Opening
Day
Nov 11 2013
November appeared,
as if the calendar
had been shuffled like a deck of cards.
I looked up
and the world was white,
with winter's bluish tinge
impending dark.
November appeared,
as if the calendar
had been shuffled like a deck of cards.
I looked up
and the world was white,
with winter's bluish tinge
impending dark.
The long distending
shadows
that sharpen
snow blind light.
I flip through Sports
in the daily paper
to find baseball has vanished.
As if I'd just imagined
the boys of summer,
sprawled in the outfield grass
jawing tobacco, shagging balls.
Like some vague memory
in ancestral DNA,
a diorama
of some prehistoric world
in its greenly steaming newness.
In a month
there will be news
of salaries, free agents
strategic moves.
But not the game itself.
Which never ends
until it's over,
leisurely unfolding
that sharpen
snow blind light.
I flip through Sports
in the daily paper
to find baseball has vanished.
As if I'd just imagined
the boys of summer,
sprawled in the outfield grass
jawing tobacco, shagging balls.
Like some vague memory
in ancestral DNA,
a diorama
of some prehistoric world
in its greenly steaming newness.
In a month
there will be news
of salaries, free agents
strategic moves.
But not the game itself.
Which never ends
until it's over,
leisurely unfolding
to the final out
on its verdant field of dreams.
on its verdant field of dreams.
Which, in theory, is also
endless;
or at least as far
as a man can hit a ball.
A laser, a frozen rope,
a moon-shot
that never comes back to earth.
I thought summer would be as endless,
with the radio's southern drawl
purring into my ear.
And the lush green field
or at least as far
as a man can hit a ball.
A laser, a frozen rope,
a moon-shot
that never comes back to earth.
I thought summer would be as endless,
with the radio's southern drawl
purring into my ear.
And the lush green field
a glowing jewel
in the cool gloom
of night.
In the Dominican, or
they're still playing ball.
Grown men
as intense as boys,
trash-talking, glaring at umps.
Old enough
to honour the game
by running out the lazy grounder,
to be schooled
in the home run trot.
Taking care of business
with manly restraint
no showing-off.
But still so achingly young,
sprawled in the dugout
kissed by the sun.
While I will haul wood, shovel snow
in afternoon darkness.
And think of next year
bright with promise,
beginning, as every season
tied for first.
Opening day
is marked in my calendar
in bold red ink.
If I can only find the page.
But still so achingly young,
sprawled in the dugout
kissed by the sun.
While I will haul wood, shovel snow
in afternoon darkness.
And think of next year
bright with promise,
beginning, as every season
tied for first.
Opening day
is marked in my calendar
in bold red ink.
If I can only find the page.
Baseball poems are like dog poems: if I'd let myself, I'd write one every day.
To my credit, at least, I've shown a lot more restraint with the boys of summer
than I have with man's best friend.
There are many reason baseball is the most literate of sports; that the quality and quantity of writing eclipses the other major team sports, played for money by men. It's a game of anticipation, suspense, and sudden intense release; rather than continuous action. So there is a lot of time to fill, and we fill it with talking: speculation about the infinite possibilities and subtle strategies of the next pitch, the positioning of the men in the field, the base-running cat and mouse. It's a game that honours tradition and celebrates its history: more to talk about. It's a game in which the small man can be heroic; and what is more literary than that? It's pace is leisurely, without the time clock or military precision of other games; which suits the unstructured life of letters -- the louche poet, the unemployed novelist. It's a game of subtlety and imagination, rather than of collision and concerted movement and whistled stops. A game in which the defending team has possession of the ball: an unexpected plot twist, if ever there was one. And there is, of course, the drama inherent in all sport. I don't think I've ever seen a game in which something completely new and utterly unexpected didn't happen. The attentive reader may notice that I've paid homage to two classic baseball books (or plagiarized, if you're in a less generous mood): Field of Dreams, and The Boys of Summer.
My life is very regimented, routine and boring. It's hard to find material suitable for poetry. But when I went once again on another unfruitful search through the sports pages for anything on baseball, I thought this is as good a topic as anything; not to mention a good way into the baseball poem I've been resisting for months. Not only is it authentic and personal -- and first person poems always work the best; it's also small and diurnal -- and I've found the most powerful poems rest on the close observation of microcosm, on inconsequential events.
On October 30 it was the World Series in a golden fall. Now, the second week of November, and it looks like the middle of a long winter. If I was ever going to allow "suddenly" in a poem, this would be it. In the end, I did manage to avoid that scorned word. But the seasonal contrast was a good way into the poem; and how I found my way out, as well.
There is so much about this beautiful game that lends itself to poetry, the hardest part is what to leave out. I hope I got the balance right. And that the non-aficionado will not glaze over and turn the page before he's done.
There are many reason baseball is the most literate of sports; that the quality and quantity of writing eclipses the other major team sports, played for money by men. It's a game of anticipation, suspense, and sudden intense release; rather than continuous action. So there is a lot of time to fill, and we fill it with talking: speculation about the infinite possibilities and subtle strategies of the next pitch, the positioning of the men in the field, the base-running cat and mouse. It's a game that honours tradition and celebrates its history: more to talk about. It's a game in which the small man can be heroic; and what is more literary than that? It's pace is leisurely, without the time clock or military precision of other games; which suits the unstructured life of letters -- the louche poet, the unemployed novelist. It's a game of subtlety and imagination, rather than of collision and concerted movement and whistled stops. A game in which the defending team has possession of the ball: an unexpected plot twist, if ever there was one. And there is, of course, the drama inherent in all sport. I don't think I've ever seen a game in which something completely new and utterly unexpected didn't happen. The attentive reader may notice that I've paid homage to two classic baseball books (or plagiarized, if you're in a less generous mood): Field of Dreams, and The Boys of Summer.
My life is very regimented, routine and boring. It's hard to find material suitable for poetry. But when I went once again on another unfruitful search through the sports pages for anything on baseball, I thought this is as good a topic as anything; not to mention a good way into the baseball poem I've been resisting for months. Not only is it authentic and personal -- and first person poems always work the best; it's also small and diurnal -- and I've found the most powerful poems rest on the close observation of microcosm, on inconsequential events.
On October 30 it was the World Series in a golden fall. Now, the second week of November, and it looks like the middle of a long winter. If I was ever going to allow "suddenly" in a poem, this would be it. In the end, I did manage to avoid that scorned word. But the seasonal contrast was a good way into the poem; and how I found my way out, as well.
There is so much about this beautiful game that lends itself to poetry, the hardest part is what to leave out. I hope I got the balance right. And that the non-aficionado will not glaze over and turn the page before he's done.
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