Flowing Moves - The Poetry Of Ipswich Town.
Written by The_Flashing_Smile on Friday, 29th Aug 2025 17:01

I decided to set myself a challenge for the new season - to write a poem match report for every league game. Why? I’ve no idea really.

Poems have always been in my blood. I’ve written them since the age of eight and they’ve followed me throughout my life - from birthday and anniversary poems for my family, to poems used in advertising campaigns in my day-job (I even had one read by Suggs of Madness, for a well-known energy drink).

I’ve performed poems at spoken word events around London, and even wrote and performed poems about my nan and dad at their funerals.

To do match reports as poems just seemed like something different to what’s out there. My own quirky angle. I’m not really sure if anyone will be interested, but I enjoy wandering up to our local churchyard and sitting on a bench in the sun to pen them.

Our very own wordsmith, Phil Ham, suggested they could be a blog. So here we are. I'm not sure about the title Flowing Moves (we've seen precious few so far), so am open to suggestions.

They’ll also begin to take the shape of a diary, of sorts, as I chart the ups and downs of another Championship season. Maybe, at the end, we can look back across 46 poems together. See where we’re at, and how we got there. For now, here are the first three, for the first three league games. I’ll aim to do one per blog from now on. I hope you enjoy.

Birmingham v Ipswich 08/08/2025

A new season dawned of an evening
with a din that would spin the undead.
It’s doubtful we’d choose this story of two blues
and our tactics seemed easily read.

Electric Kyogo bounced round like a pogo
Stick Stansfield up top, feed the goat.
But his shots were just curled All Around The World
or as scuffed as Omari’s sore throat.

With O’Shea now O’nnointed but the tractors disjointed,
the cauldron grew spikes like a thistle.
Their team buzzed within, like flies round a bin,
working hard as the referee's whistle.

The odd burst from Hirst, but left starved and with thirst
and the newer Matusiwa off pace.
It was gritty and bitty, only Greaves’ hair was pretty.
Poor Johnson; all will and no grace.

No appetite whetter, and the restart no better.
The hosts hit the post and lashed in.
Like Viagra we’d grow, just with no sucker-blow
And Brum slowed like a nan on the gin.

Old Young cramping styles eating inches like miles,
the ball curled like a pearl to a hand.
A pen cheaper than Lidl, but dispatched down the middle.
George gorged on the grief in the stand.

A makeshift Town nearly drowned in the sound
of the rust falling off every joint.
Way short of our groove, but let’s soothe, we’ll improve
from this smash ’n’ grab car crash
of a point.

Ipswich v Southampton 17/08/2025

Back to the church we lurched, then perched
where wins on the ground were thin.
We dreamed of fun in the midday sun
as the Saints came bulldozing in.

The start was smart, we prised them apart.
We impressed, and our press bore fruit.
Hirst moved fast as a Saint backpassed
and Welington failed to boot.

Clarke, for a lark, hit a ball that arcked
off Harwood-Bellis and in.
Livewire Jayden, with skills was laden.
No shackles, even tackles he’d win.

The Saints came back with dangerous attacks.
Downes was down and dirty.
It grieves me to say that Greaves unconvinced
as he minced into nosebleed territory.

Sinews flexed, but we know what comes next.
This story’s as vintage as cheddar.
A cross… a run… BANG 1-1.
A Robinson juicy header.

A run from Hirst was his best and worst.
A scuffed shot, fluffed, out of puff.
A half time draw was the score, but no bore.
Well played, but not quite well enough.

After the break we’d twist and we’d shake
with Jayden and Leif leading dances.
The keeper was toast as Sammie hit the post
(and other presentable chances).

But flux is our state, it’s not great but we wait.
For players, to be slayers of sins.
Small sparks are biting, like distant lightning.
Let it rain with goals
(and some wins).

Preston v Ipswich 23/08/2025

I’m off to buy some sink unblocker.
I’ll splash the pounds and pence.
Don’t judge, I’ll budge this stubborn sludge.
I’ll breakdown its defence.

If possession’s nine tenths of the law,
to score’s the other one.
“Till then!” we scoffed; a pen so soft.
McKennaball undone.

We’d twist and toil as Preston spoiled,
like shallow ballet dancers.
All swirling skirts and sequins, but
no questions posed, no answers.

We hope (we pray) till Deadline Day
for YouTube reels a-glowing.
In shots we’re short, but I can report
My pipes, at least, are flowing.

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PutneyBlue added 17:31 - Aug 29 Great stuff. Clever and funny. Now I'll set you a harder challenge - do one in a different metre, to mix it up a bit.
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