Because this site is called Pitchers & Poets, and because we all need a little more poetry in our lives (I really believe that but only in the literal sense), this website will include some poems. They won’t be especially hard poems. No Keats or Byron, no Milton, no Shakespeare. In fact, there won’t be any poems at all by dead Englishmen because dead Englishmen didn’t write about baseball.
I hope you take the time and read the poems as we put them up each Tuesday. Comment on them. And if you like a particular poem, check out others by the author.
So I give you the inaugural poem of the week, by Thomas Lux.
The Man into Whose Yard You/
Should Not Hit Your Ball
each day mowed
and mowed his lawn, his dry quarter acre,
the machine slicing a wisp
from each blade’s tip. Dust storms rose
around the roar, 6 P.M. every day,
spring, summer, fall. If he could mow
the snow he would.
On one side, his neighbors the cows
turned their backs to him
and did what they do to the grass.
Where he worked, I don’t know,
but it set his jaw to: tight.
His wife a cipher, shoebox tissue,
a shattered apron. As if
into her head he drove a wedge of shale.
Years later, his daughter goes to jail.
mow, mow, mow his lawn
gently down a decade’s summers.
On his other side lived mine and me,
across a narrow pasture, often fallow —
a field of fly balls, the best part of childhood
and baseball. But if a ball crossed his line,
as one did in 1956
and another in 1958,
it came back coleslaw — his lawnmower
ate it up, happy
to cut something, no matter
what the manual said
about foreign objects,
stones, or sticks.