Archive for the 'Poem of the Week' Category

Poem Of The Week: Missoula Softball Tournament

Eric, July 7, 2009, 1 Comment

This week’s poem is an ode to baseball at its most local and summer at its most hopeful by Richard Hugo, a great Seattle poet (and like Tim Lincecum and myself, a great UW Husky). Dig Missoula Softball Tournament, and this 1973 Topps edition of Richard Hugo, courtesy of Ted.

This summer, most friends out of town
and no wind playing flash and dazzle
in the cottonwoods, music of the Clark Fork stale,
I’ve gone back to the old ways of defeat,
the softball field, familiar dust and thud,
pitcher winging drops and rises, and wives,
the beautiful wives in the stands, basic, used,
screeching runners home, infants unattended
in the dirt. A long triple sails into right center.
Two men on. Shouts from dugout: go, Ron, go.
Life is better run from. Distance to the fence,
both foul lines and dead center, is displayed.

I try to steal the tricky manager’s signs.
Is hit-and-run the pulling of the ear?
The ump gives pitchers too much low inside.
Injustice? Fraud? Ancient problems focus
in the heat. Bad hop on routine grounder.
Close play missed by the team you want to win.
Players from the first game, high on beer,
ride players in the field. Their laughter
falls short of the wall. Under lights, the moths
are momentary stars, and wives, the beautiful wives
in the stands now take the interest they once feigned,
oh, long ago, their marriage just begun, years
of helping husbands feel important just begun,
the scrimping, the anger brought home evenings
from degrading jobs. This poem goes out to them.
Is steal-of-home the touching of the heart?
Last pitch. A soft fly. A can of corn
the players say. Routine, like mornings,
like the week. They shake hands on the mound.
Nice grab on that shot to left. Good game. Good game.
Dust rotates in their headlight beams.
The wives, the beautiful wives are with their men.

Poem of the Week, 1 Comment

Poem Of The Week: Baseball

Eric, June 30, 2009, 0 Comments

This week a poem by a guy you may have actually heard of. “Baseball” is from John Updike’s final poetry collection — Endpoint.. The poem lopes along nicely, like a midweek summer day game somewhere in the middle of America. “There is no hiding from baseball,” Updike writes. Whether sitting on a barstool, or standing in center field, I doubt truer words have been said about the game. Enjoy:

It looks easy from a distance,
easy and lazy, even,
until you stand up to the plate
and see the fastball sailing inside,
an inch from your chin,
or circle in the outfield
straining to get a bead
on a small black dot
a city block or more high,
a dark star that could fall
on your head like a leaden meteor.

The grass, the dirt, the deadly hops
between your feet and overeager glove:
football can be learned,
and basketball finessed, but
there is no hiding from baseball
the fact that some are chosen
and some are not—those whose mitts
feel too left-handed,
who are scared at third base
of the pulled line drive,
and at first base are scared
of the shortstop’s wild throw
that stretches you out like a gutted deer.

There is nowhere to hide when the ball’s
spotlight swivels your way,
and the chatter around you falls still,
and the mothers on the sidelines,
your own among them, hold their breaths,
and you whiff on a terrible pitch
or in the infield achieve
something with the ball so
ridiculous you blush for years.
It’s easy to do. Baseball was
invented in America, where beneath
the good cheer and sly jazz the chance
of failure is everybody’s right,
beginning with baseball.

Poem of the Week, 0 Comments

Poem Of The Week: Along Came Ruth

Eric, June 23, 2009, 3 Comments

I’ve been wanting to get into more of the early 20th century genre of baseball poetry as written by sports writers. None of the vague stuff, no complicated metaphors or symbolism. Nope. This is fun, this is baseball poem as offshoot of game recap. Anyway, we start with Ford C. Frick, former newspaperman, NL president, and MLB commish:

You step up to the platter
And you gaze with flaming hate
At the poor benighted pitcher
As you dig in at the plate.
You watch him cut his fast ball loose,
Then swing your trusty bat
And you park one in the bleachers-
Nothing’s simpler than that!

For those of you in the market for more modern day poetry, just change the title to Along Came Albert.

Poem of the Week, 3 Comments

Poem Of The Week: The Buddhists Have the Ball Field

Eric, June 16, 2009, 1 Comment

Here’s a poem from James Tate.

The Buddhists have the ball field. Then the teams
arrive, nine on one, but only three on the other.
The teams confront the Buddhists. The Buddhists
present their permit. There is little point in
arguing it, for the Buddhists clearly have the
permit for the field. And the teams have nothing,
not even two complete teams. It occurs to one team
manager to interest the Buddhists in joining his
team, but the Buddhists won’t hear of it. The teams
walk away with their heads hung low. A gentle rain
begins. It would have been called anyways, they
think suddenly.

Poem of the Week, 1 Comment

Poem Of The Week: Knuckleball

Eric, June 9, 2009, 0 Comments

This week’s poem is by Glenn Stout. Stout has been the editor of the Best American Sports Writing series since its inception, but he describes himself as “an old poet who found himself writing sports by accident.” Stout is also a true believer in both baseball and poetry — as true as anyone I’ve ever spoken to. He spent nine consecutive Opening Days parked outside of Fenway Park, reciting poetry through a megaphone and last night we chatted by phone about those poems and other topics. The interview will be up later this week. But for now, read Knuckleball below, and if you like it, click this link for some more of Mr. Stout’s baseball poetry.

I tumble on, barely spinning

each stitch and seam pronounced

afloat and affected by the turbulent air

pushed first this way, then that way

asymmetrical by degrees

going forward from some release

out of hand and out of control

hard to meet squarely

difficult to grasp, easy to drop or let pass

cut loose from one sure grip

to drift and list on homeward

revealing utter confidence

that one still waits, arms out, on knees

a last sharp break to catch and squeeze

between two hands, and then to hold

the pitch at last received.

Poem of the Week and Spring Training, 0 Comments

Poem Of The Week: The Ballad Of Old Rocky Nelson

Eric, June 2, 2009, 0 Comments

A (somewhat sarcastic, I think) poem by Canadian Raymond Souster about light-hitting outfielder Rocky Nelson:

When old Rocky Nelson shuffles up to the plate
The outfield shifts round and the fans all wait.

He takes up his stance which ignores every law,
Has a last slow suck of the quid of his jaw,

And waits while the pitcher makes up his mind
What new deception his arm can unwind.

Then the ball comes in and the sound of wood
That’s heard by the ear does the loyal heart good,

And the ball rises up like a hunted thing
Pursued by an angry bumble-bee’s sting,

And the outfielders run but it’s no use at all-
Another one over the right field wall.

And as Rocky trots slowly around the bases
Happiness lights up twelve thousand faces.

Poem of the Week, 0 Comments

Poem Of The Week: Polo Grounds

Eric, May 26, 2009, 0 Comments

If you’ve heard of Rolfe Humphries, it’s because of his work as a translator. Many people consider his translatio nthe definitive English version of Ovid’s Metamorphoses. But this poem is about another kind of mythology – that of baseball and time, Carl Hubbell and Jon McGraw and lesser known players like the poet’s father, John Humphries. It was first published in the New Yorker in 1942, so you know it’s good.

Polo Grounds

Time is of the essence. This is a highly skilled

And beautiful mystery. Three or four seconds only

From the time that Riggs connects till he reaches first,

And in those seconds Jurges goes to his right,

Comes up with the ball, tosses to Witek at second,

For the force on Reese, Witek to Mize at first,

In time for the out—a double play.

(Red Barber crescendo. Crowd noises, obbligatio;

Scattered staccatos from the peanut boys,

Loud in the lull, as the teams are changing sides) . . .

Hubbell takes the sign, nods, pumps, delivers—

A foul into the stands. Dunn takes a new ball out,

Hands it to Danning, who throws it down to Werber;

Werber takes off his glove, rubs the ball briefly,

Tosses it over to Hub, who goes to the rosin bag,

Takes the sign from Danning, pumps, delivers—

Low, outside, ball three. Danning goes to the mound,

Says something to Hub, Dunn brushes off the plate,

Adams starts throwing in the Giant bullpen,

Hub takes the sign from Danning, pumps, delivers,

Camilli gets hold of it, a long fly to the outfield,

Ott goes back, back, back, against the wall, gets under it,

Pounds his glove, and takes it for the out.

That’s all for the Dodgers. . . .

Time is of the essence. The rhythms break,
More varied and subtle than any kind of dance;
Movement speeds up or lags. The ball goes out
In sharp and angular drives, or long slow arcs,
Comes in again controlled and under aim;
The players wheel or spurt, race, stoop, slide, halt,
Shift imperceptibly to new positions,
Watching the signs according to the batter,
The score, the inning. Time is of the essence.

Time is of the essence. Remember Terry?

Remember Stonewall Jackson, Lindstrom, Frisch,

When they were good? Remember Long George Kelly?

Remember John McGraw and Benny Kauff?
Remember Bridwell, Tenney, Merkle, Youngs,
Chief Meyers, Big Jeff Tesreau, Shufflin’ Phil?
Remember Mathewson, Ames, and Donlin,
Buck Ewing, Rusie, Smiling Mickey Welch?
Remember a left-handed catcher named Jack Humphries,
Who sometimes played the outfield, in ’83?

Time is of the essence. The shadow moves
From the plate to the box, from the box to second base,
From second to the outfield, to the bleachers.
Time is of the essence. The crowd and players
Are the same age always, but the man in the crowd
Is older every season. Come on, play ball!

Poem of the Week, 0 Comments

Poem of the Week: “Listening to Baseball in the Car for James Tate”

Eric, May 19, 2009, 0 Comments

This semi-divine poem by Gail Mazure celebrates the Red Sox and hope and honors fellow poet James Tate. It encapsulates the fallibility of baseball and the futility of a fan watching or listening but not playing. When you’re done, check out Mazure, who’s written more than one great baseball poem in her day…

This morning I argued with a friend
about angels. I didn’t believe
in his belief in them– I cannot
believe they’re not a metaphor.
Our argument, affectionate,
lacking an animus, went nowhere.
We promised to talk again soon.
Now, when I’m driving away
from Boston and the Red Sox
are losing, I hear the announcer
say, ‘No angels in the sky today’ -
baseball-ese for a cloudless afternoon,
no shadows to help a man
who waits in the outfield
staring into the August sun.
Although I know the announcer’s
not a rabbi or a sage (no,
he’s a sort of sage, disconsolate
philosopher of batting slumps
and injuries), still, I scan
the pale blue sky through my
polarized windshield, fervently
hopeful for my fading team
and I feel something a little
foolish, a prayerful throbbing
in my throat, and remember
being told years ago that men
are only little lower
than the angels. Floating ahead of me
at the Vermont border, I see
a few wispy, horse mane clouds
which I quietly pray will drift
down to Fenway Park, where
a demonic opponent has just
slammed another Red Sox pitch,
and the centerfielder – call him ‘Jim’ -
runs back, back, back,
looking heavenward,
and is shielded and doesn’t lose
the white ball in the glare.

Poem of the Week, 0 Comments

Poem Of The Week: Baseball’s Sad Lexicon

Eric, May 12, 2009, 0 Comments

This is perhaps the second most famous baseball poem of all time. If not, it contains one of the most famous lines: Tinker to Evers to Chance. Enjoy Franklin Pierce Adams’ work here, and try to remember that there was a time when the words Chicago and Cubs did not add up to inevitable failure

These are the saddest of possible words:

“Tinker to Evers to Chance.”

Trio of bear cubs, and fleeter than birds,

Tinker and Evers and Chance.

Ruthlessly pricking our gonfalon bubble,

Making a Giant hit into a double –

Words that are heavy with nothing but trouble:

“Tinker to Evers to Chance.”

*Gonfalon, wikipedia points out, means pennant.

Poem of the Week, 0 Comments

Poem Of The Week: The Abominable Baseball Bat

Eric, May 5, 2009, 0 Comments

This poem, by super-poet/children’s writer/scholar/translator/holder of cool initials XJ Kennedy is not, in fact, about Brian Giles and his .443 OPS. But it is about vampires, so Brian Giles does have something to do with it.

I swung and swung at empty air
And when I heard the umpire
Behind me shout, “Strike three – you’re out!”
My bat turned to a vampire.

The whole team had to pry it loose.
Poor Ump looked sorta flat.
Now ever since, my bat and I
Walk every time we bat.

Poem of the Week, 0 Comments