him strolling up and down
The Prada any day.
He goes to every football game, The bull-ring knows his voice, And when the people cheer his name Moscardo must rejoice.
Yet does he, in the gaiety Of opera and ball, A dingy little cellar see, A picture on a wall? A portrait of a laughing boy Of sixteen singing years .
.
.
Oh does his heart dilate with joy, Or dim his eyes with tears? And can he hear a wistful lad Speak on the telephone? "Hello! How is it with you, Dad? That's right - I'm all alone.
They say they'll shoot me at the dawn If you do not give in .
.
.
But never mind, Dad - carry on: You know we've got to win.
" And so they shot him at the dawn.
No bandage irked his eyes, A lonely lad, so wistful wan, He made his sacrifice.
he saw above the Citadel His flag of glory fly, And crying: "long live Spain!" he fell And died as heroes die.