Inspiration
With spring on its way (perhaps not today in Chicagoland with a forecast of snow), you might be thinking of baseball, golf, gardening, long rides on the Harley.
Write a poem about a sport or activity and its importance to you or in America (or the world). For example, if you love baseball, you might talk about the game itself and then why it is so important to American culture (or if you are a Cub fan, why is the team so important to Chicago).
Another way to explore sport or activity is by exploding a skill or craft only an insider in that sport or activity would know. For example, in volleyball, there are specific hand “calls” signaling defense.
Today, I take up my husband’s sport of golf and try to capture its importance to him.
Again, and always, write about anything you wish.
Sarah’s Poem
Chasing the Sound
A collared shirt, flat-front trousers with deep pockets , cleats,
visor, irons, woods, bag, towel, balls (plus a few
extra for the ones that slice or hook into
the water), tees, and a miniature
pencil — you are ready, well,
not quite. Sure, you look
good, but now you
must put the ball
on the tee and
hit it with one
of those irons
or woods down a
fairway onto the the
green and then into cup
while people look on waiting
for their turn. You keep your
head down, your knees slightly bent,
and to use your hips to drive the ball, but it veers
right, so you wait your turn and try again moving it further along
quieting the voices that tell you this is a stupid game, resisting the urge to throw your iron into the water until you finally hear that beautiful sound
of the ball landing in the cup — ah, yes, that sound keeps you coming back. I love that you spend Saturdays chasing that sound, but I will sit here, reading a book in the sound of silence.
I am not an athletic person, but I have a brother who was a superb athlete as a kid and well into his adult years. This poem is based on a memory from many years ago.
“Play by Play”
We enter the basement gym in
Old Webb City High School
My father wearing his dark sunglasses,
His red-tipped white cane extended,
Tapping his way to a seat I select.
Even though he can’t see the game,
Can’t follow the shadow of my brother,
His son–whose first word was ball–
Running up and down the court in
His prepubescent body, dad insists on
Seeing the game & observing his prodigy
I sit next to our father on the small bleacher,
Pushing my bifocals up the bridge of my nose,
Clearing my throat, I prepare to call the game.
Prepare surrogate eyes for dad”s broken orbs.
I watch basketball like an armchair Fanatic
Witnesses sport from the nose-bleed section.
Imagine seeing what every dad sees: a perfect baller
“Ref just called a foul on Steve.
One more and he’ll foul out. ”
Rising like an aggrieved player cut from the team,
My father’s angry remonstration booms across the gym:
“Hey ref, you wanna borrow my glasses. “Only threat of
Ejection & the pull of my hand on his arm move
My father to sit & grip the cane in silent surrender.
Oh, Glenda, this is delightful! Figuring out that he is blind with tapping his way to the seat……preparing your surrogate eyes by calling the game plays……and my favorite: “Hey ref, you wanna borrow my glasses.” and finally, silent surrender. The picture of a blind father watching his athletic son through the verbal picture painted by his daughter is simply a great story of family love. You filmed this perfect movie with your selection of words and phrases!
This poem tells such a story! It shows a father’s pride and, perhaps, a glimpse at how you became so gifted with words. I enjoyed this thoroughly!
GOOD SPORT
The only way I could get on base was
Pray for a beanball.
If divine intervention managed to lift the bat off
My shoulder,
There was never any contact.
Most often my assigned position was
Backup to Center, meaning
Waaaaay back. I was the kid who
Chased homers over the fence before
They got lost in the weeds.
My scouting report would have read,
“No field, no hit.”
And, sorry, there are no miraculous
Movie endings to announce here.
I never drove in the winning run,
Never made the diving save,
Or even led my team in anything but
Strikeouts.
Never found my calling as a Manager or
Umpire, thank you very much,
Just continued to love the game
All life long,
Where I still swing away,
Still throw wild.
Jackie, I love this poem and respect deeply your love for the game.. The final final two lines are life lessons “Where I still swing away, Still throw wild.” I think these are words to live by in all that we do.
The first two lines hooked me. The last two lines remind me of how vested in sports fans are. I love all the litotes in this poem, the things that did not happen.
You don’t have to be an all-star to love the game. This is a great reminder. The lines, “I was the kid who chased homers over the fence before they go lost in the weeds”–so vivid. Keep swinging away!
Yesterday’s Breakup Poem
Fractured
You barged in
with your Old Testament
fire and brimstone theological ideas
No women in leadership!
Bring sinners before the church!
Change your ways or leave!
Your sermons
are not preached from the heart
but downloaded and read word for word
with mispronunciations
You keep your wife at home
barefoot
bare-faced
walled off
homeschooling your children
who do not belong with the others
You barged in as a basketball coach
to supervise your son’s homeschool PE requirements
basketball interactions with less than perfect sinning public school seven-year-olds
I didn’t leave God or my church family
I left a poisoned Kool-Aid preacher
and moved along
to a church
where varied interpretations are valued
women are wanted
sinners are loved
with the same mercy and grace that Jesus showed
-Kim Johnson
Kim, So sorry you had such a negative experience in a church community, but join in praise that you have found one that seems to be feeding you from the Word, not just some words.
Kim, I applaud your courage to stand up for your beliefs and seek a place more welcoming, more just to pray. So much of my Catholic upbringing was about obedience that we just did not questions out loud hypocrisy we witnessed. You are a role model for others in that community and perhaps your family who witnessed your departure, your stand .
I love the indignation in this poem and the emphasis on what you did and did not leave. Too many have drunk the Kool-Aid. I bid organized religion adios a long time ago, which is not the same as divorcing faith.
Kim – I am late to respond to this poem, but wanted to let you know how much i love it. Your strength rings true. Loved “left a poisoned Kool-Aid preacher,” and that you sought a place where “women are wanted
sinners are loved.” Good for you! Susie
Distance Running
Breaths and stride in sync
4 inhale steps
5 exhale steps
Seeing sights
Suppressing stress
Summoning sleep
Family legacy
Dad hit wall at 25.5
Mom helped him across
the finish line
Mom hit wall at Parkinson’s
Dad helped her across
the final finish line
Two scholarship runners
married
Their children ran in utero
Running seeds sown
Already blooming in the
next generation
-Kim Johnson
Kim, The pace of your poem matches nicely with the running lives you capture here. “Mom hit wall at Parkinson’s/Dad helped her across/the final finish line” — those lines hit my heart, the love.
I like the metaphor in this poem and the layers of running: a literal race, against death, etc.
And yes to Sarah’s comment about the pace of the poem.
This poem is a beautiful tribute to your parents. It seems they left you will so much more than a runner’s ambition. Thanks for sharing!
Planting Season
Days get longer,
Birds begin to sing.
Something shifts inside me:
This instinctual need
To dig in the dirt.
A dominant trait
Passed down through
Immigrant genes.
Nothing feels more right
Than poking through
The greenhouse selections
At the local Big Box store.
Flowers, tomatoes, herbs,
I do not discriminate.
Returning home to scratch
And burrow
Inserting plant, tamping down,
watering.
Protecting the precious investment
As hard as my husband does
The 80 acres of corn
behind the house.
Your poem speaks to me: I inherited my love of growing things from my mother who loved to visit nurseries, searching for the perfect addition to her garden. It’s one of my favorite memories of my time with her.
And your comparison at the end to your husband’s efforts is a powerful statement, cementing the importance of your efforts. I love it!
You leave no question about your need for growing things! It hit home with immigrant genes and I do not discriminate. I love those lines because they show your desire to cultivate!
Gail, When you wrote “Returning home to scratch/And burrow/Inserting plant, tamping down” brought such movement and energy. All the stimulation and nurturing necessary to help something grow, come alive.
Well done. Gardening is a summer “sport” that takes skill to accomplish.
Sarah – I love the arc of the White space aiming toward that moment when club connects with ball. And you are so honest in that recognition that this is a sport that, for you, doesn’t compete with the sound of silence in that book. You give homage to both in a touching way by noticing all the details of prepping for the game. Golf, although seemingly rather solitary, is so public as people wait and watch every move. I’d never thought about what brings a golfer back over and over, keeps him chasing the ball on Saturdays —of course, that plunk of dropping in the cup—perfect auditory image. Your poem was fun to look at, fun read out loud, and fun to think about. Thanks! A perfect start to my day…now it’s time for the NYT crossword and another cuppajo. ? Susie
Chasing the Sound
A collared shirt, flat-front trousers with deep pockets , cleats,
visor, irons, woods, bag, towel, balls (plus a few
extra for the ones that slice or hook into
the water), tees, and a miniature
pencil — you are ready, well,
not quite. Sure, you look
good, but now you
must put the ball
on the tee and
hit it with one
of those irons
or woods down a
fairway onto the the
green and then into cup
while people look on waiting
for their turn. You keep your
head down, your knees slightly bent,
and to use your hips to drive the ball, but it veers
right, so you wait your turn and try again moving it further along
quieting the voices that tell you this is a stupid game, resisting the urge to throw your iron into the water until you finally hear that beautiful sound
of the ball landing in the cup — ah, yes, that sound keeps you coming back. I love that you spend Saturdays chasing that sound, but I will sit here, reading a book in the sound of silence.
I love the structure you create here — the image of the swing with your words. So clever and beautiful. And, of course, that ending– I can feel the love for both your golfer and your own silence.
I agree with Amy – the visual imagery of the swing or dogleg left or club end is appealing! I love the lines about quieting the voices that tell you it’s a stupid game and resisting the urge to throw the iron in the cup. What a great feeling about golf you have captured here – the ups and the downs of it- and on such a fitting day of the Master’s!
I also love the structure of your poem. It has the curves of a golf course. I like the way the structure finishes “long,’ which reminds me of the difference between golfing 9 holes vs. 18 holes. And you incorporate golf jargon well, such as “woods, fairway, green, tees, drive, ” etc.
BTW: Sarah, I did not receive an email update about today’s prompt. Nor did I receive one Friday.
Thanks for comment, Glenda. I really try to understand my husband’s sport, even though I have vowed never to play again. And thank you for the gentle reminder about the emails. I am on it.