Tuesday, May 8, 2012
Monday, May 7, 2012
Sunday, May 6, 2012
Friday, May 4, 2012
Wednesday, May 2, 2012
Tuesday, May 1, 2012
Monday, April 30, 2012
Baseball Poems by Tim Peeler
As I wait for students to visit my office hours to discuss final papers and a poetry-portfolio, as I listen to cloud-bursts come and go, and as early-baseball-season begins to ripen into mid-season (for S.F. Giants fans, this brings thoughts of the June Swoon), I'm ordering a raft of books from a variety of online sources: the bibliophile's spring fever, I reckon.
Two books I just ordered are Touching All Bases: Baseball Poems and Waiting for Godot's First Pitch: More Baseball Poems, both by the talented, accomplished North Carolina poet Tim Peeler. I hope they arrive as quickly as a fastball for Satchel Paige in his prime.
One of my favorite baseball poems is "Analysis of Baseball," by May Swenson. Some of Tom Clark's baseball poems from back in the 70s day are pretty good too--although Oakland-A's-centric. I have a feeling Peeler's poems have set a new standard.
I can't prove the following: That IF American poets are interested in a sport (and interested in writing about it), that sport will likely be baseball. But that's my guess. The ritual, the time for reflection, the quirkiness (and the uncanny quirkiness of names), and so on: these have a certain potential appeal for poets.
Anyway, I hope you'll look into Tim Peeler's baseball-poetry-books, not to mention his other poetry books: look into them after you buy them, I mean.
One must assume that Godot's first pitch will be, ahem, long-delayed because of rain and other factors, but should it ever arrive, I'm thinking it will be in the dirt. Don't swing!
Oh--one other note. I've been an S.F. Giants fan since I was six, and in m pre-teen years, I actually wrote a few fan-letters. One was to Gaylord Perry, who became famous for his spit-ball, and for his elaborate, charming denials of throwing a spitball. "Sometimes the fog rolls in, you know, and your fingers get wet--what are you going to do?" At any rate, I got back not just the standard black-and-white photo postcard, but a real letter--on hotel stationery--from Gaylord, who was staying in (wait for it) North Carolina. He also included his business card: he was selling insurance. Gaylord ended his career in Seattle, where he was nicknamed, of course (and here we circle back to poetry) the Ancient Mariner.
And a coda: One of my favorite ball players from the Sixties who wasn't a Giant was Smoky Burgess, a native of North Carolina. Smoky became one of the great pinch-hitters of his day. He was portly, and not a great athlete, but he had a great eye and a quick bat. And he looked just fine in the Pittsburgh Pirates jersey. A tip of the cap to the late Smoky.
Two books I just ordered are Touching All Bases: Baseball Poems and Waiting for Godot's First Pitch: More Baseball Poems, both by the talented, accomplished North Carolina poet Tim Peeler. I hope they arrive as quickly as a fastball for Satchel Paige in his prime.
One of my favorite baseball poems is "Analysis of Baseball," by May Swenson. Some of Tom Clark's baseball poems from back in the 70s day are pretty good too--although Oakland-A's-centric. I have a feeling Peeler's poems have set a new standard.
I can't prove the following: That IF American poets are interested in a sport (and interested in writing about it), that sport will likely be baseball. But that's my guess. The ritual, the time for reflection, the quirkiness (and the uncanny quirkiness of names), and so on: these have a certain potential appeal for poets.
Anyway, I hope you'll look into Tim Peeler's baseball-poetry-books, not to mention his other poetry books: look into them after you buy them, I mean.
One must assume that Godot's first pitch will be, ahem, long-delayed because of rain and other factors, but should it ever arrive, I'm thinking it will be in the dirt. Don't swing!
Oh--one other note. I've been an S.F. Giants fan since I was six, and in m pre-teen years, I actually wrote a few fan-letters. One was to Gaylord Perry, who became famous for his spit-ball, and for his elaborate, charming denials of throwing a spitball. "Sometimes the fog rolls in, you know, and your fingers get wet--what are you going to do?" At any rate, I got back not just the standard black-and-white photo postcard, but a real letter--on hotel stationery--from Gaylord, who was staying in (wait for it) North Carolina. He also included his business card: he was selling insurance. Gaylord ended his career in Seattle, where he was nicknamed, of course (and here we circle back to poetry) the Ancient Mariner.
And a coda: One of my favorite ball players from the Sixties who wasn't a Giant was Smoky Burgess, a native of North Carolina. Smoky became one of the great pinch-hitters of his day. He was portly, and not a great athlete, but he had a great eye and a quick bat. And he looked just fine in the Pittsburgh Pirates jersey. A tip of the cap to the late Smoky.
Saturday, April 28, 2012
Friday, April 27, 2012
If the NFL Draft Were About Poets
There are poets, and there are fans of the National Football League, and there are poets who follow the NFL and thus the ridiculously over-analyzed NFL draft.
But what if there were a draft for poets? The analysis might run something like . . .
Ezra Pound--out of Idaho--huge upside, great ear and has read a lot. Has some strange views and there are some concerns about his personality . . . . Emily Dickinson--maybe the best pure athlete in this draft--has moves nobody has seen before. Almost no film on her, however--played briefly at Amherst (not a D-I school) and then seemed to go off the radar, but if you're going to take a risk with a #1 pick, she's it. . . . Pablo Neruda--unbelievable original talent, but can he be coached? . . . . Charles Bukowski--scrappy, mean, nasty--great interior lineman--has had some off-the-field issues. . . . Matsuo Basho--maybe the quickest poet in the draft--has also trained by walking the length of Japan . .late middle-rounds . Langston Hughes--highly under-rated--went to Columbia but dropped out, finished at Lincoln after traveling the world--scouts tend to overlook how versatile he is--a steal in round two. . . .
But what if there were a draft for poets? The analysis might run something like . . .
Ezra Pound--out of Idaho--huge upside, great ear and has read a lot. Has some strange views and there are some concerns about his personality . . . . Emily Dickinson--maybe the best pure athlete in this draft--has moves nobody has seen before. Almost no film on her, however--played briefly at Amherst (not a D-I school) and then seemed to go off the radar, but if you're going to take a risk with a #1 pick, she's it. . . . Pablo Neruda--unbelievable original talent, but can he be coached? . . . . Charles Bukowski--scrappy, mean, nasty--great interior lineman--has had some off-the-field issues. . . . Matsuo Basho--maybe the quickest poet in the draft--has also trained by walking the length of Japan . .late middle-rounds . Langston Hughes--highly under-rated--went to Columbia but dropped out, finished at Lincoln after traveling the world--scouts tend to overlook how versatile he is--a steal in round two. . . .
The Lost Desk-Chair
A corporate desk-chair, lost
off a load, rolls
on a West Coast slab of freeway
and the seat & back
pirouette absurdly.
Cars in commuted traffic
strike it, blast it, knock it around,
smash and crush it. Someone
used to sit in it,
giving and taking orders, selling,
building a career.
--hans ostrom
off a load, rolls
on a West Coast slab of freeway
and the seat & back
pirouette absurdly.
Cars in commuted traffic
strike it, blast it, knock it around,
smash and crush it. Someone
used to sit in it,
giving and taking orders, selling,
building a career.
--hans ostrom
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