Poem of the Week: The Ball Game

This week’s poem by Robert Creeley comes to us via The Good Form,  a blog “where sports and poetry meet to talk it out.” The kind (and kindredly spirited) folks over there contacted us a few weeks ago, and we’re sorry it took this long to introduce you. Anyway, they present Creeley’s poem in the context of a kind of funny, but kind of morbid story about a rainy Saturday night spent in the company of the Padres and Nationals.  As for me, I’m still trying to figure out what exactly old Bob Creeley is trying to say here:

*Update: Ted found this mp3 of Creeley reading the poem out loud: Robert Creeley — The Ball Game

Robert Creeley Poets and Pitchers Poet card setThe one damn time (7th inning)
standing up to get a hot dog someone spills
mustard all over me
.

The conception is
the hit, whacko!
Likewise out of the park

of our own indifferent vulgarity, not
mind you, that one repents even the most visual
satisfaction
.

Early in life the line is straight
made straight
against the grain.

Take the case of myself, and why not
since these particulars need
no further impetus,
take me at the age of 13
and for some reason there, no matter the particular
reason.

The one damn time (7th inning)
standing up to get a hot dog someone spills
mustard all over me

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