Mens Team Collection

We want to show off the ‘unknown’ and ‘known’ bards of all footballing countries to the world, demonstrating the cultural heritage and passion for football from across the footballing spectrum.

So the ultimate question? Do you believe you have a football themed poem, which will strike a chord with the world? Do you think you are bard enough!

Submit your poem here, English, Scots or Gaelic, or if you want to do it in another language? We really want to stir the World with our mission.

Hugh Mcmillan (aka our Hampden Collection Curator) will select the best ones to be posted through the coming weeks and months, promoting the culture, passion and love for the beautiful game.

We look forward to reading and publishing the best submissions! See the published submissions below.

“It’s a great honour to be the Hampden Collection Curator and get a chance to gauge the love of our national game channelled through Scotland’s more secret pastime, poetry! As far as I’m concerned football is the people’s game and, before elitists and academics got hold of it, poetry was the chosen way people commemorated, remembered, celebrated life’s great events. Football and poetry are a natural pairing and it will be an absolute joy to write and curate football poetry.” 

Hugh McMillan – HC Curator

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mt104 – The People’s Game

These first rough fields of dreams
in the Kingdom of Strathclyde
where St Mungo roamed
and below the seven hills
scrub, mud and snow clad moors
of Mercia and Northumbia
where stainless steel is forged.

Adrift of clanking shipyards
sulphuric furnaces
miasma of smoke and fog
cherished special places
where men chased and harried
then learned to pass the ball.

Wrested from patrician shackles
football lived or died here
and something beautiful was born.

By John Stocks

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mt103 – Scotland’s Most Famous Son

is roared on to Hampden’s turf
from all four stands. This reception
is beyond love, fringing on delirium
and adulation.
Earlier, several had waited for him
at Glasgow airport, seeking
the privilege of a glimpse.

This stadium always flaunts its passion
for those who grace the blue and white,
exciting the paying public
with skill, finesse, and goals. The slaying of the English.
His debut at seventeen endeared him perpetually.
Voted the greatest they had ever seen
in all opinion polls.

Now, manager. He waves
to all chanting his name, punching
Glasgow’s air like a ball
on the string of a yo-yo.
Together we all sing, Scots
and Argentines, in ricochet and echo,
Diego, Diego, Diego.

By Stephen Watt

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mt102 – Can you hear it?

We’ve had the fitba, and the bowls
Now, the last Stanza
Lots of touchers, lots of goals.
The wee Pavilion, just sits quiet
On the space, that caused the riot
That’s World football
A site to be revered
Bools kept it alive for 120
There’s still life in it aplenty

The wee roar, can’t you hear it?
Come in the gate, can you hear it
Come through the door, can you hear it
Scotland, Scotland, Scotland
The thunder, the roar
It’s the last Stanza
Phoenix is at the door

From humble beginnings
Right beside the rec
Where Queens Park begin
Start the roar, start the din
Can’t you hear it?
Can you hear it?
Come in the gate and through the door
Youll feel the thunder
Youll feel the roar
Scotland Scotland Scotland
This site now needs more and more
Love and attention
To restart the roar.

By Will Moffat – The Last President of Hampden Bowling Club

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mt101 – A call to Glasgow, to Scotland, and to the world

Beneath the green of Hampden’s ground,
Where once the roar of crowds was found,
The naissance, then the world took part
Here beat football’s very heart.
Listen, Scotland — hear the call!
The roots of football — this is all!
Before the lights, before the fame,
Here was born the beautiful game!

But now the site lies under threat,
A debt to time we can’t forget.
Shall bricks and mortar erase the spark
That once lit up the first Hampden Park?
Oh, football— this site begat the global game
Avoid the accusing finger of blame,
Block the road to the scrapheap.
Protect its soul, its story keep,

For heritage is not just stone,
It’s memory’s pulse, it’s home, it’s known.
So stand together, raise your voice—
To protect this ground, is there a choice?
To those in power we look to thee,
Preserve our past, for all to see.
Let future generations still proudly mark
Football’s Home – the First Hampden Park.

By John Daly

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mt100 – This is our history

Scotland 5 England 1,
that seems impossible,
when was it done?
where did it happen?
How did they play?
that old place along the railway?

No it isn’t impossible,
This was the park,
the place where it started,
the light from the dark,
the first ever hampden,
the first of 3,
oh, he replies, that’s news to me.

Go visit I say, see how you feel.
It’s historical value is really unreal,
i feel it at Cathkin, you’ll feel it here too,
The ghosts of the past are speaking to you,
we might lose it, i heard a rumour online,
Protect and visit, just take the time.
These places when lost and never return,
are always then missed and places we yearn,
act now, shout loudly, let people know,
This is our history, don’t let it go.

By Calum Ewen

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mt99 – Losing History

When you lose your history you lose yourself:
you exist on scraps fed up by others.
Who’d be careless enough to lose their past? 
How’d it happen? Left on some ink-stained desk? Dropped down the stank?
Left to rot in old books that are never opened? 
With no history we wander like mad people in 

a mad country. Scotland, in other words:
the only country in the modern world 
where half the people are scared stiff of their 
own beginnings. Aye, of course, history is bunk, a set of lies agreed upon, blah blah. 
But this is your grandma’s history or her father’s : how working men and women 

made a Scotland they could watch and believe in, could destroy the English at last 
in battlefields that were beautiful, 
fortresses that weren’t built of turrets and battlements but passion, equality and love. This is a history within our reach, and we owe it to them, to ourselves, to hold it close.

by Hugh McMillan, Curator of the Hampden Collection

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mt98 – The Night A Nation Cried

It was in the chill of an early autumn evening
the manager picked his team
for a game our country couldn’t afford to lose
we needed to avoid defeat against Wales
to have a chance of going to Mexico
dreams of glory spurred us on
but the Welsh scored early that night
and try as we might we couldn’t break them down
this was a good side we were playing
this dragon breathed fire
and would not be slain easily
this was going to be tough
a draw would be enough
but it didn’t look like coming
then the boss decided to bring Cooper on
the winger had has critics
some said he’s inconsistent
my Rangers supporting relatives amongst them
but Stein knew this night would need
that special something and Cooper had it
when the opportunity came he grabbed it
scoring the penelty that levelled the game
as Stein jumped up to celebrate
fate played a cruel hand
as he collapsed falling to ground in distress
we held our collective breath as the manager lay on the ground
the game was played out but the result now rendered meaningless
in shock we heard the news
our national team manager had died
this was the night a nation cried
fans of different teams united in grief
divisions put aside to allow time to mourn
as a Celtic fan I broke when I heard you’ll never walk alone
the song played before every home game
somehow I knew that night things could never be the same
this was a man respected by all sides in the game
he transcended team colours
in a way few have managed before or since
to him it wasn’t just the winning
it was about how you played
his teams were built on flair and imagination .
to him this was the only way that made any sense
his philosophy that attack was the best form of defence
may have come as a shock to some
but this was how he viewed the game
you had to win and entertain the crowd
in a way that made your supporters
proud of the colours they wore
he took lambs to Lisbon
and made them roar with pride
the side some claimed had no hope
came home as lions and champions of Europe
he outfoxed the pride of Italy
with a display of attacking ability
never seen before or since
It was this tacticial genius
which lead him to manage Celtic to nine league titles in a row
and eventually get the call for his country
winning ugly was never his way
his teams played in a certain style
to bring smiles to the faces of the fans
It was the mark of the man
his signitute if you will
that skill had to be combined with work ethic
and you had to represent your team on and off the field
a principled man he never yielded
to the lure the false god
that money can often be
I gave free flow to the tears that came
to hold back would have been pointless
like trying to stop the rain or stem the tide
It would have been wrong and on hearing the song
I knew my eyes would run like rivers
on the night a nation cried
together.

by Gayle Smith 

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mt97 – Sam’s Finest Hour

Under the Hampden crossbar the Smith stands,
sun on his brow and his eyes full of sweat.
Strong brawny arms and big rugged hands.
No anvil, hammer, rifle or bayonet,
but tens of thousands baying for his blood.
The morning bellows ringing in his ears.
This Smith had seen off famine and flood.
Big Sam Clemie from Lugar knew no fear.
And when the heavy hammer struck its blow,
Tulley ran up and kicked the tanner ball.
Like a steel sledge, it swung towards the mark.
Ayrshire people prayed to Peter and Paul
Sam dived to his left like a burning spark.
Hard hands of a village Smith saved the hour.
Shaped Killie’s fortunes at the flaming forge.

by Ian Goudie aka The Killie Poet

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mt96 – CHanging Times

There’s a new football Lingo we’re forced to know
Not “the old 1-2” but “give and go”.

Goal-line calls, chips in balls.
Miked-up Ref, some stone-deaf.

VAR, arguably by far,
The worst improvement, really bizarre.

Keep it retro, keep it real.
None of this modern spiel.

So, let’s hear it for

In the book, but look, nae book.
# Onion Bag
Slide Rule Pass – Masterclass
Shies not throw-ins, chucked like javelins
Telegraphed it – emblematic.
Bye kick – that sort of schtick.

Protect the language – hold it tighter
I wrote this – on a typewriter.

by John Daly

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mt95 – Cathkin Park

Moss on the steps,
Trees in the stands,
Car tyre tracks,
where they used to shake hands,
Old man on a bench,
Dreams of games gone by,
as the wind whistles tales of the famous Hi Hi.

Clamber the banking,
as you walk through the park,
barge past the junkie,
alone in the dark,
imagine the past excitement and dreams,
as the vast bowl emerges and the sunshine it gleams,

standing alone at the penalty spot,
is this the team that scotland forgot,
glance at the stands, that have been left to rot.
hampden of old, it’s hosted the lot.

The leaves cover memories,
we sweep them away,
our own field of dreams,
where the ghosts still play,
the red coats still live here,
there rifles still sound,
there noise is the piro at this great old ground.

by Calum Ewen

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mt94 – the scottish cup

I think I was nine or ten
But I’ll always remember when
The Scottish Cup came tae ma school
Ah got to haud it
That was cool.

Big John Fallon brought it in
He’d helped the Celtic make the win
The previous April – aye, that was him

They’d beat the Pars tae win the cup
The club was on the up and up
Brand new manager had the team
His name? Oh, Big Jock Stein.

They did quite well as I recall
In fact, went on to win it all
But all of that was miniscule
Cos Scottish Cup came tae ma school!

by John Daly

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mt93 – ScoTt Allan leaves Hibs

He came back home
Where he belongs
Don’t leave us again, Scotty
Please don’t leave us again

But then they let him go. Why?
Health not the greatest
Good for only thirty minutes?
But what a thirty minutes

Slide rule pass.
Dink. Chip. Back heel.
Blooter. Nah. Never that.

The way he moved.
Different.
Drifting. Gliding.
Smooth. Sweet.

After the game
He telt us
“We’ll gie Celtic a doin’ next week”.
Aye, right

Oh what could’ve been
What should’ve been

Sad. So very sad

Nijinsky in a team o’ donkeys
Good lookin’ tae

by Dave Mackay

mt92 – On Derek McInnes holding a Barbecue in Kilmarnock 24/25 season(Del’s Barbecue)

Del was having a barbecue to celebrate “wur work”
With a budget less than Hibs, only wee Fraser was given a fork
No condiments available , nae marinade in sight 
Just low budget sausages served fae the head of big Joe Wright
Chairs set out in the garden made less than hee haw sense 
Wae Ndaba in the middle and Wales sat by the fence
Calvin Ramsey wasn’t invited, no loan signings to be found 
Vassell had already fallen over wae his backside firmly in the ground

Bruce sat glumly on a bench wae his soggy paper plate
Whilst Sheerin tasked as bouncer, stood by the garden gate
Donnelly is the King of Barbecues! McInnes had made this clear
Watson isn’t to be granted entry for he’s only young player of the year
Barbecues like football , a place to hold talent hostage 
Plus he’ll never amount to Marley’s stats and his expected sausage
No exotic drinks permitted, foreign beer can’t be trusted 
Just, out of date cans of Carling – warm and slightly rusted 

Del smiled internally, whilst prodding at the coals
McCrorie came fae Rangers so he must be gid in goals
At this – he threw a Carling… sailing past Robbie Deas 
McCrorie made a dive for it but seemed to loose it in the breeze
Like Paisley all over again, conceding bloody five! 
Aye top six might be lost now. Perhaps we just survive 
Killie are lucky to have me! His tanned face reflecting in the flames 
We’ll pump Motherwell on Saturday and win the rest of our home games.
It has never been my fault for any games we haven’t won
Everyone should cheer up! …Team lineup Tombola is still to come!

by Stuart Irving

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mt91 – Modern Day Football

Expected goals, and pre-assists 
Overanalysis of chances missed
Vloging fans with camera phones 
Sighting double pivots and offensive zones
Automated systems now making decisions 
Attacking phase of play, defensive transitions
Zonal marking, high and low blocks 
Goal kicks which no longer leave the box 

Is this a sign of greying hair? 
The age of adage of the legs gone player 
Quick in mind but slow in pace 
Once so free and in abundant space
Now closed down, endlessly man marked 
A cog in the system as the bus is parked 
Has every generation felt the same? 
As I decay so does the game
At one point every child is a maverick 
And it’s only adults who don’t believe in magic
The enchanted ball that hits the net 
The wizardry of football past, I cannot forget 

I long for the football before my birth 
When Dennis Law, a Scotsman, was voted best on earth 
When world cups seemingly unearthed-gems 
When Diego so beautifully cheated them!
Brazilian samba and when Garincha danced 
Platini was only a player who dazzled for France
Marco Tardelli and unrivalled joy 
The Tartan Army with a Wembley crossbar to destroy 
When Kenny Dalgliesh was in his peak 
Antonin Panenka showcasing new technique 

I long for football when I was a child 
Gattuso’s grimace, Ronaldinho’s smile 
When Bolton Wanders had Okocha’s flair 
And balding players didn’t replace their hair
When Eremenko was overweight 
Yet made Connor Sammon a Kilmarnock great 
Robbie Winters coming on for Jim Leighton 
Henry’s handball and Irish devastation 
Old firm red cards, every Roy Keane dismissal
The first tackle being free and playing to the whistle 
Full away allocations, all the animosity 
Benitez’s facts and Strachan’s quick velocity 
Ravenelli inexplicably turning up in Dundee 
Figo rightfully being a record transfer fee 
Sol Campbell at Spurs and scandal as he left 
The comedic stumble of Di Canio’s shoved ref
Cantona’s martial arts into the crowd 
That Lampard goal being wrongfully disallowed 
Charisteas headers of conquering Greece 
Without a coach orchestrating every set piece 
Wonder strikes worthy of taking a bow 
McFadden’s rocket, pick it out Landreau
Martin Keown jumping into Ruud 
God ..… I even miss the time when Rangers were good

by Stuart Irving

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mt90 – the only team in the bible

queen of the south v annan athletic, 19th august 2023

down in reiver country, just a bye kick away from the nith
battle lines are being drawn as the gala bankies come to town

it’s a derby, the galloway ‘el classico’, with bragging rights at stake
or doom & gloom to be shared in all those burns howffs & workplaces
along the eastern end – some might say the arse end – of the A75

yet, it’s the same old rodeo, lack of funds combined with sod’s law,
bad luck & mismanagement results in the ground needing
more than just a coat of paint

but that’s the least of the troubles as the club struggles to keep
all those balls in the air, remain grounded in spite of spiralling
around the drain toward the obscurity of league two

once it was rangers, the celtic, hearts & hibs who would head
south to impress the farmers, but now it’s all about annan

fucking annan

‘the south’ may well be the only team in the bible but these days
why nip along to palmerston when you can buy a couple of pints
& a chaser for the price of an e-ticket at the football

with such alternatives, the saturday disciples are diminishing
& in this just about skint society, it’s card payments only

declined.

by Colin Rutherford

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mt89 – taxi for Messi

Like Cinders, I left the pairty early
Nae pumkin, I’d caad a cab
only tae wrangle wi a voice activated bot
fa took ma details n tried tae send me
packin doon sooth tae Hyde Park
Ootside n dark caul Clarkson
a Joe Maxi pulls up, private hire
‘Murphy?’ I proffer the windae
met by gutted reid een
‘Ach, a kint it wis too guid tae be true.’

Fit hid aa dane, noo?
Jeez, yon trippin coupon –
aa settle back n the roastin seat.
Slowlike he swivelt the screen –
there it wis, J’accuse!
Twinklin digital light, the immortal words:
‘Next hire: Messi’
I felt his pain, the brunt o the blow
‘Nae even Modrić’, I assuage.
Aye, too guid tae be true.

Wi a mere mortal ensconced,
driver stares careworn intae
his rear view mirror.
‘Aa hiv met Pelé, wis only a wean right enuf’.
Brasil were ower for a friendly at Hampden
A wee squad o us keeked through a fence
n there they were, jist warmin up
One-named green gods at play.
Zito, Jairzinho, Bellini, pure djukin aboot,
roarin wi laffter.

‘O Rei pointed tae oor feet.
Naebodie hid boots, ane or twa hid sannies.
Aa hurled mine up n ower
– a wee offerin if ye like’.
It wis the best keepie uppie in the world.
Heid tae heid, chest to breast, the jimmie
fair flew fae hallowed sole to soul.
For the finale, a drop kick fae Gilmar
rising high, blockin the sun at its zenith
Niver to be washt nor parted wi.

Aye, lightning niver strikes
the same place twice,
as the English hiv found oot since 66.
Some things are better left alane.
Life is messy –
wait on the messiah a ye want.
Meantime, there are aye moments in the sun
and yer baa in the back o the net.

by Nicola Furrie Murphy

mt88 – a song for Argentina

In an unlikely pact, tribes of dreamers
left Scotland bereft of sons and brothers,
drove south to fight Celtic kin, happier
punting the oval ball, for a world cup
place. The Liver Birds seen and the city
centre won, into the Kop ends cauldron
the massed Tartan Army went. The on field
din lost in the crush of this new Flodden.
Jordan’s toothless grin told of old battles fought
and won. When Dalglish scored to win, in that
goals mayhem friends and wallets were lost to
Kops wave. In a cloud of dust, weeping men
hugged and laughed and cried and dreamt of glory,
hoarse they sang ‘we’re off to Argentina’

by Martin Goldie

mt87 – The Mob’s Ball (A Celebration of Folk Football)

These flecks of paint will disperse,
dissipate, she said, like pollen on
the breeze – the ball painted in a ritual
symbiosis. The teams are picked, the
terrain mapped, the posts heaved up in
rebellion against a homogenised pitch

beneath their gathering, between mounds
of soil and trapped air, the earthquake readies itself
as the winds howl to return to the sky, to
chase the Morningstar

Up, the pigs comet soars, each player
awaiting permission from Pan to endorse
their mania; their sopping boots, thorn braving
calves, ripped cries of gallus glee

and at peak, the star turns sacred – a possession
of necessity and prowess, she grins at the spiderweb
littered with the catch of a hundred dandellions
and wonders at which team blew harder,
what dreams will not come true, wether their import
outweighs the hunger of the spider

bedlam surges – the mute are made a mayhem of
joy, present purposes posing primal examples against
the scarcity mindset. the commons awash with
unfettered laughs as the ball is punted downslope –
two vault the gate, one holds it open for the wrong team

see here a work that requires no audience
all are participants

down to the river, the tussle turns lusty, the splash of
the scrap echoes through the trees that wear their lichen
like satin – ancient sentinels hosting the modern great,
make intergenerational contemporaries of those who,
at the shrill song of the whistle
no longer call themselves opposition

By Spencer Mason

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mt86 – Same Ol’ (One Night in Lisbon)

Same ol’, same ol’
Was our refrain
Same ol’, same ol’
We’ve blown it again

We drank all the Sagre
And Bock in the town
Then McTominay’s header
Had us up at sundown

We had as much chance
As that sliver of moon
So soon after halftime
Our mood turned to gloom

The left boot of Bruno
From the top of the D
Leveled the scoreline
Deflating our glee

Still post and brave Angus
Had us feeling we might
Leave Estadio da Luz
With a point for the night

Fernando Pessoa said
All poets are frauds
One night in Lisbon
Said the same for our cause

Whistle moments away
Karma for a Gunn tweet
Cristiano Ronaldo
Got revenge with his feet

So the chorus of Scots
Was a song of defeat
One night in Lisbon
Was a Pyrrhic repeat

Same ol’, same ol’
Tartan Army’s refrain
Same ol’, same ol’
We’ve blown it again

By David Kilpatrick

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mt85 – my father told me

My father once told me
to be content with my lot.
Pouring me regular Irn Bru
in a straight glass
he used to say
“Dream the dream, walk the miles,
you must believe the impossible,
become a student of the cause,
then a martyr to its failings, then
rise to the realms of
pure fucking disillusionment.”
But, sadly I learned to drink
whisky. Throughout the 80’s,
the 90’s and the other
oddly titled ones after that
I drank whisky to ignore
the noise of desperate failure.
I blamed all known Gods,
drank more whisky and
finally accepted the truth of
Willie Miller’s moustache.
Such is the life I’ve created,
the lone kiss of malt whisky
my only love and tonight
I listened to the teasing of
hope strained through the grey
bristles of a forlorn mouser
and I thought to myself –
“Not now Dad. I need to drink more Port
Ronaldo wants my jersey for a goal
post. It’ll be okay now. There will
be other dreams and someone else
can walk five hundred more for you”.

By Aengus O’Dagda

mt84 – glasgow central station May 1972

Impty rail tracks wrax flat oot intil
the bleeze o simmer’s evenin sun aslant,
aneth the girdered gless far licht near blins me
an swashes through the glaur o aa the years
atween thenoo an then an lang ere then
far traivels cross, foregaither; atween ae blink and
anither, iss place for eence at rest, an me
here thinkin o my faither as a loon
fa maun hae kent it weel files followin his team.
Syne ae blink mair an noo aa wyes are fillin up
wi lazy jostlin waves o men, aa streamin
shoutin, singin, blue on blue their shirts,
blue scarfs an bunnets – an endless swavert tide
o men, as trachelt wi traivel drink an joy
they stachert fushionless bit headin for 
the nearest pub files drainin aff the dregs
o Spanish cairry oots, their impty bottles
left like driftwid in their wake. The sky 
wis sunny simmer’s blue an blue was
aawye. In their een an in their throats
as they sweelt on tae follow followin on
an on they came. I’d nivver seen as muckle
blue or as muckle joy at eence an though
I’d nivver likit fitba I thocht aboot
my faither, followin aa his days – aatho
we were twa hunner mile apart still he
stood, stands yet aside me his hand still
upon my heid – through near on fifty year
an him noo lang awa, I hear that sang
in his saft voice still fusperin roon my ears.

By Alistair Lawrie

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mt83 – dreamtime

Drifting back into the everwhen,
they’re there and still alive
those heroes you recall
from the cigarette cards
you collected:
big manly heads, square jawed
on small balletic bodies,
the litany of names.
Or on the front page of your weekly comic:
each lofted pass landing at the feet,
each swivelling shot finding the top corner
followed by swoosh lines.
These acts of grace –
the weekly programme as your bible.
You saved the cards,
dreamt of salvation
in the game.

by Robin Leiper

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mt82 -Combined anthems

remember the glass of water
on the dashboard in the dinosaur film
in the dark, in the jungle?
first a wee bobble on the surface
of the water in the glass and
then ripples more regular
before the deep rumble of noise
louder and louder and as I was
watching the fans in Cologne
sing Flower of Scotland the whisky
in my glass on the wee table between me
and the fireplace rippled more and
more until the glass itself rattled
and the lamp on the table
first the frills on the shade
then the big light was swaying
as ‘proud Edward’s Army’ trembled
and I was fearful for the wally dugs
on the mantelpiece who’s expressions
turned from impassive
to stunned uncertainty as they
‘were sent homewards to think again’
the coal scuttle losing its brassy shine
as the room darkened and the evening
sun which had lit up the pre-match build up
with the maybe’s aye and maybe’s naw
of fence sitting banality – bbc
chosen ones whose only connection
to being Scottish is eating a
Tunnock’s teacake once in Business Class
at Heathrow Terminal Five but
the rumble was now shaking the
whole house and the neighbour’s after that
but ‘we can still rise now’ to the darkened
window and ‘be a nation again’ as
big Archie drove slowly past hauling
the combine harvester up to the top fields
‘in our wee bit hill and glen’
with Bob Grant’s laddie bringing up
the rumbling rear with the big bogey

but on Sunday, Archie’s off
no harvest, no party, no dinosaurs
just him and I and Bob Grant’s laddie
watching the big game at mine with
pride and we’ll watch for wee bobbles
on the surface of hopeful drams
and raise our expectations at the ripples
rumbling sweetly out from Stuttgart
concentric circles of emotions slowly
reaching north until the big light sways
and we ‘send them homewards tae think again’.

by Aengus O’Dagda

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mt81 – Coontin Richt in 66

by Hugh McMillan

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mt80 – betrayal

by John and Stevie Docherty

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mt79 – the masterclass

Now there’s only two. The end of the season for both.
The end of the road for one. Some teams have the art.
Some haven’t mastered the use of crayons – not yet.
and cannot tell when it’s time to give up – not us.

The tools of art and grief will share the pitch as equals
for a while then the whistle will start the masterclass.
Watch and learn, the hoops paint their way through
the game and sketch circles around the fading blue.

The palette of skill, the brushstrokes of genius, originals
not copies, all the shades of green and a touch of white
mixed together in the same style of the originals. And
in the end, all the colours merge into one – silver again!

By Aengus O’Dagda

---

mt78 – Field of green

On the field of green, where dreams ignite,
Under the floodlights’ radiant light,
Eleven warriors, hearts beating bold,
A timeless story, forever told.

The whistle blows, the crowd’s roar swells,
A symphony of yells and bells.
Feet dance on grass, a ballet of skill,
Pursuing glory with iron will.

The ball weaves through the human tide,
A sphere of hope, a nation’s pride.
With every pass, with every kick,
The pulse of fans grows fast and quick.

A striker’s shot, a keeper’s dive,
In this moment, they’re alive.
Triumph or heartbreak, it’s all the same,
The beauty lies within the game.888

Ninety minutes, a battle fought,
Lessons of life, in play, are taught.
In unity, in sweat and strain,
The beautiful game begins again.

by Haridarshan Bhatt

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mt77 – My Team

I’ve not considered this before, alright?
but after that fabulous win last night,
it seems I simply don’t adore
the battle itself – it’s emotional gore.

Ahead of the game is a sense of foreboding
the fear (I’m certain) of drawing or losing.
And during the 90, those shots that were missed?
Well, then we were staring straight at the abyss.

My heart stays firmly in my mouth,
breath so held, can’t cheer or shout
when score they do AND take the lead –
for now there’s dread that they’ll concede.

It is, of course, no big surprise,
you only need one pair of eyes
to see that they were more than prone
to letting their foes have one of their own.

The game is only half way through
but clearly it will be a coup
and I can only sit here fretting
on just how many find our netting.

And when it ends with a fabulous win
it’s more a state of relief that I’m in,
my delight tempered with sneaking suspicion
that we’re not in the very best position,
and this is just a single match,
you can’t count your chickens before they hatch.

So, what is this thing, this compulsion so wicked
to which I find myself so addicted?
For I’m fully convinced we’re the absolute best
and only the luck of the shoddier rest
will keep us from ending the season as winners,
that, and the fact I’m an unworthy sinner.

I can only explain my inveterate gloom
is because of that feeling that always looms
a-hovering near of the constant fear
we’ll soon have to say “perhaps next year”.

by Gail Squires

mt76 – Always Celtic

mt75 – Why I Support Celtic

mt74 – Golden

From the bike I’m blinded
by day-glo yellow broom
flaring on a hillside,
itself a green fleck in 
a huge blue eye. 

Like a Lichtenstein it glows
and seems to ripple like
a washing snapping in the sun 
on a line when I was young. 
One of those Brazil strips
from Mexico ’70,
beamed into our living room
at two am while night black rain
drilled down and drowned the scheme.

How audacious were those colours? 
We could not conceive of wasting
more than two of them on just one kit. 
three was simply showing off, thinking you were it.
You’d pay for that at some point.
Daft to throw these things around 
like water, like confetti – no, 
you had to hoard them, dole them out 
a wee bit at a time. And watch your self. 

But when Pele, Tostao, Jairzinho, 
Rivelino and the rest
went out and danced the cattenacio 
off the park that day, they splashed
crayola colours everywhere, left
technicolor after-images
burned in streaks into the screen.

When the curtain fell the cheering
rang and echoed round the world,
while they, like golden gods, held 
gold aloft in golden arms. 
Robed in all the colours
of the Sun and Earth and Sky,
they stood there shining, 
shining, like some painting titled
‘Broom, with Sky and Hillside, 
In Scotland, in the Spring’.

By John Mcintosh

mt73 – Hope Springs Eternal

mt72 – VAR (Verse about Referees)

mt71 – We are not Supporters

mt70 – it matters

mt69 – Good Times in Gorgie

mt68 – Upper Section of Richard Donald Stand

---

mt67 – Daizen

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mt66 – A Neutral Venue

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mt65 – We are Celtic

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mt64 – Club and Country?

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mt63 – DEED

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mt62 – Mr Memory

i.m. Davie Hewitt

Maybe my mate’s brain
was uniquely wired for perfect recall.

Maybe he knew he’d die young and wanted
to cram as much information in as he could.

Or maybe he was just your
one-in-a-million walking encyclopaedia
of the beautiful game – a freak of nature.

But naw, Big Davie’s photographic memory
was probably nurtured
from being a Queen of the South diehard,

slumming it season-in, season-out
in far-off football parks,
gloved and duffled to thole tornados
in the distant fastnesses of Methil, Montrose,
Dingwall and Larbert.

We’d journey the length and breadth
of Scotland to follow ‘the South’ .
He’d tell me how many steps Tommy Bryce
took to score the hat trick that made
the Guinness Book of Records,

the middle names of subs for Queen of the South
against Dumbarton, although they’d never kicked a ball.
Our last game was at Forfar, of bridie-baking fame,
and we bought half a dozen to keep us going
till we got back to Dumfries.

I got peckish this side of the Forth Bridge
but he stammered that he had eaten them all.
I told him he could walk home, and I was serious,
for five minutes.

Not long after that his big heart packed in.
His mega-decibel Palmerston roar,
Come on you Queens, regularly heard far
beyond Terregles Road, was heard no more.

Instead, there was a cortège of Harleys,
Yamahas and Hondas across the road
– that rivalled Sons of Anarchy.
And a moving blast of Skynyrd’s
Simple Man at the funeral.

But Big Davie was nobody’s simpleton.
He could tell you the name of Roy Henderson’s dog;
what car Ivor Broadis drove;
where Des McKeown went to school…..
And that’s before a ball was kicked.

By Andy Murray

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MT61 – LOCO-Scotland

We’re the lang-sufferin fans,
the ayeways-hopefu hitched
tae the Scotland locomotive.
Weel we ken the feelin
when the train disnae stert
or runs oot o puff
at the play-off signal box.
Derailments – them and aa –
hertbrek o awfy-close
wi monie a micht-hae been:
yon penalty – a miss –
or the opposin goal late oan
that pit us oot. But noo
we’re settlt in oor carriage
wi oor jeelie pieces prayin
that the loco loco-Scotland
wull hae steam enough tae climb
pecha-pecha-pech
wi biler near tae burstin,
higher, higher, higher…
ower Beattock Summit.

by Donald Adamson

---

MT60 – OLI SHAW REDEMPTION

“Fur f*#k sake see that Oli shaw
There ye see he’s lost the baw”

“A telt ye, A telt ye! he’s nae use
He struts around as if he’s that Tony kroos”

“Aye him. The German boy at Madrid
Tell yet whit he’s on a couple a quid”

“Mon ya panzy! pit in a fit
Fur Christ sake even run aroon a bit”

“Jesus wept Shaw! you’ve no got time
Naw no that way! send him doon the line!”

“Mon McInnes get him aff
Bring on the young boy or a keeper fur a laugh.”

“Christ Shaw! Whit ye dae’in
A swear we’re a man doon, when that lad’s playing.”

“He’s no strong enough, aye he’s quick
But he faws on his arse , always trying wee flicks.”

“Wan on wan? PISH! he’ll no score
He get wan chance a game, but needs another four”

“Aye I ken he had wan ruled out by VAR
But mind at Raith , ballooned it over the bar.”

“Aye that’s whit I’m saying he’s utter pish
Naw naw, he’s no even as gid as big Colin Nish.”

“Nish scored goals , put himself aboot
Shaw is lazy, Junior level with out a doubt”

“ Oh oh on ye go! there he’s there
Switch switch! gee it tae Blaire”

“Oh oh, gee him the baw!!
F*#kin yaaaas“…

Goal scorer for Kilmarnock number 9 Oli Shaw

by Stuart Irving

---

MT59 – The cheers amid the tears

The roar and holler of the crowds mixed and churned in the heady air.
Angry and proud, pleading and triumphant, a cacophony of different voices all becoming one, erupted and echoed up out of the stadium to an empty heaven. 
And then Silence.
The game has stopped.

The stars above went unnoticed as all eyes were fixed upon one spot,
the temporary centre of the Universe where titans and furies kicked and tackled for an uncertain fate. 
Their fight and struggle was halted as a decision was to be made.

It was here, the epic struggle, boiled to a point and all hearts and minds were entangled.
Two players, the Ying and the Yang, stared at the umpire stood before them in judgement.
On his decision hinged the fate of the cosmos.

Everyone held their breath.
The World paused for a moment.
Then,
Then…
Then!!!!
Everyone lost their minds.

by Stuart Pe-win

PRIMOPOETICA58 – Scotland Euros

Well done Scotland on qualifying, we finally made it
Just when our memories of playing in one were becoming faded.
Big David Marshall saving that pen,
Celebrations of 98 all over again.
Many pints will spill and plenty tears will flow,
And it doesn’t really matter how far we go!
Go, enjoy and do us all proud,
We will be there cheering you on, shouting so loud.
Oh Flower of Scotland we are all going to sing,
After that last verse you just know Scotland will win.
So treasure this moment and make it last,
No longer are we all dwelling on the past!
COME ON SCOTLAND

by Ross Copland

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PRIMOPOETICA57 – address to a Mitre

Pure smashed ma honest, sonsie face,
a brick-hard Mitre – na time tae brace;
ascended tae heaven tae tak ma place,
Just fir a second:
Saw Rabbie creasin’ at th’ pearly gates
Then reality beckoned.

Woke wi ma coupon oan th’ flair,
munching mud wae soakin hair;
ah didnae have th’ time tae swear,
‘fore the gaffer’s greeting:
‘Get the f*** up and mark the spare
or al gie ye a beating!’

A pull mysel’ back intae frame,
a wonder why a play this game,
‘Get intae them!’ goes up the claim
an’ I oblige:
Two foot some laddie thro’ th’ rain
a slitherin slide!

Then, step by step, a stretch an’ strive’,
tak the Mitre on a michty drive;
added time goes up and there’s aye five!
A kin git th’ winner:
A skip intae th’ box, tak a cheeky dive –
a justified sinner!

Ref blows! Gies the lad a second yellow,
‘Didnae touch him!’ a hear him bellow;
Some tragedy! Some second Othello!
He calls at me ‘yer goantae die!’
A mime him a dowie tune, oan an imaginary cello;
looks lik he’s goantae cry.

Poor devil! Noo he’s hiding in his shirt,
As his gaffer shouts him aff th’ Earth;
More loose of lips than Rabbie Burns,
an’ then attention turns tae me:
I put the baw doon oan the spot
for a penalty.

Keeper’s staun richt oan his line,
He tells me that ahm gaun right,
A tell him that his team is shite,
and he awready knew it!
A splash ma wey up tae strike –
and ma foot goes thro’ it!

I think that Mitre’s broke ma’ foot!
A shriek in pain noo as ah shoot –
But oh feck aye, the ball flies true
My sweet winner!
A brawl breaks but I just stumble through
hame for ma Haggis dinner!

by Stuart Kenny

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PRIMOPOETICA56 – a Flash of Black

Oh, to have seen that young Kingston lad,
Gil Heron, scorch the turf as he ran,
for the crowds to roar him on,
to have seen history made.

The first black player for Celtic, he led the way
broke the ground for so many to follow,
helped along by a goal on his debut.

Your middle name was Saint Elmo,
which suited as your fire was on the pitch
– sudden movement, burst of speed,
an electric field of new brilliance,
the opportunity to perform or transform.

We called you the black arrow
but you were also a poet
and that warms me.
The impulse to run, to score
with camera-shutter speed, and
the need to write, to show your all.

It must have been difficult to leave home
for Scotland, and your wife and wee baby, Gil junior,
the godfather of rap to be, who when playing
his fused lyricism to loving Glasgow throng
always saw some hoops out there, as homage.

That is the thing about fame,
being the first at anything,
you’re both long gone and still here,
noted, still remembered.
Unfortunately, I never saw your radical newness,
and your revolution on the pitch
was not televised.

by Laurie Donaldson

---

PRIMOPOETICA55 – Saturday, Kirkcaldy

A stroll along the front, high rise blocks
reminiscent of hotels abroad.
Costa del Fife.

A whiff of lemon emitted by a passing vaper,
hissing streams of smoke from
between his yellow teeth.

Eleven degrees, a gentle breeze from
the Forth, pushing us towards Stark’s Park
with the crowds of blue clad fans.

The away end nears, two tickets
in hand, a charming date destination.
the scent of the cuisine hits our nostrils.
Bridie for a soon-to-be Bride.

Seated amongst Caley supporters,
scattering across an aisle like confetti
at a wedding.

A low sun blinds us, arms crooked
to cover foreheads, soon to fold
over our eyes completely,
once the football starts.

The whistle pierces the faint rumble of
atmosphere. “C’mon Caley,” a lone
ranger belts out. An eagle perched on a
thistle, protruding from his puffed out chest.

A promising start, Thompson pulling the strings
in the ten. Gilmour switches.
Would I swap Charlie for his namesake Billy?
Ask me after ninety minutes.

Mckay does his stint up top. Being a nuisance,
muscling up to six foot plus defenders.
A pain in Watson’s back side, he
subsequently falls on his own.

Suddenly, a shot, another. More bars
hit than a stag do pub crawl. A
disallowed goal follows. “Offside?” we query
to the referee. A red and yellow flag ripples.

Time for a pie. Steak for me and
mince for the missus. Reviews are in.
Pastry’s a little dry and not enough sauce. I
burn the roof of my mouth. Four out of ten.

Intervals call for interviews. A six year old
Kirkcaldy native predicts a flurry of goals for his
home team. “4-0,” the mic blares. “Probably not
far off,” a fan shrugs.

Dodds paces the touchline.
“Fuck off Dodds,” a red-faced fan screams.
Sunburn or pure rage? Likely both.
It’s unusually sunny for September.

Caley play worse. Raith improve, albeit
a small amount. Pressure builds.
Corners accumulate. Chances mount.

Eighty odd minutes on the clock.
Gullan collects the ball on the box’s edge.
Shifts it to his left and strikes beyond a
helpless Ridgers at his near post.

Groans are met with cheers from the opposite
end. The Young Team invades the pitch.
“The team will get a fine at least,” I mutter
disdainfully.

“Do they always lose?” my fiancé asks.
“Fits and starts,” comes a response from two
rows back.

Dodds belts out tardy instructions. Subs made
with no time to impact the match. The ref puts us out
of our misery, preceding our exodus.

Caley buses back to Inverness. Us back
in the Citroen. “Same time next week?”
I ask expectantly. “We’ve got Chaophraya booked for
Lunch at one-thirty remember?”
Probably just as well.

by Callum Macleod

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PRIMOPOETICA54 – tickets for germany

Sleeplessness, nervousness
Messed up wi’ stress
Cannae concentrate
It’s a common trait.

Tickets the morra
Codes’ll be sent
We’ll snap up the briefs
And sit back – content.

12 o’clock noon
Is a long time coming
Sitting at the laptop
Fingers strumming.

It’ll all be fine
Everything’s scheduled

-wait! What’s that I hear?
Everything’s pulled?

Chaos, disaster
Riots and anarchy
Ah, THAT’s what we get
For our membership fee!

Postponed til the next day
The SFA say
Back to square one
The fingers still strum.

New codes arrived
It’s pretty contrived
Fans first, aye?
Category 1, 2 or 3
What’s the fee?
Fuck me!!

In the basket
Oot the basket
Where’s it gone?
Fuckin’ bastart.

Eventually bought them
Breathe out, I’ve got them
We’re all goin’ tae Deutschland
C’mon, Bonnie Scotland!

by John Daly

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PRIMOPOETICA53 – 10 Tips for watching Scotland vs. England

Do bring an umbrella along to the pub, if you want to protect your hair;
because if Scotland score at any point you’ll see pints up in the air.

Do shout “get Griffiths on it!” whenever we have a free kick,
it doesn’t matter that he’s not in the squad – or that your auld man thinks he’s a pr***.

Do not say ‘it’s only a friendly’ (unless we’re losing by two or three).

Do remember Scotland are in Tier A of the Nations League – and England are in Tier B.

Don’t take your clothes off when McTominay scores (remember you’re in a pub).

Do try and be nice to Stuart Armstrong, when he inevitably comes on as a sub.

Do say “Arteta’s a mad man” when Tierney nutmegs Rice,
and feel free to declare him the best in the world when he goes and does it twice.

Do not be scared to hide behind a table, or even – god forbid,
to scream if Jude Bellingham’s allowed on the ball: he’s been banging them in for Madrid.

Do shout ‘he learned it at Hibs’ for Porteous; and ’Hickey learned it at Hearts’ –

And if the ball’s in the corner, don’t think it’s a solar eclipse:
it’s probably just John McGinn’s arse.

by Stuart Kenny

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PRIMOPOETICA52 – The Steve Clarke Days

Dolphins dance around my sailboat
while the columns of Staffa shine.
Ben More towers over Loch na Keal
and the sun lights up Tiree behind.

We’re eight points clear at the top of the league,
and we’ve only conceded one goal.
This is the new ‘same old Scotland’
and I’m a whole lot less stressed than before.

I’ve never been so confident we’re going to win,
– even if our next game is away.

So there’s not even a punchline coming…
These are just the Steve Clarke days.

By Stuart Kenny

---

PRIMOPOETICA51 – The God of Dutch Football

The God of Dutch football
prefers the curve of air round Bergkamp
to a muddy ball in the back of the net.

He lives within the thought thrown out
and followed through; in space exploited
to dazzlingly no avail.

Cruyff turns
and the world spins
dizzy as electrons round a nucleus.

The God of Dutch football sends them forth,
his orange-clad fishers after beauty
but they are sorely riven.

In his mighty stained glass window
the de Boer twins turn their backs,
praying for Seedorf to miss the penalty.

by Nell Farrell

NB – This was one of the infamous fallings-out within the Dutch national team – and there was such a dramatic split that the De Boers actively wanted Seedorf to miss this particular penalty!

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PRIMOPOETICA50 – Glass Half Full

The place erupts as a Pique own-goal draws us even!
And once again we have something big to believe in.
Maybe this time? Just maybe we won’t end up grievin’.

Well… f***. Never mind.

A half-empty pint glass flies in slow-motion over our heads,
misses the pub TV screen
and bounces clean off the wall instead
as Fernando Llorente puts Spain 3-2 up in the 79th minute.

2-0 down, and we got it back to 2-2,
only – of course – to go on and lose.

Tomorrow we’ll say ‘brave’ this, ‘valiant comeback’ that,
Spain are World Champions and all that sort of chat –
but for now we just look and we don’t say a word
and the glass-throwing rogue getting thrown out is all that is heard.

His old pint glass rolls slowly around the floor of the pub, and
when Whittaker gets sent off we just sit there and shrug.

And in the decade that follows we fall for much of the same,
but the pint glasses refills with every year the names change,
and you might think that after all that we’d just want to leave
but they always… they always find a way to make you believe.

And you know – Steve Clarke did get us into a major competition,
and Andy Robertson’s the captain; a man on a mission,
and we beat Cyprus 3-0 in front of the Hampden roar
and we’ve beaten the French and the Dutch and them all here before.

So my glass is half full, even if we are playing Spain.
I truly think that we’ve got a shot (though I may sound insane).

So I’ll get a pint. I won’t throw it – even if we concede,
because they always find a way to make you believe.

by Stuart Kenny

---

PRIMOPOETICA49 – Guancos Eating Shrubs

The
guanacos care not about penalties as they sit,
long,
furry necks craned down to the floor,
nibbling
on shrubs beneath the drifting sun.

A
puma lies lazily in a canyon cave nearby,
hiding
from the heat,
while
a cloud of Darwin’s lesser rhea
(mini
ostrich-like creatures) kick up dust.

Above
the steppe a pair of condors circle,
searching
for anything dead,
while
bushy-tailed mountain viscachas perch on the cliff-edge
and
bake in the heat of the Patagonian summer.

But
down by the river, the children wear Argentina shirts.
One
has Alvarez on the back, and the others have you-know-who

Messi!
Messi! Messi! Messi!

They
shout his name at me as I come walking through
with
dirty hiking boots, a scorched neck, a stuffed red pack
and
wearing the Argentinian blue and white;
2006
home kit, stolen from brother, with ‘Heinze’ on the back.

And
the chef back at camp wears international colours
as
he dodges the smoke of the asado and the chorizos are spun.
The
biologist recalls how tractor horns sounded
when
the penalty went in, and sent the lesser rheas off to run.
The
photographer, with Lio on his lock screen,
shows
me a video from the Obelisco de Buenos Aires,
from
the country that went crazy when Argentina – when Messi – won;

from
the Patagonian steppe over to the wetlands,
to
the capital city whose celebrations left the world stunned.

And
now, Buenos Aires has run out of replica shirts to sell.

Football,
here, is natural as the flocks of fluffy guanacos,
the
circling condors, the puma hiding in the shrubs –

It
is native; built-in. Ecosystem. The rising and setting of the sun.

by Stuart Kenny

(Celebrating the 800th career goal for Club and Country of Lionel Messi)

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PRIMOPOETICA48 – MIND YON?

They went before us, so they did.
The finest players we ever hid.
McKay, Baxter, Young and Co.
We didn’t see them, but their names we know.

Jim Baxter’s in the dictionary they say without malice.
He’s under “G”. “G” for gallus.

Then came or guys, ye mind them, eh?
Jordan, Bremner, Jinky, Hay.
Oh, they were good back in the day.

Ah mind wan time at Hampden Park,
Before the days ae Billy Stark,
A young Diego came – real slim –
I wonder whatever became ae him.

We’ve seen some talent, you and I.
Ye get tae Hampden – have a pie.
Get on the steps to watch the gemme,
Troosers up – mind the hem.

Martin Buchan, Kenny Burns.
Lou Macari, Twists’n’Turns.

Big Jim Holton, eyes of blue.
Six foot two, he’s efter you.

Maurice Malpas, Danny McGrain.
When will we see their likes again?

But mind yon effin goalie.
Five at Wembley – bloody toalie.
Stuart Kennedy? Aye, that was him.
Jeez, that day – oh, that was grim.

David Harvey, Asa Hartford,
Big John Greig – break yer leg
Ronnie MacKinnon, Charlie Cooke,
Man ye could write a book.

Many a magician wi’ a baw.
I look back, I’ve seen them aw, man.
The King. The Man. The Denis Lawman.

By John Daly

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PRIMOPOETICA47 – smith

#Fitba150 – This poem is from Dumbarton FC’s Poet In Residence, and former Hampden Collection Poet In Chief, celebrating the 150th birthday of Dumbarton Football Club; born on this day, 23rd December 1872.

PRIMOPOETICA46 – 30 November 1872 – The First International

The first international call-up;
The first ‘you made the squad’
The first gaffer deciding who’ll get the nod.

The first shock absentees
The first paying attendees
shouting the first heartfelt expletives at the first referees:

That wis over the line ref! You don’t have a clue!
How we still getting these calls wrong? It’s 1872!

Even still man, that striker – he’s just got to score –
av no seen a miss that bad since the Jacobite War!

The first goal-line controversy
The first defensive howler
The first ‘I got the ball ref!’ from a cynical fouler.

The first ‘one game at a time’
The first ‘he’s got to shoot!’
The first ‘game of two halves’
The first ‘cultured left-foot’.

The first ‘good touch for a big man!’
The first genius stroke
The first ‘aye he’s good but could he do it
on a Tuesday night in Stoke’?

The first international football match,
and of course it was fate,
despite Scotland’s 2-2-6 formation,
and England’s 1-1-8 –

That what the 4,000 fans who turned up saw,
Was a hard-fought battle: and the first 0-0 draw.

By Stuart Kenny

PRIMOPOETICA45 – Pies and Bovril

Lochburn Park

3 o’clock on a Saturday afternoon

1.45 in winter

when bitter winds would bite me

in places I never knew I had

as I watched the AC Millan of North Glasgow

turn on the style

for the few hundred die hard supporters

no TV cameras or live reports from this game

where the travelling fans often outnumbered

those cheering a home win

most seasons we would start off with optimism

before sliding to mid table mediocrity

and an early exit from the Scottish cup

moaning about our bad luck

or the fact our opponents came from Ayrshire or the Lothians

two of Junior football’s strongest regions

this meant like most Glasweigan teams we struggled

but we kept on trying

there was no denying our players gave their all

I would always stand behind the goal nearest the entrance

but I’d never leave before full time

junior or senior the song the remains the same

and you don’t just sing when your winning

this was the place I first saw Tommy Burns

parade the silky skills

which would make him a Celtic legend

and where the queue

for pies and bovril

was never the quite the length

of that for the burger stall

in the place he made his name

this was a land

about as far away from fame as you could get

though blood sweat and tears were still shed

in the name of the jersey

and the colours we shared with giants

By Gayle Smith

PRIMOPOETICA44 – Mexican Sunday

A boy genius he became
one of the greats of the game
his silky skills the passport to fame
which would prove to be a blessing
and a curse
at 18 he displayed his skills
at Hampden
just weeks after Scotland
was yoked to the chains of Thatcherism.

When the world champions brought their stars
to our national stadium
we witnessed a teenage sensation
destroying our defence
older heads told us we’ve not got
a player like him in our team
like we hadn’t noticed
and they blamed the PE teachers
for this
rather than acknowledging the fact
this boy had something special
that extra touch of class
that separates the brilliant from the ordinary.

Growing up in poverty he perfected the skills
which would mark him the best of his generation
he would play on the world’s biggest stages

Mexico 86 was his finest hour
leading his country to world cup glory
his was the story of angels and demons
as a Glasweigan I recognised
both had kissed his boots
in Napoli and Barcelona
he showed both majesty and madness
which would follow him like stalkers
hunting their prey

As the fame began to fade
his face showed signs of the troubles to come
drink and drugs the ruin of so many heroes
added him to their causality list
with Garrincha Greaves and Best
already there
at least he was in good company
when a heart attack brought to an end
a life cut short

Adios, Diego Armando Maradonna
the stars will guide your ascension to heaven
as a thank you for the memories
and songs that were sung in your name
by the army you entertained in 79
who later wore your colours as a mark of respect
for the events of a Mexican Sunday

By Gayle Smith

PRIMOPOETICA43 – Ballet on the pitch

The ball tolls like a dice roll
Bouncing off all the pregame odds
From tie to favour, idling to goal
Fans erupt, back to their half the victor trots

Back pass to defender
Shin puled by a sliding boot
A header to centre
Midfield to front, foot to foot

Anticipated but feared demise
Jeers spread all around
Confine fainting hope to equalise
Before the final whistle resounds

And in the last breath of game’s time
Predictions could cruelly seal fate
Unless under strain coach finds
A thriving tactic to dominate

Present perfect before simple present:
They have slugged, sped, and twirled
Tactics lost to evanescence
The ball poorly kicked and hurled

But now one tosses the ball up high
Testing God’s very might
For it may reach heaven’s sky
Before being returned with smite
And upon its return a stroke of genius is evoked
Through majestic movements a striker commits
To place himself and the keeper toe to toe
And finds net after some brilliancy on the pitch

Earthlings around the roaring field
Some fear they may be left bereft
From triumph which rival may steal
After a tackle is reproved by ref

A penalty given, yet another more
and to everyone’s surprise
Both teams score
And venture to equalise

Uproar, cries, and hellish shouts
Cannot stop ref to change course
Nor hinder a penalty shootout
When fruitless extra time causes furore

Yet whatever result will close the night
Was its highlight not that graceful display
One that treated each attendant in sight
Of that fine performance of grass field ballet

By Jeroen van Herk

PRIMOPOETICA42 – The Oystercatchers Call Full Time

The winning team
Doesn’t mean the best team,
Most trained,
Most talented,
They are sometimes simply the winners.

A cry goes up,
A goal scored
At the Pickaquoy infield,
In the giant’s soap dish
Lined with green baize
Where teenagers grapple
With being
Winners and losers.

Heads hang as if on pins,
Gazes fall with
Unfamiliar vertical rain.
Soft, not storm-force driven.
Balm for the tulip-red face
Of the central defender
Who roars for flags,
Voice crashing like a wave
Over the giddy contest
Of hardest and fastest,
To control the sphere that travels through space, and on and on and on….
A dizzy speck in the whirlpool of time.

The white mid-summer evening sun
Is in every drop of rain and sweat.

by Gabrielle Barnby
(Under 15s Final, Kirkwall)

---

PRIMOPOETICA41 – What We Talk About When We Talk About James McFadden

Tosh McKinley, Davie Weir;

Named with a smile in recognition
as another glass of whisky
feeds the memories and stories too.

Remember when Christian called them cheats?

As night becomes day,
the sky having gone from dark blue,
home strip ‘98
all the way to the sunshine yellow.

Matt Elliot, Neil McCann;

Names as much a soundtrack as the light, unnoticed music
which forms a bed to familiar chants.

Oh aye, remember him? What a player, by the way!

Stephen Pearson, Gary Rae;

Their shots, their passes,
allowing us to relive
through the highlights forever playing in our head.

Don Hutchison, both the Caldwells;

Same time every night,
we meet up to give them all that great gift –
a sacred shard of memory.

by Darren Sempie

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PRIMOPOETICA40 – More than one side

Blue on the shirts, on the fans, on the stands;
and yellow on the badge, on the kits, on the flags.

We, made of flesh and fingers and hands
with hearts wrapped in football
and hopelessly caught in the colours of our land.

We are all here made up of the same things:

of pipedreams and passion and corner kicks;
of dayjobs and daydreams and mortar and bricks;
of community and history and hope and heroics
and fear and family and faith and football.

But now, we can only look and admire your strength.

Each thing we are is just one, essential part of us; one side.

And we, who have so much in common
and who love and who cry and who dream every night.

The worst thing that could have happened happened to you,
warrior nation – and you have our solidarity in your fight.

This game has us rivals, but we welcome you with open arms
today and tomorrow and truly for as long as it takes.

So aye, we’ll cheer on our bonnie boys, and
our lion rampant wrapped in yellow, surrounded by blue.
But make no mistake – that we stand with you.

Each thing we are is just one, essential part of us; one side

But there is so much in common that makes up us all.

Today we are all blue and yellow and stand tall.

Today we are family and faith and football.

by Stuart Kenny, Primo Poetica Makar

(Stephen Kenny’s debut poem as Primo Poetica Makar, ahead of Scotland v Ukraine, 3rd Hampden, 1st June 2022)

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PRIMOPOETICA39 – An Ode to Italia ‘90

(A Scotland fan at Il Mondiale, Le Coupe du Monde, The World Cup Finals)

In ’89 I started the dance,
Lost 3 – 0 away pissed up in France,
As a spotty young lad the journey began,
Of a life on the road among the Brigands,
Life would never be ‘normal’ again.

Damp nights at Hampden, excitement abounds,
We beat France 2-0 before a big crowd,
Soaked to the skin, we scream “get in”,
And a draw with Norway is really a win.
We then sank a few pinties for ITALIA ’90.

I saved up my pennies, it is no free lunch,
Got a place on a bus with a tartan bunch,
45 hours went by in a drinking haze,
We arrived in Italy… crazy world cup days!,
Full of joy optimism & hope.

The noise & the flags were a sight to behold,
Even the booze ban could not make us less bold,,
A nice easy start, Costa Rica to thrash,
We got a smack in the puss, they’re not quite so bad,
Take stock and lick your wounds.

Next up were the Swedes, they were great fun,
The party was started with the rise of the sun,
Nae booze again, it’s banned so they say,
But if yer a Jock, there’s always a way,
Heatstroke and victory, hungover all day!!!

The last was a party, opponents Brazil!,
We gave them a game and lost just 1-nil,
The party was epic despite the defeat,
Glorious failure, yet another repeat,
A Scottish tradition no gain, just pain.

We went home in a convoy with many a bus,
60 plus coaches at Calais, what a fuss!
The mood remained buoyant despite all the pain,
Save up for 4 years let’s do it again,
… and race home before the postcards by plane.

by Scott Kelly

NB: This is an ode to the memories of my first World Cup. Tartan Army Footsoldier

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PRIMOPOETICA38 – Where YA Going Joe?

Where ya goin Joe?
Off to Queens Park Ma
What you doin there Joe
Having a game with the lads Ma
You still playing football Joe?
Aye we are, Ma.

Who’s rules you following Joe?
We’re making up our own Ma
Why you doing that Joe?
Because the current ones don’t make sense Ma
Well I don’t understand Joe
-Nor do the English Ma

They just like dribbling Ma
What do you lads do Joe?
We pass the ball Ma,
Sounds like more fun Joe,
It is Ma,
Away with you Joe!

Joe hurried along to the park
Met up with his friends
Kicked around, played for a lark
Had sweaters for goal posts and swapped ends

We need a name for the team
We can create a club
A name with some esteem
How about The Football Club?

Someone said “No -That’s been used before”
How about where we play?
“Good idea I like that more”
“Queens Park FC “they all say

That name will be revered
It will be remembered
The guys in the park
The guys in Queens Park

We’ll have a motto: “to play for the sake of playing.”
But it’ll be in Latin
“Ludere causa Ludendi”
That’s what they’ll be saying!

Then one day in 1872,
They gave Scotland their shirts of Deep blue,
There was Bob & Bill and the Smith brothers too
and Jim and Bob Leckie & Alex too
Billy, Jerry and David as well as Joe who
Played for the Queens and Scotland too.

That was the first international game
Scottish origins through and through
Scotland had invented the passing game,
They invented the stadium too

They built a stadium and called in Hampden
Probably named after the terrace nearby
They took the name with them
It was a fortress in those early days without a lie!

They should never be forgotten
This band of brothers
This was not misbegotten
They had ideas like no others

They were the founders of the beautiful game we now know
This first XI
Now all resting in heaven
And they were all part of it – including Ma Taylor and her son Joe

by Colin Taylor
* Colin is Joseph Taylor’s Great Grandson. Joseph Taylor represented Scotland in the world’s first international football match at West of Scotland Cricket Ground, Partick, St Andrew’s Day, 1872

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PRIMOPOETICA37 – When scotland win

we put away
disheartened shrugs
unscuff shoes
lift up
lowered heads
re-open kists of forgotten
smiles
as wide as the Tay,
as deep as Loch Ness.

We celebrate in ridiculous styles
pie or patch each other,
pump victorious fists.

When Scotland win
we party
like no-one else can,
sing ourselves hoarse
dance
riotous reels,
raise a crystal glass of finest malt
to dark blue heroes
and those gone before,
– to everyone and anyone.

When Scotland win
we reminisce
wipe a welcome tear,
remember
glory days
toast legends one by one.

Dennis Law—European Footballer of the Year
King Kenny’s hundred caps.
We applaud them all
from Jock Stein and Sir Alex
to our new heroes Stevie Clarke
and Super John McGinn.

When Scotland win – so do we.

by Jenifer Harley

---

PRIMOPOETICA36 – CEDED PASSION

here comes the middle class singing
here comes the corporate coffer fills

here comes nothing to do with passion
here comes another game on Murdoch’s box

here comes San Marino playing for free

here comes another night in the Shed
here comes another night with Mogadon Miller
here comes the voices of self-important flagellation
here comes a thorn in the memory of back then

here comes the headlines of plucky endeavour
a match igniting the fuel of hope
an undying love for the game
despite the exclusion of a nation

here comes the parade of inflated heads,
the recycled line of apathy and blindness
there’s nothing else – we ceded passion
to corporate greed a long time ago

so if you can afford Murdoch’s ransom
can afford a ticket to watch our Country,
enjoy the game. I wish you well but
I’ll listen with the excluded on my radio
In the shed
trying to let Mogadon Miller make me believe
I’m still invited.

by Jim Mackintosh

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PRIMOPOETICA35 – My Ball

Cast on and count,
Knit the minutes to half time,
Loop, pull through, cast off
Pass, move, receive.

Unravelled three times
This the fourth attempt,
Knit, purl, knit, purl,
Win, loose, win, loose.

Accurate rows end in purl,
Sure shots find the net,
Patterns drift and slip,
Eyes hook to the screen.

No hobby or game,
It’s passion, it’s soul,
Each imperfection a
Thread of compassion.

by Gabrielle Barnby

---

PRIMOPOETICA34 – Well, I Didn’t See That Coming

I am bottom of the Euros Predictor League –
I‘ve been constantly in shock this past month.
I’m starting to find that I’m getting fatigued;
being surprised all the time is so tough.

I took a shower earlier this morning
and got surprised when I got wet.
My landlord just asked for the rent without warning,
but I lost all my cash on a France-to-Win bet.

Today I got hit by a car, as I was crossing the road;
I just can’t seem to see what’s coming next.
Thought me and my wife were in love and it showed;
but yesterday she just packed up and left.

I can’t drink anymore. I can’t eat, I can’t bite
because I can’t pick my jaw off the floor.
I keep hoping each game I might guess something right,
I can’t take all this shock anymore.

I am bottom of the Euros Predictor League,
and Harry Kane has just scored another tap-in.

I am bottom of the Euros Predictor League.

I did not predict this would happen.

By Stuart Kenny

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PRIMOPOETICA33 – Stopping a Heart

This is not that flutter in the chest:
the striker in the beat before the shot
your eyes following the feint
the turf torn by the slide – this is not that.

This is another hidden heart –
not the pain of one week’s work
expiated on a Saturday – not
the consolation goal sincerely cheered.

This is the gene that anyone might have.
A man my age and many times my skill –
the spasm and the family on the screen.
Defibrillating – stop-starting –
clip after clip on someone’s phone
repeating the collapse, the miscontrol
the error in the blood.

And so I must admit that when I saw
his team around him and his team
pushing forward against mine
a part of me, a heart inside a heart
betrayed my country and – I have no proof –
I think that treason was enjoyed
all through the summer by the chanting crowds.

by James Appleby

* For one of the many who played at Hampden Park
** Check out more from James at his website – www.jamesapplebywriting.co.uk

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PRIMOPOETICA32 – I Just Love Rammstein

It’s not ‘anyone but England’, it’s just my girlfriend’s a German,
so my support for her country is well predetermined.
She has a heart gold like Tennents & beautiful eyes,
so I want Deutschland to win, or I’m afraid she might cry!

It’s not ‘anyone but England’, it’s just German football is great –
They don’t rob the supporters as they go through the gates!
Free public transport on game days – the sport serves the fans,
And a wee guy even comes round to sell you beer in the stands!

It’s not ‘anyone but England’, but German songs are real funny:
Eine Straße, viele Bäume, Ja das ist eine Allee!
I love Berlin, old castles, Eintracht, Maultaschen & Rammstein –
so if Deutschland drop out at all, I’ll have to call: nein, nein, nein!

It’s not ‘anyone but England’, I don’t think Southgate is cursed,
but I don’t mean ‘sausage’ when I say that these brats are the worst!
So Los Geht’s die Mannschaft! To the trophy, I’ll shout –
(and I suppose it’d be a wee bonus, if it was England they knocked out).

by Stuart Kenny

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PRIMOPOETICA31 – Morning O The Match

Friday 18 June 2021, London

Dreich Friday ower Vauxhall
was like being back hame
sheltering ootside oor Travelodge
breakfast pokes frae Waitrose next door.

Then aff intae Starbucks
jist roond the red bus bend
fur a hawf and a hawf
(steamed milk and mocha)
and a crack aboot the match
at 185 Euros a pop
as much as a season ticket wi Rovers
but nae sae much fun.

By eleven the rain eased
tae jist a doonpour
but didnae dampen oor spirits
(the boozer wid cum later, and so it did.)

Waded across tae Vauxhall tube
replica shirts, bravado, kilts
Oyster cards at the ready
oxters dripping wi excitement
confident but no arrogant
unlike oor hosts
hae faith in Clarke’s team
tae dae what we needed.

Fur in nine hoors time
we wid be thrashing the Engerlish
though a draw wid be fine
then bring on Croatia.

by Alun Robert

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PRIMOPOETICA30 – street football

Let`s get sentimental
about a simpler time.
When cars kept to the main road.
Our street our very own Hampden.
Best jumpers on the ground
new bought shoes, scuffed scored
with every scrape on tarmac
in search of the Jules Rimet
held aloft eternal moment.

Once my imagination
grew me wings to fly
in search of the last minute
World Cup winner.
Fellow street football dreamers,
TV millions, paused in leaned forward
pose, anticipating diving header glory.

The ball escaped the desperate grasping fingers
of the goalie, final whistle blew for dinner time.
Jules Rimet trophy was coming home.

Nose squashed and bounced on the tarmac pitch.
Pain unnoticed till Tomato Soup
Forgotten with Banana Angel Delight.

Let`s get sentimental
Win or lose on the TV screen.
We all play for Scotland.

By Tom Murray

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PRIMOPOETICA29 – Th’ Nicht Afore

Twas th’ nicht afore Scootlund-Englain ‘n aw throo th’ hoose;
ah wis sticking up picters ‘a Robert th’ Bruce;
when wha does appear bit th’ ghost o’ th’ auld king himself!
Juist cam ootae ma wall chart – right neist tae mah shelf!

He says – how come yur sticking up a’ thae auld drawings o’ me?
I say – yiv beat thaim afore, and a’m waantin’ tae git a’ th’ hulp that we need’!
Rab said tak’ thaim doon ‘n stick up photies o’ th’ laddie McGinn;
see ahm th’ auld king o’ Scotland – he’ll be th’ king whin we win!

By Stuart Kenny

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PRIMOPOETICA28 – Thistle and Wattle

1 – Thistle
In Melbourne, football earned eternal fame
Through ball in hand and scrimmaging till dark’;
One Scot proposed a scientific game
While going by the pseudonym “Queen’s Park” –
‘1LRV’ penned letters to the press
Then ‘Rangers’ raged and ‘Vale of Leven’ too,
And ‘Old Dumbreek’ felt ‘Clydeslale’s’ great distress
For ‘Clydesdale’ feet not hands was fitba true.
In Sydney Town the Scots did fan the flame,
The Parkgrove Pilgrims, Caledonians,
Were local teams that played the passing game,
A long way from the Old Etonians.
Athletic roots in Scotland’s ancient games
These football clubs were born with thistle names
 
2- Wattle
In Queensland, Scots could not be long restrained,
They copied Glasgow’s Cup to pack the joint,
From coalfields west of Brisbane fans entrained
For Pineapple Grounds at Kangaroo Point.
Fields ringed by spotted gums and wattle blooms
Where England-Scotland games were played so well,
For foes, now friends, that gather in their rooms
A fiddler plays, a piper raises hell.
One Scotch Professor never left this shore
A Queen’s Park spider born to weave and run,
In Eighty-two, First Hampden’s mighty roar!
It finished: Scotland five to England’s one.
He rests beneath Antipodean skies;
It’s sacred ground where Eadie Fraser lies

By Paul Nicholls

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PRIMOPOETICA27 – AT THIS TIME OF THE DAY

it’s four in the morning
and warm outside
it’s an odd thing not
in a global warming impact way
although it is Scotland, it is June
and not even in a strange
Tales of the Unexpected way because
we earned our place
to be amongst the big boys
but some of us have waited a while
some of you’ve never been here before
I don’t want to admit the obvious
sorry, we ain’t going to win it
but at this time of the day
it doesn’t matter, so you
check over your missing Panini’s
trying to shuffle the bank account
so your other half doesn’t find out
the hundreds of pounds invested
in finding David Marshall
sitting in your jammies
sipping on cold coffee
this is a moment in time
when everything you hoped for
becomes reality
at the opening of one small packet
passion, absurdity, money spent
not giving a flying foo foo
it’s all there
from up in the Co-op
next to the scratch-cards
in the queue with the school weans
a sausage roll, a lucky dip for Tuesday’s Euro
and ten Panini packets – for the grandson
the one that’s not due
until September. The shop lass kens
but I don’t care, David
Marshall doesn’t care and
neither will my grandson unless
we win the Euros and he’s named
after the starting eleven, as I sit
in my jammies
at this time of the day
David Marshall in my hand
it is pure crazy mental
this pursuit of the inevitable
and aye, she’ll find oot

By Jim Mackintosh

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PRIMOPOETICA26 – Odds On For The Win

Scanning the statistics
in the latest twitter poll
France’s chances are most favourable
Followed by Belgium, Spain – no surprises there
Scanning down
down
down, a wee bit mair
there’s Scotland 0.1% for the win
Hang on, 0.1%?
For the win?
So… You’re telling me there’s a chance!

by Julie McNeill

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PRIMOPOETICA25 – HOpe

It’s always the hope that kills you
the expectation, the ‘what ifs?’
the endless machinations
of margins and statistics
and ‘aye but remember when’s’

There’s nothing rational
about hope
about this perpetual cycle
of belief and despair
we willingly, and eagerly
place ourselves on.

We suspend all rational thought
indulge in pure fantasy
raise our team above the prize
and go forward wide eyed
full-hearted
full-bodied
fool hardy
forward.
With that damned hope in our hearts, again.

By Julie McNeill

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PRIMOPOETICA24 – who is listening 

Who is it now singing of Bannockburn at the moon
and is it the son of the piper knee deep in the pool

where we met under Nelson’s single armed disapproval.
Catch the tear off your cheek, taste the salt of memory.

Remember when we marched: all our mismatched kit
of 70’s haute de high street – days afore Army standards.

Describe the colour of the streets where shoppers gawped
and the polis smiled under the weight of bewilderment

prepared for battle, embraced by passionate daftness.
Taste the hot acidic tang of foreign beer on willing lips.

And the touts in shorts mingled with battalions, flogging
dead horses and nylon flagged lions on bamboo canes

tidal waved for miles and miles until two towers towered.
Send me your tears, so bitter-sweet like the beer. Dip

your toe in the pool for me. Say hello to Horatio. Remind
him of the time I played the pipes and he tapped the beat.

Wish I was there. Full of stories with no-one to tell except
you. Are all the dead such romantics? Who is listening?

by Jim Mackintosh

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#PrimoPoetica1 – Euro2020

Manuel Neuer’s annoying his neighbours.
He keeps having to get them to throw back his ball.
Toni Kroos is so cross that the Euros are off that
he’s punched a hole through his living room wall.

David de Gea has dropped his tortilla
on the decking in his backyard.
He’s refusing to take off his goalie gloves during quarantine
And it’s made holding his cutlery quite hard.

Gareth Bale’s dreaming of golfing outside.
All he does now is eat, sulk and sleep.
Isco invited him to a virtual disco,
but he told him he’d rather just stick on Leonard Cohen and weep.

Kylian Mbappé’s feeling a little bit crappy.
He’s in his slippers making a lunchtime snack.
He gets out a baguette and some low-fat hummus,
Then orders a pizza and puts the other stuff back.

Harry Kane’s sofa is his station for self-isolation.
He spends 24 hours a day alone.
He mostly stares at the ceiling hoping his hamstring is healing,
And humming Football’s Coming Home.

Eden Hazard is re-watching Die Hard
18th time this week; but he’s having a hoot!
Besides, he doesn’t have to worry about his food supplies,
The garden of Eden has plenty of fruit.

Andy Robertson’s in a castle made from cans of Irn Bru.
He’s playing a game of chess against a garden gnome.
He watches on as the gnome puts him into checkmate,
Then goes back to InPrivate browser on his phone.

Cristiano Ronaldo’s naked and staring in the mirror.
It’s all he’s done since he entered quarantine.
He takes a seat in the pose of The Thinker,
And has a daydream about what could’ve been.

By Stuart Kenny

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#Primopoetica2 – El partido del portero

Los chicos de Klopp pasaron el balón,
pasaron, pasaron, pasaron
y los de Diego defendieron;
los de Klopp dispararon
dispararon el balón
pero ¡no pasaran!
Los delanteros de Liverpool no pasaron
porque Oblak bloqueó, bloqueó,
bloqueó, bloqueó, bloqueó,
porque Oblak bloqueó el paso.
Otra de Oblak y otra y otra
¡Qué parada! ¡Qué paradón!
¡Es que ya no quedan palabras!
Solo soy poeta de la página,
eres poeta de la portería;
solo soy este poema,
eres todo el poemario.

By David Bleiman

‘Based on the Goalkeeper’s match of Liverpool v Atlético Madrid, 11 March 2020, where Oblak blocked one Liverpool strike after another.

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#Primopoetica3 – Hunt

Wet waxed your jacket
Lightning strike stood tight
Prayer hands. Mine pocketed
Scarf Arab Strapped round frost bit face.

It’s fitbaw in a tin can these days.

My lungs escaped me
Tear gas breathed. Steam rising
From a tray of chips ahead.
I would plough my fingers just to taste that heat.

Full time we find our feet. Pound streets
Feels beat but we are warriors

One goal up huddled in the pub
Mandolin choir rising
The mob throbs wae Calton songs
Windows steamin’ dreams of 67.

This is the game, my friend
Not a sport but a life spent.
We hunt every Sunday
Lay out our dead on the Monday commute.

By Victoria McNulty

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#Primopoetica4 – And Along With The Rest They Cancelled Football

Players become greater in the mind
the longer it is since they played.
George Best, he of the double-jointed ankles,
wove patterns between players so intricate
they might have been done with a needle and thread.

But he didn’t forget the goalposts.
That’s where the ball nestled,
home again, hence all the shouting.
With all the effort it took to put it there.
why take it out and start over again?

Because it’s football, the game of the masses,
which also becomes greater
the longer it is since it played.

by James Andrew

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PrimoPoetica5 – Routine

My nephew’s wish is for Man United face-paint,
a line across his cheeks, and down his nose.
There is comfort in the known,
like the reassurance of football gloves
waiting at the back door.

Every morning the blackbird watches
as he practices keepy-uppies before standing in goal,
imagining to the best of his capacity
Lionel Messi taking a shot.

Ole Gunnar Solskjær cheers
as my nephew draws the ball safely to his chest,
as if it were a world he was holding.

He has done this thousands of times,
but today is the only one that counts.

By Jessica Wortley

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Primopoetica6 – The Whistle

the ‘only for outdoors’ ball thuds,
smacking off the freshly painted walls
a fifa-induced din and despair
and a floor strewn with match attax collectibles

The small boy laps the garden, arms aloft
executing his first cruyff turn
round the washing pole
Dad teaches him Archie Gemmill’s ’78 for PE

Strips pulled over jammies
navigating mops of hair
socks, long forgotten
get your daily dose of air
The referee blew time
And the world held its breath

On the sidelines nothing really stopped
One man helps another up
The woman leaves her kids to sit
And does her bit, helps him find his breath

Men and women venture out
Donning masks and gloves in love
To get supplies and try to think
of the collective

Rainbows appear everywhere
in chalk, in paint, in packages
on doorsteps left with care
in place of hugs and being there.

The young girl lays out cones around the kitchen
and balls up socks to play
The boy laughs on zoom at pictures
of his teammates as new babes

The ball rolls on from home to home
across the globe. It sprinkles hope
as we find new ways to be together
while we hold our breath and wait.

by Julie McNeill

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Primopoetica7 – The Prospective bobby carlos

The Prospective Bobby Carlos

Morning’s dripped through night’s seal
at the edges,
busting the vacuum of the horizon
so a grey breath of day
fogs between the panes
of then and now.
The dawn’s no big wow,
nothing fancy
for this city
reluctantly rising
under lockdown,
growling at the body clocks
that had the local gull flocks
all a-tizzy long before light
was even busy.

Sunrise is still to pass
the first high-rise
and we’ve a park to explore
so near our front door
you think it’s your garden, though
this one’s full of joggers
in their dragonfly colours
weaving past and wheezing
out the ghosts
of fatter selves
into the patient morning mist.

Swings and chutes are padlocked
shut so it’s off-road for you
through bushes and briar,
past grass I declare blackened
by dragon-fire
and not the illicit pyres
of secret drinkers, since
where’s the magic there?

Then it happens; bursting
from another bear-hunt
onto the old bowling green
we’ve seen a ball. Sunken,
frost-skinned and bound for the bin
it’s no Mitre, but it might fly in
as I explain how it’s 1997
we’re Brazilian
and this pock-marked pitch is Le Gerland
not Langside.

I’ve already taken the first stride
can see the bend past Barthez
after I’ve hit it as hard as
ancient trainers will allow,
#6 already running to a roaring crowd, when
you run away
from dad’s moment of glory
preferring to pursue a wren
you’ll catch no better than
I’d (maybe) catch my kick
but these days you’re quick,
rapid round the burnt wick
of an old tree stilled
by a lightning bolt’s bright idea
dreamed years before you were here
and it’s suddenly clear
that these days
I’m really Dunga,
tracking the runners out of shot
making sure we’ll no get caught
on the counter, forgetting
the glamour
of a (maybe) doomed blooter
by leaving it to somebody
younger, as all good captains must.

Another bear-hunt is swiftly underway
and with the ball’s sunken forehead
a memory you say
you don’t like the samba-sway
I’ve given Michael Rosen’s words
this time

but we sing it together anyway.

By Ross McWhinnie

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PRIMOPOETICA8 – Paris June 10 1998

The table, wooden, laden with crisps and sandwiches,
Brought in despite its heft from kitchen to living room
To watch TV, to watch the world watch the Tartan Army

I never watched football before but I run home from the school bus,
The nation expects
(well not really, it was Brazil)

Yellow like the summer day, blue like the summer sky
In Paris proud we played the best,
Four time winners versus group stage sinners

They scored of course, we expected that,
Gasps released as roles realised
And order of the world forms

But then…
Kevin Gallacher who I knew from a small book that sits still on my shelf,
Who I know scored to get us here,
Scored the goals that brought Scotland to France, to the world
Brought the world to my living room
Brought the sandwiches and crisps and table from the kitchen
Gallacher,
He ran and fell, fell up to heaven
Collins steps up…
Is this what it feels like? Football?
I ask my dad,
He smiles the smile I now know was etched by 78 and the rest
He smiles, I watch on

We hold and press, they hold and press,
The world watches as we hold our breath
Then Tommy, Tommy turns it in,
I was young
I never knew that you could destroy yourself

Crisps gone, sandwiches gone, table back in the kitchen
World moves on, we go home
My dad says
You’ll get used to this

By Darren Sempie

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PRIMOPOETICA9 – North of the border

Take a trip throughout the ages
To find the Scottish football roots
It was in the eighteen-sixties
That they first put on the boots

Queen’s Park are, well the oldest
Up in Scotland that we know
And since eighteen sixty-seven
Scottish football was to grow

A reference to “fute-ball”
Goes back to eighteen-forty-two
When King James I outlawed it
Oh, what were the folk to do

There are clubs throughout the country
From the mighty to the small
Full of passion and frustration
For supporters of them all

Be it crowds that number thousands
Perhaps it’s gatherings of just few
The football is a part of them
And pride will run right through

They call them football crazy
And for so many footballs first
Well of course along with football
Comes a sort of football thirst

Now many famous Scotsman
Have made the world’s elite
With skill determination
And some fancy football feet

Scotland’s pride at the world cup
Remember Ally’s Army in 78
Sadly, they were out of luck
And again, they had to wait

But patience is a virtue
And the game it will prevail
For Scotland a proud nation
The football magic we all hail.

By Mike Conlon

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PRIMOPOETICA10- Various Stadium Names

It doesn’t matter who you support, as
-long as they’re your local
The Tay-rail bridge is the view out my window
Hibernian’s my team.
See if a could go, but, see if a was allowed,
Tannadice would do.
My Dad supports the Killie but I grew up in Porty
Would you travel 60 miles every week to watch that lot?

Support your local team, always. Or at least
Make sure you watch them.
It’s been 18 weeks since we were last allowed
Past the gates of
ParkheadIbroxFirParkPittodrieAlmondvaleMcDiarmidParkEasterRoadRugbyParkStMirrenPark(LoveStreet)VictoriaParkNewDouglasParkTynecastle
Make sure they’re never empty again

By Hugh James Brown

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PRIMOPOETICA11 – Football Punditry

What he lacks in terms of pure class
he makes up for in terms of pace.
He is guaranteed to put in a shift.
You’ll never see him in a flat back four,
he’d rather be taking the game by
the scruff of the neck and scoring
as many stone-wall penalties as he can.
But it’s pace he has in abundance and he
has that in his locker. This is what
he brings to the table when he takes
it out of his locker. There is nothing
sweeter – apart from his sweet left foot –
when he takes his pace out of his locker.
To see him on his bike down that wing
finding the gaps and the spaces and then
moving inside and pulling the trigger
really is a thing of great beauty.
Once when he was cynically fouled
it all kicked off and he just lost it so he did.
More often than not it was mere hand-bags
but he takes responsibility, shows the belief
that gets him through the match until
it is game over. It really is – unbelievable!

By Jim Aitken

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PRIMOPOETICA12 – Children of albion

I
In a game
of two
halves

to defend or
not to
defend

that is the
question:
how

to engage every
player from
wing

to goal, goal
to wing
inside

left and inside
right so
that

the ball strikes
home every
time.

II

In a game
of two
halves

you play for
extra time.
Wresting

the ball from
the opposition
you

tackle the issue
head on:
the

midfield maestro’s exemplary
skill raises
the

pitch one notch.
Flocking through
the

turnstiles you live
the beautiful
game.

By Neil Leadbetter

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PRIMOPOETICA13 – Roy of the rovers

George Best to Jimmy Johnstone
A flick of the ball from Roy of the Rovers
To me.
Collecting it without breaking my stride
Weaving past imaginary opponents
Eagle eye the top corner of the net
My deadly right foot thunderbolt net bulging
Taking the rapture of the crowd in my stride.
George, Jimmy and Roy beaming the beam
Of the daily last minute goal.
We had done it again.

Dreaming was real.
The comic script inside my head
Inked and drawn in my back garden.
The clothes poles a tough defence.
The garage wall the one two
That fooled them every time.
The unstoppable blast against the top corner
Of the garden fence.

It was a dream I woke from
Not realising then
That I was building another dream
Within a dream.
Images stored with feeling
For this poem.

by Tom Murray

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PRIMOPOETICA14 – The Hallowed tournament

Leaves slap against one another,
Neglected grass billows gently,
Empty seats creak,
Wind is funnelled through stairwells and turnstiles,
A distant car trundles by,
The white lines fade.

There’s a violent cacophony of silence,
As the summer trudges on,
Without that hallowed tournament.

by Sam McCartney

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PRIMOPOETICA15 – Stand free

Here, being red is unique
in crowds of blue and green
Often discarded or hidden away
but sometimes magnificent
when it really matters

I can taste it now
between crusty steak
bratwurst mitt pretzels
with lashings of durken
and oodles of pride

My senses fill at the thought of you
on cold winters nights
Sweaty class oozes over fields
as we’re red, your dead; we’re dancing on your head
we’re Aberdeen; where it counts
to have two silver stars over your badge

Being red is what I live by
and I will feel the rush of it
wherever I go; see the seagulls swooping
smell the ozone new and hear
the loons who never give up hope
standing free wherever they may be

by Lindsay Craik

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PRIMOPOETICA16 – bawless

We aw miss the fitbaw
Thare’s na a gem like at
What can equal the escapism,
Gat us aw kittelt up,
Mak us sae blythe an sair,
As follaein OOR team?

We aw miss the weather
At hame or awa;
Daudin shours, snaw an houlin o wind
Frozen, bilin, soakin
Aw in the space o ninety meenits

We aw miss the camaraderie
Whit a drooth the fitbaw gies ye
Few pints afore, bit o banter
Few mair efter, louder banter
At’s a social thingie

We aw miss the crack
We aw speak a hunert languages at the fitbaw
Onywhaur in the waurld, juist say ‘Messi’ or ‘Ronaldo’
The fowk’ll gat it an nod, thumbs up, eh!
If thay point at ye, whaur ye frae? Say, ‘Dalglish’
Thay’ll probably say ‘Liverpool’ but dinna fash yersel

by Peter Findlay

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PRIMOPOETICA17 – Real good

Cross fae the left
Zinedine Zidane steadies himsel
An’ Zizou! Baw’s in the net!
Fifty thoosan folk leapin fae seats,
Fists punchin the soggy Glesca err,
Aw roarin in ther ain tongues,
Giein it, “Ole!”, “Achtung!” an “Gaun yersel son!”

But nae tummlin his wulkies
Tae celebrate,
Nae haunstauns ower the grass,
Jist the great man grinnin fit tae split
His baldy heid,
An the hale place gaun mental!

by Iain Mills

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PRIMOPOETICA18 – Hampden the musical

Was summer of ’78
jingoistic Scots’ pride
on our way to Argentina
though England hadn’t qualified.
Refrained it on street corners
echoed along tenements
belted out in bars on
our way across to Hampden.
Day was right hot
stripped down to our wastes
dust clouded up from terracing
for a lump in my throat
as we sang “Ally’s Army”
not in unison or key
just first verse and chorus
for we didn’t know the rest.
Bawled all through the match
until the English scored
to take wind out of our sails
and wind out of our lungs.
But with great resolve
we started up again
waved our tartan with pride
for our journey had begun.

by Alun Robert

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PRIMOPOETICA19 – Yes kids, you can boogie…

It’s extra time, we’ve blown it
I’m sending the wee yin to bed
she doesn’t need the disappointment
this year’s filled her head
with quite enough dread.

Somehow, we hang on
the thirty minutes done
as Griff walks up to the spot
the door creaks open

the bairn appears, a wee
pyjama-clad beacon
a bed-ruffled mascot
drawn down the stairs
by magnitude and snacks
and potential jubilation.

One by one the hope, it grows
we are all David Marshall’s glove
and Kenny McLean’s foot
we are the pause
to wait for the thumbs up

then we are Scotland,
in the European championship.
We are couches used as trampolines
Weans thrown in the air
We are bedtimes long forgotten
We are Ryan Christie’s tears

We are there.

by Julie McNeill

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PRIMOPOETICA20 – saved

David Marshall’s left hand turns off the alarm clock
looks out a neon pink goalkeeping top puts on the
kettle and makes a cappuccino the way the barista with the
bleached blonde hair down the road does it – with the
fancy oat milk and the complicated silver machine.

David Marshall’s left hand leaves the coffee on your
bedside table along with a cream cheese bagel and tucks
the duvet just beneath your chin so you’re proper cosy,
then lightly squeezes your hand and waves goodbye.

David Marshall’s left hand opens the door and quietly
locks it again from the other side. You miss David Marshall’s
left hand but you know it’s got work to do and it comforts you
that it’ll be back and frankly that it’s out there at all.

David Marshall’s left hand turns on the car engine and
taps the steering wheel rhythmically to Baccara.
The music isn’t really David Marshall’s
cup of tea but he knows it’d mean a lot to the lads in
the locker room if he could learn the words.

David Marshall’s left hand turns the engine off floats
into a nearby Tesco picks up a bag of oranges and greets
its teammates. David Marshall’s left hand puts on a
goalkeeping glove pats Andy Robertson on the back
and fist bumps Declan Gallagher going down the tunnel.

David Marshall’s left hand waits idly by his side for 45
minutes, occasionally catching or throwing a ball. David
Marshall’s left hand directs, prevents and conducts. David
Marshall’s left hand almost saves one penalty. David
Marshall’s left hand does save another penalty.

David Marshall’s left hand sends Scotland to Euro 2020.

By Stuart Kenny

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PRIMOPOETICA21 – The Green Deck

For Christopher

How nice it is
Waiting for you,
Playing under floodlights
While rain sweeps in.

As if the astroturf were not
A flat rectangle of green
But the deck
Of a whaling ship.

And the shouts and cries
Breaching the wind
And snare drum rain
Those of sailors.

The car’s safe haven rocks,
Somewhere out of sight
Rope tings on flag pole.

Lines form and break,
There’s a rush for ball and corner flag.
You’ll be soaked to the skin.

And while I wait
And the rain sweeps in,
I pray for sailors
And whales
And the souls at sea

I look for you in the pool of light
And I want you to know
I am here, always,
Waiting for you.

by Gabrielle Barnby

The Green Deck was inspired by watching football training as a storm broke over a floodlit session in Orkney. How snug and safe I felt in my car. How I wished to become a shelter for the boys.

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PRIMOPOETICA22 – Testimonial 

He turns his back on the team, at every home game, but he’ll never stop following them; it’s in his blood. Besides, he’s already seen enough to last a lifetime.

A seasoned ticket spine bent and almost bare, corners frayed from rough back and forth between the turnstiles, bearing witness to derby day up‘s and down’s, promotion pushes and relegation white-knuckle rides; dream-like European exploits that now only live on within grainy VHS vistas, imprisoned inside redundant worlds that gather dust, time eating them away like Alzheimer’s.

The old man stares diligently ahead, his attention swimming upstream against the current of the crowd. The compulsion to look back has long left him, settling instead to watch the action unfold across the faces of a thousand strangers. Across this hulking, tribal monster pulsing before him; constructed from a multitude of lifestyles and experiences, attitudes and appearances; and yet, for ninety minutes (plus injury), are woven together, existing as one.

Except one, who still sits still as a statue, the game behind him out of sight; his hi-viz jacketed backed at it, watching the watchers watch the clock, watching the ref holding hope to his lips and at the back of his throat. Chants fall and rise like deep slumbering sighs; nerves and back-lines holding fast to the half. Relief finally exhales in a slow and steady flow, synchronised to the sound of the refs whistle blow.

The crowd thins out like a famine to feast on cups of burning hot Bovril, and coat their chins in greasy films that erupt from the guts of cartoon pies. As they rise, the mouths of flip-down plastic seats snap shut; leaving a patchwork of punters in play as we Guess Who is at the game: Have they got on a hat? Is there hair on their face? Do they wear glasses, and if so can the referee have them? Click… click, click, click…

Meanwhile, flat-capped clichés invade the pitch to stick the hallowed turf with trusty prongs, tsking as they stamp with uneven gaits, righting the damage from those two-footed wrongs. Dints and dents now denied, the tannoy blares out its muffled messages like a Charley Brown teacher; half-time scores draw partisan roars as flags unfurl and chants are hurled and all along the whole while the old man stays the same, unchanged; perhaps watching a different game.

He might be fluorescent to the eye, but inside his light is fading.

He didn’t always face this way. He used to sit in that same stand and stand before they sat; and when other parts of his life stayed closed, it was Saturday afternoons that he chose to share when forming bonds with his first and only born. A language they could both speak, with ease through native tongues, fully fluent in saying without saying as they’d thaw frozen limbs over heated debates on the long journeys home.

The years pass by, racking up like Weinstein criminal charges. Their shared stone step spot swapped to satisfy both safety needs and stiffening knees of a future they never saw coming, unaware that time had been the real opponent, the archest of rivals; the bogiest team that always left the park with all three points in its pocket.

And when the old man lets himself remember, when he allows himself to look back, every game stings like a last minute cup final defeat; his loss so bitter it could twist lips off a lemon. No joy to be found on the pitch, no peace at the prospect of passing through those gates for good. Trapped, unable to watch or walk away as the can’t live with or without conundrum counts him down to the last fixture of his season; a life time of devotion, no testimonial in sight.

So its eyes back front as floodlight bulbs ignite, sending fleet-footed shadows dancing across the old man’s back for another forty five. Forever hunched, this guardian of granite solemnly surveys the sea of souls before him like a warning; glaring from the limbotic side line of life where he sits stubbornly between two worlds. Eyes cast over those hopeful faces before him, often mistaking strangers for sons.

Sometimes he wonders what they see when they look back; the fluorescent façade of duty he dons no doubt jump-starting assumptions, pigeon-holing him neatly away from any further thought. Unaware of the distance he’s travelled just to end up only a few yards away.

But in amongst the throngs, perhaps there might be one, eyes not so glued to the action played out behind this old man; wondering…

Why he turns his back on the team, at every home game?

Perhaps he’s already seen enough to last a lifetime.

By Gavin J Inn

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