Our #OpenWrite Host
Sarah J. Donovan, Ph.D., is the founder of Ethical ELA. She is a former junior high language arts teacher of fifteen years and current assistant professor of secondary English education at Oklahoma State University. She is the author of Genocide Literature in Middle and Secondary Classrooms (2016) and the young adult novel in verse, Alone Together (2018). Her research includes ethical, inclusive curriculum, methods, and assessment practices in literacy education. She has contributed chapters to The Best Lesson Series: Writing (Talks with Teachers, 2018), Queer Adolescent Literature as a Complement to the English Language Arts Curriculum (Rowman & Littlefield, 2018), Moving Beyond Loss to Societal Grieving (Rowman & Littlefield, 2018), and Contending with Gun Violence in the English Language Classroom (Routledge, 2019); and Unsettling Education: Searching for Ethical Footing in a Time of Reform (Peter Lang, 2019).
Inspiration
I have been thinking a lot about bodies: how much I depended on my body to teach, how part of my job was regulating bodies within the classroom and beyond, how I loved seeing students run the track during P.E. class, how I came to know students and families from the stands at basketball games. The intersection of bodies and school.
And I have been thinking about, worried about our students who were only motivated to come to school because of soccer practice, who only felt at home with their teammates on the football field, and who, now stuck at home or in plexiglass cubicles, need to move their bodies to feel joy, to feel normal, to feel self.
And so I wonder if today we can poem into
- what our bodies could once do, can do, can no longer do;
- our own experiences with high school sports — as athletes or fans;
- a relative’s experience as a student-athlete (child, grandchild, niece, nephew);
- a moment when we witnessed a student in joy or agony doing their sport; or
- a commentary about contemporary issues facing our student-athletes (see links below for some ideas).
- Youth sports facts: Challenges to physical activity
- Gender affirming and inclusive athletics participation (GLSEN)
- High school football: Beloved fall tradition or unnecessary Coronavirus risk? (NPR)
- Black Lives Matter protests spawn push for athletes to attend historically Black colleges (NYT)
- Where girls are missing out on high school sports (Atlantic, 2015)
- Meritocracy is killing high school sports (Atlantic, 2019)
- Gym class is dead — But long live physical education; What’s wrong with physical education? (Berkeley, 2019)
- Like college athletes, These high school players get an assist on academics (Education Week, 2020)
- Winnacunnet High removes Native American imagery as debate over mascot continues (2020)
Process
Once you have a sense of your topic from above, you may find it helpful to read other sports-themed poems. See “Penance” by Sherman Alexie; “Dribbling” by Kwame Alexander; and “Trouble Ball” by Martin Espada.
I have found the mentor poems offered by our hosts to be very helpful in launching my poems. I so appreciate Ada Limón’s work. She is the author of The Carrying (Milkweed Editions, 2018) and Bright Dead Things (Milkweed Editions, 2015), which was a finalist for the National Book Award. Below is a video, not of the poem, but of Ada’s celebration of poetry– a little inspiration to get your October Open Write going.
The Limón poem that inspired mine today is “American Pharoah,” which you can read via the link. Notice italics for dialogue and enjambment to show continuous action. This is a poem that takes us right into a horse race with present tense storytelling.
Sarah’s Poem
Jersey wet on the basement clothesline,
I yank it so hard the cord snaps; bras,
jeans, and tees fall like a tree. Stairs
by two, I pull number nine over my
sleep-messed bun in time to find
the garage empty. I say, Where’s Dad?
He’s my ride. My sister, eating cereal, watching
Saturday morning cartoons, says, I’ll be your ride.
February snow splashes through
the rusted floor of her TC3. Teeth
chattering, lips purple. She
reaches for a blanket from
the back seat. Makes me
take off my jersey, wraps my
shoulders in her cloaked branch. Covers
the vents with number nine, asks me. Mind
if I stay to watch? and reaching in
her book bag says Maybe
coach will let you wear this?
She offers me her dry number eight.
Your Turn
Your Turn
Now, scroll to the comment section below to write your own poem. (This is a public space, so you may use only your first name or initials depending on your privacy preferences.) Not ready? That’s okay. Read the poems already posted for more inspiration. Ponder your own throughout the day. Return later. And, if the prompt does not work for you, that is fine. All writing is welcome. Just write something. Also, please be sure to respond to at least three writers. Oh, and a note about drafting: Since we are writing in short bursts, we all understand (and even welcome) the typos and partial poems that remind us we are human and that writing is always becoming. If you’d like to invite other teachers to write with us, tell them to subscribe.
An Oral History: COVID-19 Teacher-Poets Writing to Bridge the Distance
Did you write poetry during the first days of COVID-19 school closings? Would you like to be interview for our oral history project? Click here to learn more.
Your Women Marines ’53-’54 team
featuring the 21 year-old
beanpole guard at 5’8″
in clunky Chucks
envy of today
crew socks
at half calf
shiny silky
short sleeves
and short shorts
standard issue lipstick
bright in black and white
hands outstretched waiting
for life to pass her the ball. Ready
Katrina, wow. This is beautiful. I feel like there is a photograph to go with this poem because I can see it, to be sure. And the last lines just make my heart happy today:
I’m wondering who this beautiful athlete is that you wrote about today.
Thank you. There is indeed a photo, if I could only figure out how to load it.
I wanted to write a poem about youth and sports. But instead I explored my own athletic awakening, which happened throughout my adulthood. Also, two weeks ago, after a two-year hiatus, I began riding the uni again.
Unicycle
I didn’t think my
body
could.
I believed
the lie
of hierarchy,
which says victory
is only for the top.
I didn’t know my
body
would.
Until at 35
my frightened flailing
became
confident strokes.
Until at 42
my body buzzed
after my first
5k.
Until at 52
I felt a child’s
giddy joy
as my body
my amazing body
my childbirthing body
my scarred and cancered body
my beloved perfect body
held its
balance
above
a
single
wheel.
Are you serious? That’s awesome! Can you share a video here?
I agree! Let’s see a photo at least of the skillful body on a single wheel.
Now, THAT is an impressive skill!
Let me know if this works! https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Eo8G5mJfKvM
It works! You are awesome!
Wow!!! Am I allowed to say badass on here? If not, you are AMAZING!
Wow!! Impressive and joyful!!
Allison,
I love the celebration of an aging, gem sip body here and think your poem does a fine job replicating the unicycle balancing in the line length and repetition.
Oh, my, Allison! That’s incredible. Congratulations! I love the video. I took a PE class in college that was full of fun random activities we practiced–juggling and unicycling are the two I remember. I learned to juggle, but the unicycling didn’t work for me then and I never tried again. That is really awesome you learned such a skill.
How amazing It must take great balance for that! I can’t even walk without falling, props to you Allison!
Allison, Great Job! I enjoyed your poem (and your “proof” video)! These lines are some of my favorites: “I believed / the lie / of hierarchy, / which says victory / is only for the top.”
This reminds me of the mentor text Dribbling because the words look balanced on that wheel. Absolutely gorgeous in concept and in the way you broke up your lines.
I relate to and appreciate the progression of age. At 60 (in March) I started a more serious Pilates practice (well maybe regular is a better word than serious) to keep my body moving during new work the finds me sitting in front of a screen most of the time. I’m amazed in our body’s ability fo be flexible- even though it wasn’t for so many decades. Now 61 and continue find more and more flexibility in small increments.
Badassery defined!!!! The video! You!
Ahhhhh-maaazing!
Wowza! Allison, this is terrific! I am so blown away by what an athlete you are…the balance and sheer determination it takes. On RAGBRAI there is always someone on a unicycle, and we all just about keel over in amazement. Are YOU that unicyclist?!!???? What a woman! And the poem…but, of course, it is as clipped on unnecessary words as it is on unnecessary wheels! HA! What a genius!
4 dogs later
there was Bella when I settled in to morning runs
dark week day mornings
when I considered the houses where I knew someone
just in case
weekends brought us trail runs
longer, not so early as to beat the light
we ran not quite in stride
her free movement and head turning back to see me
me picking through a stone strewn trail
many days, many trails
now mornings are spent walking three dogs
running is no one’s game
we walk
on good days the three leashes spread out
like bamboo blades in a paper fan
other mornings three dogs move in three
directions and at three paces
I’m thankful to stay on my feet
none of us run together
Jack sets out into the woods
before his body reminds him
Godot still lithe though a little lame
in the hips, Stanley gets distracted til
he notices we’re far down the trail
and he bounds towards us ears bounce
on either side of his head
and I think about Umberto Boccioni”s
Unique Forms of Continuity in Space
I loved this passage:
on good days the three leashes spread out
like bamboo blades in a paper fan
other mornings three dogs move in three
directions and at three paces
I’m thankful to stay on my feet
I liked how I “met” each dog in the final stanza.
I did not know your allusion in the last line, but I looked it up!
Wonderful!
I like your unique way of doing the then and now nature of your movement. But before and now, dogs are involved. It gives us a glimpse of who you are. Like Allison, I didn’t know about Boccioni’s sculpture, so I looked for it and read again about the movement of Stanley as he bounds toward you. Lovely!
I truly hope that schools teach PE differently today than they did when I was a child. In my day, everything was a competition. I hope they teach yoga or tai chi or hiking.
Good Student
I was the awkward girl
Never the last one picked for the team
But second or third from last
Not quite as fat or as disliked as some other poor wretch
I was the slow girl
The one who finished the mile
By walking at my own pace around the track
Wondering why the coach with the beer belly didn’t join us
I was the chubby girl
Dreading my turn
Knowing failure lurked
When I wouldn’t be able to hold my chin above the bar for more than a split second
I am the embarrassed woman
Still afraid to move my body
Because of the shame I was so thoroughly
Taught in school
PE class was often brutal back in the day. It’s astounding so much can stay with us so many years later. Things have changed, for sure!
Sharon, I FEEL your poem. I am sad that I did not begin to appreciate my body’s abilities until my mid thirties and later.
I hope writing this poem gives you permission to “move your body” as you deserve.
Oh my. What do schools TEACH?
Sharon—your experience belonged to so many of us. You have expressed the power of what we knew, and how it affects what we do now. Thank you for sharing with us!
I relate to this feeling of shame around those competitive PE class moments (although I did enjoy the Sit and Reach!). There’s some beautiful truth in here.
Several lines made my heart ache:
“Never the last one picked for the team
But second or third from last”
“Knowing failure lurked…”
and then my heart lurched with:
“Because of the shame I was so thoroughly
Taught in school”
My body has served me well, though,
as a fourteen-year-old,
I cried myself to sleep
wondering if I would be
awkward
gangly
lanky
my entire life.
By the time I’d orbited the sun
twenty-seven times
I’d birthed three new bodies
who taught me I never really knew my body
until they arrived,
showing me how miracles came to be.
When I was in my forties, my body was attacked
by homicidal bacterium
determined
to
FUCK ME UP!
But my body counterattacked,
waging a war of its own,
a war with casualties,
but eventually, we were victorious.
And now, as I sit, and sit, and sit in front of the computer
“teaching,”
I watch the pounds settle into my mid-section
I can’t seem to adjust the Zoom angle enough
to flatter my wattle
and my hands are developing
those old lady wrinkles that remind me to drink more water
and I can’t help but think I’m
going
going
gone
I sit here, feeling all the feels, and holding on for dear life with you. Mo, you are such a warrior and I hope you know that. I think I love the first line most because you gave your body the love it deserved…”My body has served me well, though…”
But jeeesh, did I feel the attack, then relish in the victory that you so deserved. Thankful for those incredible bacteria fighters within our bodies who don’t back down.
Your poem speaks to all the ups and downs we go through (in our bodies) and because of our bodies. Thank you for the raw beauty of YOU!!
MO! THIS POEM! Did you write it for me personally?
I, too, did not love my body until adulthood.
Hard to choose a favorite line, but this HIT HOME:
“I can’t seem to adjust the Zoom angle enough
to flatter my wattle”
I love the sound of “flatter my wattle”!
You’re a gem.
Is there a zoom that will flatter my wattle? If you figure it out, share it, all right? Your poem is filled with things that are mine—the distrust of our young selves, and the growth into who we are. Bravo.
You create a beautiful tension in each new stanza. I love it’s humor in the last few stanzas – I get a sense of you and this poem just resonated with me, even though I’ve never been lanky, nor had children.
from first position
tendu close, tendu plié
tendu side close front
plié relevé
feet arch, calves tighten, thighs clench
arms extend to fifth
turn out: from the hips
développé à la seconde
point! heel over toes!
long neck, soft fingers
back arched, arms in arabesque
leg raised attitude
eyes up, shoulders back
tombe pas de bourrée
glissade grand jete
over twenty years
and a hundred pound later
the lessons remain
grafted on muscles
and joints: the memory of
form and pain and grace
Betsy, your poem is full of beautiful dance images. The French phrases are used perfectly. I just love how you’ve tied muscle memory into your memory poem.
Oh this is beautiful.
I do not know the dance terms, but I see my daughters here. Dance was essential for all three of them: a place they could use and love their bodies without competition.
Your final stanza is amazing.
This poem reminds me of my grandmother… at 104 years old, she knew the 6 ballet positions and would arrange her feet while sitting. The last 2 stanzas pull your reflection into the present with beauty.
What the Big Deal?
Gym class for girls of brown color
Was a regular weekly challenge, back then
You may not remember, I’ll tell you when
At the school where few of us are students.
No one understood why swim day
Was avoidance day back then.
No matter our excuses, we just couldn’t win
At that school where few coloreds were students.
Back then we wore our hair straightened.
Back then kinks weren’t in, nor was nappy hair.
Making us get wet in pool just didn’t seem to be fair
At that school where few Negroes were students.
Even when we got perms and wore our hair in curls
Few teachers and classmates understood
Permed hair dried under the dryer was not good
At that school where few Blacks were students.
Our classmates thought we were weird, even brash
With hair in big bushes or in shiny cornrow braids
They didn’t understand chemicals and or after swim ash
At that school with few Afro-Am students.
“You’re so courageous on the courts and fast the fields!
“You’re fleet on the tracks and fluid on the dance floors,
So why won’t you use those muscles and swim?
It can’t be your weight. You’re both trim and slim!”
They didn’t understand when few of us were there.
It wasn’t fear, or fat or muscles. It was mainly our hair.
Wow. I love, love, love this poem. Your rhythm is perfection, and the shift in the repeating last line—where few of you were students—broke my heart even as it made me smile. “It was mainly our hair”. A lesson well taught, Anna. Thank you.
Anna, I remember this being an issue at my high school. Our student body was fairly diverse, but our teachers were mainly white. I don’t think very many of them understood the issues you discuss in your poem. In those days, students certainly weren’t empowered enough to talk to the adults about it. I’m glad you wrote about it.
STANDING AND CLAPPING!!! Yesssss, Anna! I have so much to say about your poem but it’s not about me, it’s all about our hair and our being misunderstood, mislead, misplaced! I’ve been reading and thinking a lot lately about what could’ve happened to all of us “colored girls” if we were in schools that loved and nurtured us as we are. This poem needs to be shared!
Oh Anna, you have pulled back the curtain and eloquently explained our predicament. Thank you. I loved your repetitions and explanations. My favorite line was “ the after swim ash….” ??????????
Were you able to follow the timeline with the words used to label, and how we wore our hair? Yes, I happen to be of the generation to have been “called” all those names. Who do you know who also may have been called colored, Negro, Black, and African-American?
Dear Anna,
This is beautiful and penetrating. The layers here go deeper and deeper. Thank you for your voice. May I share your poem with my students?
Anna, your poem is making me reflect on lots of moments in school in my past where things could have gone differently and been better for everyone. Thanks for this.
The Beat of the Run
She sits on the sidelines
avoids competition
alone with words & snippets
of song lyrics
playing in her head
Until …
she feels her feet
pounding percussion on pavement
the squeak of sneakers & her rhythm in motion
Until …
she discovers the symphony of even breath & strength in
limbs which carry her into nature
down rutted tree-lined paths & across ribboned finish lines
Now
there is the sun kiss on her cheek
& synchronicity in the beat of her feet,
there is harmony in the run & self-reliance is her refrain
Beautiful! My daughters are runners, and this helps me to understand their love for it—the sun-kiss, the synchronicity, the harmony. Well done!
Tammi, thanks for sharing there are other ways to get our kicks. We can run alone…to the beat of our feet.
Wow, Tammi, I too am a runner, a bit late to the game (started running at 42).
The pairing of alliterative sequences here is wonderful:
“she feels her feet
pounding percussion on pavement
the squeak of sneakers & her rhythm in motion”
Your final words “self-reliance is her refrain” are JUST. RIGHT.
Thank you for this beautiful poem.
Thank you for sharing your poem! I love “squeak of sneakers” and “symphony of even breath.” I also like the use of transitions between stanzas “until,” “until…” and “now.” It builds anticipation and tension.
Sports
I am the first to every training
And the last to ever leave
But I just can’t get these arms
To follow my lead
The coach is patient
My teammates are too
But ME
No, No
No tolerance for these two
I know I am not the best player
Not even close to being
So why do I keep trying
I am at a loss for words
My dream of being a star
Keeps fading by the day
As moments to shine
Keeps slipping away
Over and over again
Recurring aspirations
Dips, dives, fleeting…
My very motivation
As I sit here daydreaming
To be in the first pick
These seats I keep warming
They too Tire of me
For now, they seem like company
As faithful as can be
But as soon as there is victory
They release me to my glee
I can relate to this poem. Your words, “So why do I keep trying/
I am at a loss for words” describe exactly how I felt as a kid who was never picked for a team. It wasn’t until I joined the Cross Country team that I felt I belonged.
Melissa, without your closing stanza, this would be a sad poem of one who feels so left out. But your final stanza suggests hope!
But as soon as there is victory
They release me to my glee
We need to be reminded to remain hopeful.
She dances in the moonlight
to soothe her soul
to stretch her muscles
to release pent up energy
She dances in the moonlight
and competes against herself
doing the Twist and then the Frug
gyrating to the sound of silent music
She dances in the moonlight
to blend her mind into movement
to Watusi her past into her present
to make her heart soar
She dances in the moonlight
with her bell bottoms and platform shoes
sweat drenching her hair
past, present, and future
She dances in the moonlight
her emotions at a fever pitch
Bumping to the Pointer Sisters
Flying with Helen Reddi
She dances in the moonlight
she may not be an athlete
but she hears the starting gun
and she’s off, dancing in the moonlight
She dances in the moonlight
wearing sensible shoes now
soaring to the invisible band
bringing together her life
Oh, Judi! I want to be her. I want todance in the moonlight. I will settle for the moments I read and reread this poem to witness her soaring.
Sarah
thank you, Sarah!!! She does (and I do) still dance in the moonlight.
This wonderful poem reminds me of times when I did the same. I must start again because it does release pent up energy and brings together life. I like the transition from platform shoes to sensible ones because it gives a sense of time.
Right? Dancing to your own music!
The sweet freedom of this poem pulls me in and lets me breathe again.
My mind and heart fell in love with these lines:
I wish I could paint because your poem begs to be illustrated.
Bravo!!
Stacey Joy, how kind you are . . . I would love to see it illustrated!!!
Judi — I love the repetition and rhythm of this poem. It flow like movement and dance. Just love the images: She dances in the moonlight/ with her bell bottoms and platform shoes” and positive message of this poem.
Tammi – I’m still dancing . . . albeit a little stiffer, but I do it!!!!!
Judi=you set us up and carried us through to the music!! The recurring “dancing in the moonlight” pulls us through to the ending I was hoping for. Sensible shoes, still dancing in the moonlight. Perfect!
Gayle Sands – it’s truth, though isn’t it? Sensible shoes now . . . . but the music still plays.
I want to dance all night too. I completely related to the line “bumping into The Pointer Sisters, flying with Helen Reddy, she hears the starting gun and she’s off. …”
Great visuals you created ! Thanks.
Seana – I can remember so well bumping to the Pointer Sisters . . . . . OMG that was just yesterday!!!
Judi, your joyous dancing brings me joy just to imagine the release you describe in the opening stanza.
She dances in the moonlight
to soothe her soul
to stretch her muscles
to release pent up energy
You remind me of the benefits of movements, if only in the moonlight, especially now that we are sequestered inside. Taking time to dance away the tension seems like a good idea, especially if we can do it as you describe in your closing stanza….in sensible shoes 🙂
She dances in the moonlight
wearing sensible shoes now
soaring to the invisible band
bringing together her life
Thank you, Anna. This was a totally spur-of-the-moment-you-gotta-write-me response — I had no choice
I love the repetition, “She dances in the moonlight.” It doesn’t matter how old she is, she always has the freedom to express herself under the night sky. Lovely!
16 years old
Not fast enough for
short distance competitions
but was allowed to
join the cross country team.
Stretched until my legs were
rubber bands then
ran down Temescal Canyon until
the beach was in site.
Ran along the asphalt
peering at the
wonderful wavy water
wondering “how did I get so lucky
to be at a school where they trust us to
return at the end of the period?”
Didn’t need an answer.
Just wanted time alone to breathe,
to feel the sandy salty air, to appreciate my muscular
calves, to forget about the silly boyfriend,
to daydream about the solo voyage I would take in a boat,
and to just be alone in my thoughts.
To remind myself
I’m alright just as I am, as my parents kept telling me.
Oh, I love this running toward and in the space, the time alone to breathe and appreciate what a body is and can do. Thank you for bringing us into this moment.
Peace,
Sarah
Seana, oh how I remember the beauty of the ocean glistening when traveling down the hill from school. Such a vast and incredible sight for our young eyes to appreciate, but we definitely did. I loved these lines because they speak of the teenage girl in us:
Beautiful!
So much freedom in the run! I also ran Cross Country and loved the moments of being alone in my thoughts.
This is the beauty of running! I did not run cross-country, but I think if I had a do-over, I would like to try. “Just wanted time alone to breathe” – such a beautiful thought. Loved this description, too: Stretched until my legs were/rubber bands” – fabulous!
Seana, I love the description of where you were running and how it made you feel.
Gifts From My Father
My father gifted me
A baseball
Busting at the seams
Stained orange with red
Clay and my cousin’s spit
He said
It’s okay to miss, just choke up a bit next time
There are lessons to be learned
In this red dirt diamond
Teamwork
Perseverance
Patience
Dedication
To drink enough water
And smile big for pictures
It will hurt you, someday
Probably today
Leave bruises on your
Side as big as a grapefruit
Get you knocked up-side the head
By aluminum and electrical tape
Scar you from ankle to knee
And reopen the wound the next game
Don’t be afraid of the ball, if it hits you, it stings
And then it’s over
Every summer of my childhood
Was filled with baseball bats and family practice
At the city fields with an ice chest and an Yankee’s hat
We nearly had a full team but sometimes Dad
Would play left just for the hell of it
Making his body ache and revel in his age
One day, you’ll knock these over the fence
My bat lays against the wall in my bedroom
Black and yellow, the grip held on by black tape,
A couple dents, some scratches and dings
A living reminder that my body has begun to outage me
That my knees are weak, my shoulder is
Deteriorating in its socket and the nerve in my back
Making my right arm too heavy with numbness to move
If you play it right, you’ll never stop playing
When the warmth of spring rolls around
I have a tendency to challenge my body’s authority
Grab the bag from my closet
Take the glove that’s grown flimsier with each season
Pack the bucket of stained yellow and white balls
Throw it all into my car with a few friends
And add a few more scuffs to the metal
Don’t be afraid of the ball, if it hits you, it stings
And then it’s over
Love the image of
“A baseball
Busting at the seams
Stained orange with red
Clay and my cousin’s spit”
What beautiful memories!
I can hear your father’s voice here, and it is warm and tough and loving. My girls learned sports through their dad, and the words and beliefs ring true. I hope that my girls carry this same strength into their old(er) age. Thank you!
Abigail, such a beautiful poem! Thank you for sharing it with us! It takes me back to the many spring and summer afternoons with my dad and brothers…we played so much baseball and softball–in the front yard, at the rec fields, at any park with open space. I’m struck by your imagery: “A baseball/Busting at the seams/Stained orange with red/Clay and my cousin’s spit,” “red dirt diamond,” “Black and yellow, the grip held on by black tape,/A couple dents, some scratches and dings,” and ” the bucket of stained yellow and white balls.” The imagery vividly captures your experience and resonates with my own.
There we are sitting in the back of my mom’s truck.
My feet swaying back and forth.
I can see my brother Jr playing in the grass,
with wonder in his little brown eyes.
I look at my mother and I can see the pride in her eyes,
as she watches her eldest son practice football.
Giovanni is running all over the field.
Jr comes to sit by us and takes up too much space.
We are all eating flower seeds,
well mainly my mom.
She loves flower seeds almost as much as us.
So we sit there watching Giovanni practice,
and you can tell he loves to play.
His feet running as fast as his mind.
His coach is yelling at the team, I can’t really hear him.
I’ve never really understood the game of football.
I mean what’s with the ball being shaped like that?
Why do they have to run and tackle each other like that?
How are there so many penalties?
Who gets to decide where to run?
Giovanni comes over to get water and breaks my train of thought.
He looks so tired, but happy.
He’s part of a team, he belongs somewhere.
I guess that’s what he’s always wanted from life.
But he always had a home, he just didn’t see it.
Wow, Naydeen, this poem presented me with so many emotions. I want to know all the details of Giovanni’s life. I’m intrigued.
I had good giggles on your thoughts about the shape of the ball, the tackling, the penalties, and especially
OMG, I am that exact person when it comes to watching football.
I also enjoyed the image of you and your mom enjoying flower seeds. We call them sunflower seeds in my family, but the sound of flower seeds is so much more exciting. Not sure why.
Thank you for sharing this beautiful poem.
Naydeen — I love the way this narrative poem unfolds, the image of your family eating flower seeds as your brother runs across the field. I can feel the warmth, support and love exuding from this piece.
Naydeen, your last stanza is such a contrast to the rest of the poem. Everything seemed so wonderful right up until the end. That last line made me catch me breath!
What a though-provoking poem. A slice of life, really – a night at football…and so much insight gained about the whole family! I can relate – I have never really understood the game of football either. This line about your Mom made me laugh so, “She loves flower seeds almost as much as us.” Ha!
The Idea is Better than the Truth
By: Emily Yamasaki
I like the idea of running
Light sweat, heart pounding, and the sound of my heart in my ears
But the truth is so different,
Leg cramps, muscle pain, and stinky gym feet
I like the idea of yoga
Zen music, flexible stretches, and healing
But the truth is so different,
Imbalance, can’t touch my toes, a toll on my wallet
I like the idea of hiking
Just me and the mountains, crisp air, and the crunch of dry leaves
But the truth is so different,
Mosquitos, no bathrooms, and mud..mud..mud
Yes, Emily!!!! So very true. The concept vs the reality. Always a problem!! You are a kindred spirit!
I love the juxtaposition of idea versus reality, highlighting the dominant truth! I love the mountains (idea), but the altitude hates me (reality). I appreciate your descriptions of each one, especially the heart pounding in my ears as I run. Well done.
I love your poem, Emily!!! You channeled me perfectly!
Oh, Emily. Indeed, the idea is more poetic than the truth, but you have managed to bring them into harmony even with mud.
Peace,
Sarah
Thank God for this poem! I am not alone! Emily, this is affirming as well as relieving. Thank you for sharing the real deal on all this physical work our bodies crave that we may or may not listen to. I like hiking but man, once that water hits the bladder it’s all over. LOL.
Perfect poem!
Yes, you have nailed it, Emily. Especially love the last line “mosquitos, no bathrooms, and mud …mud … mud!
OMG Emily, your voiced many of the thoughts I’ve had. The lines that really touched me were “ stinky gym feet, imbalance, mud, and no bathrooms.” You paint a vivid picture. excellent job!
Yes, yes, yes!!! I’m still looking for a way to exercise that I actually like. I like walking in the park. Except when it’s too hot outside. Or it’s raining. Or someone doesn’t have their dog on a leash. Or…
Sarah,
Thank you for this poetic inspiration today! Just what I needed! I loved William Nu’utupu Giles – “Captain America”; I was – unexpectedly – moved to tears by Ada Limón’s poem …and I was truly touched by yours. I feel as if I got such insight into your relationship with your sister – how dear you must be to each other! I like these lines especially,
such tender love and expectation about your Dad, opening the lines, and ending without hesitation with loving offer from your sister. Just touching!
Thanks!
Sarah, thanks for today’s prompt. I could clearly visualize your poem’s narrative and feel you solidly chill on your car ride to the game.
Humiliation
The scoreboard announces
Our team has clearly won
Or perhaps lost
So Coach lets me play
For the last thirty seconds
Leaping off the bench
Arms wildly flailing
Hearing my own
Special fan club shouting
Go, Monkey, Go!
I land a flagrant foul
Blocking a final shot;
Reminding all present
Why I must sit
Upon the bench
Barb Edler
17 October 2020
Aww, Barb….you really brought home that “humiliation “ with which we hammer ourselves. I got the biggest smile from your fan club’s “Go, Monkey, go!” Oh golly. I’m thinking those scoreboards are mean! ? So enjoyed this! Susie
Hi Susie,
I laughed as I read your poem. It some how reminds me of the one I just posted. I was a bench warmer once and had mixed feelings about being on the team because I did not get to play much but was still very much happy when the team won. I like the way you confirm why the player must remain on the bench.
I love the humor in this Barb. “Arms wildly flailing” reminds me of my uncoordinated self. The line “Leaping off the bench” shows the excitement at being allowed to finally play. Too bad the results weren’t better..
This is funny-sad…oh, I feel for you! The closing lines:
Aack!
This is what I don’t like about sports, how humiliated some feel as a result of the competition. Painful.
The last few lines! This poem reminds me so much of my own experience with sports.
The Pitcher
The blast of the ball
striking the bat
screaming past your head,
deep, low, fast into outfield,
batter makes first,
bases are loaded,
pressure builds
get this guy, get this guy, get this guy
I can’t look at you
I can’t watch
I can’t bear it
Starting shortstop,
strong and quick,
impenetrable,
now vulnerable and exposed as
relief?
pitcher?
forced to close out this game?
Watching you
intense
focused
determined
How’s a mother supposed to live through this?
Watching you
giving it your all and
knowing you’re knowing
it might not be enough
get this guy, get this guy, get this guy
I can’t look at you
I can’t watch
I can’t bear it
Maureen,
I love seeing this moment through the mother’s perspective with all the excitement and ambivalence. The question marks and the layer meaning of the word “relief.”
Sarah
Hi Maureen,
I like the excitement in your poem. It is good to show support for our children in sports. Sometimes I would look away and wait to hear the results instead of watching intensely.
Maureen, I can relate to the agony of being in the audience, praying for the best, worrying about injuries, defeat, and how to respond in a way that might matter after the game. I really liked the repetition of “get this guy”. It pulled me into your mental state and effectively created the poem’s tense moment and the tension within you.
Oh, how I have felt these emotions, watching my children do their “thing!” I’ve covered my eyes with my hands, peeked through my fingers, covered them again, and conceded to my curiosity. As you mention, “knowing your knowing” all of the things that run through our heads in that moment, and then, they grow, we grow, closing the “active” chapter, only to open another. Thank you.
Maureen, I love the snappy cadence of your poem and the repetition of “get this guy” that builds tension. I recall many moments watching baseball and peeking through my fingers as my hand covered my face. Your poem captures both the quickening moments and the delays in the game.
Maureen, you have captured the intensity of the moment. What an experience for your shortstop son. What a trooper he was to do it. This must have been a tough game to get through for everyone. Like Sarah said, I love the way you described what brought him to this job as relief pitcher:
Well done!
Sports
I have no real
connection to this,
this multibillion dollar-Any
-Given-Sunday activity,
this enterprise
(as big as the starship, Galaxy
class — no, even
bigger — the whole United
Federation of Planets).
Did you know the average cost
of a 30 second ad during a
Super Bowl is 5.6 million dollars?
That’s a lot of cheddar —
a lot of money, actually, but,
I guess, it would be a lot of cheese,
too.
So, again, I say that I have no
real connection to this. I mean,
I did take Ballroom Dancing
in college and I do remember
spending all of my time
in the outfield during Little
League — Right Field —
whole afternoons passing away
in just a few hours during those
long summer games, wanting
only to lie down in the cool
grass, useless mitt cast off, waiting
for the game to end. If there’s
truth in Costner’s “If you build it,
he will come,” then I can confirm
“If you lie down in right field,
you will sleep.” Whole innings
would drift by. I remember we lost a
lot of games that season.
But I can honestly say I have
no real stake, no skin in the game.
Although I do have coworkers who
are embroiled in fantasy
Football leagues (those who
would scoff at Dungeons and
Dragons — and, boy, could I
tell you some tales of high
adventure and devastating
lows — I once killed the entire
campaign because I decided
to enter the Devil’s Head portal
in Tomb of Horrors. I remember
the DM pausing a hair’s breadth,
letting go the briefest of sighs
and closing the cover of the
module in front of him, saying,
“You’re all dead.”)
But, life goes on, and here we
are, this coworker, at lunch —
this was pre-pandemic, by the way —
telling me how some current whatsit or
folderol in football was comparable
to the highs and lows of any
great tragedy by Shakespeare.
I LOLd — literally, out loud —
at the mere suggestion of this.
But, now, I must admit, without
having it in the background, without
having it’s noisome irksome
just at the periphery for the last several
months, I have found myself
missing it, have found myself
falling head first down some
YouTube rabbit hole, only to stop,
for the briefest of moments,
to pause and watch some
out-of-work announcer provide
color commentary while filming
his dog playing in the garden,
or remembering a whole afternoon
while away, as I sat rapt,
enthralled, by Jellie’s Marble
Races — “The Sand Marble Rally of
2019, race number five” — cheering
on Cool Moody, foolishly yelling
at the monitor, hoping,
helping, the small
yellow marble
to a second
place victory.
This is such a fun and colorful write about sports from the perspective of the non-obsessed!! I loved the imagery of you in the outfield and the witty lines, ““If you lie down in right field,
you will sleep.” So funny!
Scott, I really enjoy the progression of your poem. So many lines had me recalling similar incidents. I can just see you yelling at the monitor, and I could relate to not making a wise move when playing D & D.
Scott / This is hilarious and spot-on. The kid in right field …”if you lie down, you will sleep”!!! LOL! I can just see it! What a scream! And I laughed again with a belly laught at the comparison to Shakespeare! Aaah, indeed!!! What a joke! But… those passions are very real for “those” people! HA! The ramble if this just works and engages in its unabashed honesty! Another KILLA poem! You’re slayin’ the dragon, my friend! Keep it up! Susie
Thank you for the laughs, Scott. So visual and your commentary is exacting. I got a big smile at your team losing lots of games as you slept in the grass. Then there is the D and D tragedy in the Tomb of Horrors that made me smile even though I have never played the game. I also miss the sounds of the games if they are not my background noise. I don’t care much about the scores but I am comforted when my husband is watching the game. I can then take a nap.
Scott—I look forward to your ADHD poetry every month!! You bring in so many disparate ideas and make them one—I laugh and smile throughout. I, too played right field, (as far out as possible, so no ball would reach me) and could have gone to sleep there. And I have watched the same videos, rooting for the dog on the left. At least those competitions make sense to me!! looking forward to your next Entry—don’t disappoint me, please!
I truly enjoy reading your poem. I can relate to SO much of it. Excellent!
Scott, I love the nod to “Field of Dreams.” There was a time when baseball was a purer sport. In recent years I’ve realized why my father was so upset w/ Curt Flood and the SCOTUS decision granting him free agency. It’s this money ball mentality that drove me away from sports. Years ago the school where I taught had such a terrible football team that the coach had the team pick an honesty faculty coach for each game. I was chosen so wrote “The Bard’s Eye View of Football,” in which I applied Shakespeare to football, so I found your friend’s observation amusing.
The Old Ballgame
On summer afternoons
my grandmother and her sister
snatched nickel rides
on street cars
from Kercheval to Trumbell,
several blocks into a city
once thriving.
Hammerin’ Hank at first,
The Mechanical Man at second,
but it was Gee Walker,
The Madman from Mississippi
(once picked off for arguing
with the opponent’s bench),
they’d come to see,
settling into the bleachers for pennies,
popcorn in hand,
a glove between them
all for the love of the game.
A photo hung on her wall,
fifteen girls,
two coaches,
my grandmother in the bottom left,
Detroit stitched across uniforms.
I played for the Tigers,
second base,
she’d say.
And my sister and I believed it
until we were old enough not to.
She was the first to show us
girls could do anything,
speed skating on icy ponds
with us straggling behind,
fifty years after she’d sped
through the canals of Belle Isle,
backyard pick up games
Into her eighties,
the Aye, batter calls
echoing down generations.
We believed because we wanted to,
because she showed us she could,
because she showed us we could
do anything,
all for the love of the game.
Beautiful ode to an inspiring grandmother! These lines –
I think about the power she had, such a strong, vibrant role model!
Also, lovely repetition of “all for the love of the game.”
Jennifer, I absolutely love your poem; such a touching and poignant tribute to your grandmother. What a special woman your grandmother must have been; I am so impressed that she was still willing in her eighties to play the game!
Jennifer, cool poem and so well-written! I really enjoyed the small (yet so meaningful) shift in that last stanza, “because she showed us she could, / because she showed us we could / do anything.” Thank you for sharing this!
What a strong piece of poetry about a strong lady! “We believed because we wanted to/because she showed us she could/because she showed us we could”. Everyone needs a grandmother like that!
Addy’s Game
“One, two, three, four, five, six!”
You repeatedly count aloud
as you juggle the black and white, diamonded ball
Left-footed THWACK followed by a resounding SWISH
You make it every time.
Expected goal and impressive strike
Your teammates signal all high fives
as you jog off the pitch to get back in the warm-up line.
Once upon a time,
I watched in awe, shouting,
“That’s my baby girl!
Look at her quick, responsive footwork,
Drag-back, crossover.
Down the line.
Drop.
Triangle formation.
Cross, cross, cross. Now!
Wow! Did y’all see that pass?
Assist number four.
That’s my baby girl!”
Freshman year, you were on fire!
Sophomore year, the flames continued to grow
As you scored 10 goals, 4 assists, 6 wins
Until THAT girl, anxious to stop you, slid into your ankle,
Snapping your dreams just like your ligament,
Benching the hopes of an expected state match.
Junior year, three games played, kindling
the same excitement, the same rhythm of success.
Then, the thief returned, canceling practices,
Terminating games, ending school, stopping life,
staying safer at home,
not on the field, not in the stands,
only in your dreams.
“Do you think I’ll get to play?”
You nervously ask me, hoping, waiting
Repeating, “Stupid COVID!”
Scared the time will pass
Like Haley’s Comet
Here one day, gone the next
Stealing away your youth.
Practice, practice, practice
Preparing, just in case
the stars will align, eradicating
The thief of your game.
The college coach called,
recruiting your skills.
He’s seen the film, knows the game,
Appreciates your attacking mentality.
He wants to you play for him
At the next level,
Even though it’s been a while.
He believes in your Expected goals and Impressive strike,
Your dream, your time, your game.
Love the imagery of COVID as thief…oh, how many pastimes, celebrations, passions, work, moments it has robbed! Such a positive ending – “Your dream, your time, your game.”
Loved your imagery!!! I loved the verse “”Do you think I’ll get to play?” You nervously ask me, hoping, waiting, Repeating, “Stupid COVID!” Scared the time will pass Like Haley’s Comet” – Loved the poem!
Kaitlin’s Poem:
Every morning those of us on the cross country team would gather on the track,
Coach T would tell us our workout for the day,
Would we run four miles this morning? Six? Eight?
Coach would send us out with our mileage and we would take to our suburban streets,
Chatting and giggling with our fellow teammates as we tried to ignore our hearts almost beating out of our bodies, our shortness of breath, and our trembling legs.
Each morning after our runs,
We would sing at the top of our lungs in the locker room as we got ready for the day,
We would go off to all our classes together,
We would go to team dinners every Friday night and eat as much spaghetti and garlic bread as we could, we attended so many team sleepovers, so many birthday parties, so many roadtrips, so many movies, so many dinners together. The team.
Our most sacred memories were out 5 am bus rides to cross country meets an hour or two away,
Head leaned on a team mate’s shoulder,
Watching the sun slowly rise as we drove through town after town,
Making it to the meet and saying a quick prayer before we all approached the finish line,
Gripping one anothers’ clammy, anxious hands. For the protestants of the group a quick, personal prayer of good luck was sent up to God and for us Catholics on the team a quick Hail Mary was recited.
When that gun was shot off before each race
And we all tumbled our way onto the course,
We ran not just for ourselves but for our team mates and friends.
We would grab one another’s hands and pull each up even when we could barely move ourselves,
And we whispered words of encouragement even when we could barely muster out the words between gasping breaths,
At the end of each race, despite the outcome, we would all hug one another and to be so thankful to have gotten to race (and to be finished.)
This sport was so often viewed as an “individual sport,”
But this community was in every aspect a team, a friendship, a family.
What a great memory. Team sports is something I did not have the privilege to experience. It really is about the team when it is at its best. I can visualize those mornings, heads on each others’ shoulders…
Kaitlin, thank you for writing this! You’ve captured much of what “sports” are all about it seems: the “friendship” and “family” of it all. The bonds that are created. (In “the before times,” I would drive to work and see whole groups of student athletes running down the streets, and I would think to myself, “what are these kids doing?!” Lol. I was (and still am) amazed at this, at their dedication and drive. And I realize, now, of course, that they’re doing this, most importantly, together.)
Hello Body!
Bending to tie my shoes is a stretch
Stiff ankles need flexing.
Arms reaching to the toes
Grandma in a Child’s Pose.
Hello Body!
Petting the cat, I tumble
a pull in my back, I stumble
Hello Body!
Taking a step I feel my knees jerk
and hear a crunching sound
I find that vexing
So perplexing
Hello Body!
Much effort, fingers to toes
lungs huffing and puffing, here goes!
Hello Body!
Out the door I speed (like a snail)
Slow walking, not running
Deep breath of fresh air
A song and a prayer
Hello Body!
Love the repetition and the reality of movement at our “certain age”. Grandma in a child’s pose—exactly!
Susan, I enjoyed this poem! I liked the constant refrain of “Hello Body!” throughout. And the hope that the speaker shows by continuing to exercise even when it is difficult. And though not the same age as the speaker — “Grandma in a Child’s Pose” — I can certainly relate to random and “perplexing” “crunching sound(s)” while doing seemingly unathletic tasks like “petting the cat” or “taking a step.” Thanks for sharing this!
I can relate to the crunching and popping! Grandma in a child’s pose—yes! I love it and we gotta keep at it. Thanks for this inspiration!
You described me trying to resume my running. Thank you for this. It brought joy to my heart. Excellent!
Susan, I like the repetition of “Hello Body!. I also liked how you were so descriptive about the way your joints and bones sounded! loved it.
I speed like a snail!
Love the playfulness and repetition in your poem.
Thank you, Sara for this wonderful prompt. I have been looking forward to this time again when we can write poetry together. So inspiring!
“The Singing Catcher”
Behind the plate become my comfort zone.
The ball never scared me having my protective pads on.
“Talk to the batter” and “Get into their heads”
But I never knew just what could be said.
I started to sing throughout each play,
What kind of music should I use today?
Referees would bring me song requests,
Batters hated me beyond all the rest.
When my team was being brought down in their moods,
I would crank up my volume so they could all hear my tune.
I enjoyed the game a lot more this way,
“Boom Clap Aunt Jess” my niece would sit behind me and say.
My range may have always fallen a little short,
But looking back this is what I remember about my favorite sport.
Jessica,
I love this so much! First of all, great slant rhyme! The image you’re painting made me chuckle at the thought of you weighed down with catchers gear, singing a randomized playlist of songs. I enjoyed this quite a bit.
I have taught (and taught with) many female catchers. That have a unique strength and attitude that other players do not. If the pitcher is the head of the team, the catcher is the heart. Your poem and your songs show us your heart. Lovely poem!
what novelty, your personal twist on baseball, your poem paints a curious picture of “The Singing Catcher” what a delight
[Sarah — Thank you for a prompt that got me mooooving…finally. Ha! I loved the specificity of your mentor poem (the clothesline snap and the subsequent movement of falling clothes and then the sister’s car…great contraption, that! The tender act of support in the final lines was really quite touching.) and also loved Ada L’s poem (the horse…aha! Just wonderful seeing it break away into a full-on motion). My poem is not about school… but the lack of movement when once there was such amazing movement really pushed me. Thank you!]
At One Once with “Sweet Mama Ride”
“Sweet Mama Ride,”
her sleek black frame
and the near weightless muscle
of her 24 gears,
airborne to granny,
and I were one,
bike and body;
miles and miles of heavy breathing, pumping
in a syncopated rhythm up and down gears
sliding over cogs unnoticeably smooth, backside hot,
moaning on the little Switzerland hills of northeast Iowa;
miles on one metal knee,
the other still remembering
every churn
on the Katy rail end-to-end;
miles of Huron’s chapping winds over Michigan’s thumb,
Spearfish’s shady trail,
Boise’s winding river aside homeless camps near town,
the cool meander of Sheridan’s Big Goose Creek;
miles of summer green of corn and beans on six RAGBRAI glides,
the two autumn harvest rounds on Raccoon River’s loop,
Door County miles along an amniotic Lake Michigan,
percolating along Mighty Mississippi barges under the wingspan of baldies;
miles of flat, scalding concrete and under the morass of the Dallas “High 5,”
bursts with croc caution through Everglades National,
the Go Beavers! streets of Corvallis,
the balm of piñons along the Old Santa Fe Trail;
miles careening through comatose beige suburbia of Johnson County Kansas,
and uncounted home regimens
on Grant’s Trail by the grazing Clydesdales,
the tractable coyote sharing a slip of the Gateway greenway,
moonlit nights from Carondelet to Busch
through SLU and Wash U to downtown St. Lou
and circling the jewel of Forest Park,
until now,
in a Covid-castrated world,
SMRide hangs limp
on the wall of the garage,
immobilized,
like a shroud of the undead,
while I grope
for a pulse
just
to
move.
by Susie Morice©
Susie, I love all of the imagery and sensory details you include in this poem. My personal favorites are when you describe Iowa as, “little Switzerland hills” and running over the, “thumb of Michigan.” As a Michigander and as a huge Sound of Music fan these details made me smile! Thank you so much for sharing
Susie, I really enjoyed taking this wild ride, this Rand McNally trek, with the speaker and her bike! The snapshot images and vivid descriptions of places all build to the “until now” and our “Covid-castrated world,” that final image of the constantly moving bike “hang[ing] limp / on the wall of the garage.” Great! Thank you for this!
Susie, I love how you start your stanza with “miles”. With the exception of the last one “until now”. I feel like there was an an urgency to move before and now it’s gone. Great poem!
Sarah, your poem is pure sibling love! The sensory descriptions gave me a chance to be there with you and feel all the the feels! I adore your ending:
Maybe
coach will let you wear this?
She offers me her dry number eight.
My poem is a first for sports-themed writing. I decided to write about my daughter, the real athlete of the family (well at least she was in high school). I plan to write more about myself as a cheerleader and anti-sports fan but for today, this is for Noelle!
Run, Noelley Belly!
© Stacey L. Joy
Rock-solid quads before she
Turned 4 years old. Soft
Caramel-colored skin covering
Biceps built for a baller. My girl
Who mastered math and slam-dunked
Spanish and science, crushed
Her opposition on the field, and
on the court.
Saturday afternoon
Sitting on my hands in the stands
Sweaty girls, screeching rubber, stomping
Fans, and her dad next to me, fuming.
A few missed three-pointers and
Frustration fueled as her coach yelled with
Clenched fists and forehead veins bulging.
Stop playing safe! Is this the game for you? NO.
Softball’s personality matched my daughter’s
Moments of intensity punctuated by long
P A U S E S
Running her path alone, hitting homeruns and
Controlling center field. Varsity captain
With quiet confidence, receiving cheers
And high-fives like trophies for the team.
But her stolen letterman jacket never made it home.
Stacey,
Your daughter is the kind of athlete I admire:
Your poem takes me back to a year I had most of the girls’ basketball team in my Comm 1101 class. Those girls were amazing. Your poem also sparked a family memory of my dad hitting balls to my brother after dad lost his sight. Thank you for this celebration of girl power.
Stacey,
I love this line
“Sweaty girls, screeching rubber, stomping
Fans, and her dad next to me, fuming.”
It brings so many memories back. Great poem, thanks for the share!
Stacey,
I love how you write about your daughter in this piece and take on her perspective! I especially love how you share your feelings watching her softball games as a parent… your pride, your frustrations, your joy! Thank you so much for sharing
I love that you captured all parts of your daughter’s athletic journey, from the strength of her four year old self to the frustration with basketball (or the coach) and the highs and lows of softball. It was so easy to picture her throughout the years. This will be a treasured piece of writing, I’m sure!
I relate to so much of this poem as the parent of female athletes. Those sidelines… but I particularly like the analogy between your daughter and the sport—it expresses her independence and her strength beautifully!
Lots of real emotion here…pride and tension and disgust…that doggone coach yelling. The idea of coaches yelling has always made me crazy. Yelling feels so barbaric to me…yelling = time to shut down. I live that Mama pride though…that rock hard little girl and the whiz in school.. love that. You there sitting on your hands. Good stuff, Stacey! Susie
Stacey, your athletic daughter sounds fierce and determined. Thank you for this. You speak from the heart of a mother and your love for her is so evident. Looking forward to your entries this week.
Your daughter will love this poem! These words describe a thoughtful and powerful person:
The image of her “running her path alone” is one of strength and conviction. Every parent’s dream for their child!
Loved this.
Though I am saddened by that last line.
I grew up in a family centered on my athletic brother and his sports. I taught 38 years and watched the marginalization of students involved in academic and artistic activities while certain sports teams and athletes received all the glory. Both students and educators suffer when sports are the priority. Now in the midst of this pandemic, community members are put at risk so those obsessed w/ football can crowd into a stadium for high school games. I do not believe sports should be held up as a model for motivation. I wonder how many students drop out and suffer because they’re not part of these privileged groups.
For the Love of Football
Nothing gets in the way of
Our national obsession with a
Stitched, oval, brown pigskin
Tossed among aged boys on
Artificial grass before a
Cheering throng of
Super-spreader,
Science-denier,
Flat-landers.
Not even a pandemic
Puts on pause parents’
Primary purpose to produce
Pigskin prodigies:
Patriots
Falcons
Raiders
Titans
Chiefs.
And so…
Team Covid-19 takes the turf.
—Glenda Funk
. Oh. My. God. Yes. I have been ranting about this and you have taken it to its essence! Loved “ Not even a pandemic
Puts on pause parents’
Primary purpose to produce
Pigskin prodigies:”
All those plosives!!!! Suits my reaction perfectly!!!
When I take my walk in the evenings I am agog at the “private” football clubs for elementary age boys practicing and skirmishing on the local school field. For the most part, from what I can see, these are families of color and I worry about the blending of so many households led by adults on the sidelines not wearing masks. It’s been easy up to now. But, as cold weather rushes in…..yikes! The sickness in our national leadership at times such of this is criminal. This poem really puts me in touch with these feelings.
The above being said, I have taught for a few decades now in urban schools that are small league….some of these kids really do get through school because of sports.
I hope we as educators can work for balance. Sometimes, I forget that the parents of students I work with could be my own kids. I tend to think of them as responsible adults…but they need role models and leaders too.
I wonder what would happen in terms of kids getting through school if we invested less in sports and more in robotics, engineering, math activities, and other academic activities. We talk a lot about kids needing sports to get through school, but not much about theater, band, and the arts. I’m not saying sports have no value. I’m saying we place disproportionate value on them, especially football.
Oh, Glenda! I so appreciate your voice, your perspective!
Glenda,
I immediately took interest in the names of the teams you chose here and how it compliments the end of the first stanza. That “Cheering throng of / Super-spreader, / Science-denier, / Flat-landers.” and how they change the meanings of the team’s names “Patriots / Falcons / Raiders / Titans / Chiefs.” I don’t know if it was intentional or not, but I sat with your poem and began to think a lot about what football means – not the sport itself, but the culture it embodies. The team names you chose all have such strong titles. To be a patriot. To be a raider. To be a chief. Outside of football, those titles mean very different things. It almost portrays the barbaric nature of the culture. Your poem was very thought provoking! Great piece!!
You speak to this with such clarity. I just finished reading Before the Ever After (Woodson) and it makes me wonder about what keeps driving this game through the risks involved. I agree with Gayle – those four lines are perfect.
Oh WOW! The alliteration, the power of every line! These words –
I think this ALL the TIME about EVERYTHING!! I feel as if the world is telling us to slow, to pause. The message could not be clearer. But we insist we must continue to live exactly as we have always lived. Specifically, as your poem so eloquently shares, it is sickening to see the contortions and pains that are being taken, not to mention the money being spent, to have professional sports continue at this time…..
So thought provoking. I have often wonder why our society glorifies athletes and sports, especially football. I think of all the money spent on pro athletes’ salaries, the price of tickets, concessions. It’s mind boggling what so many of us value. And yes, the kids are out practicing as the pandemic rages on. Parents turn a blind eye to mask wearing and social distancing (at the expense of other’s health!) Anyway, your poem stirred me up. I don’t know what the answer is and I don’t see things changing. How did we let a game become an idol? Excellent and powerful poem.
Glenda, I totally agree with your wonderings — and your warnings — in this poem (and in your intro)! And to keep with the prolific alliteration in your second stanza, I found your poem perceptive, poignant, and pantalooned. (Sorry, I couldn’t think of any other “p” words at the moment, other than, that is, to say, I just really enjoyed your poem, and I thought it was powerful.) It has a very Dulce et Decorum Est feel to it, which I thoroughly enjoyed!
I can’t type this the way I would say it but DAAAAAAAAYUMMMMMM! I’m reading Jacqueline Woodson’s newest novel Before the Ever After and it is centered around football’s tragic consequences with traumatic brain injuries. Now, I add more salt in tragic wounds with:
It baffles me how the show must go on with no regard for safety or life! Thank you for this poem. The “P” alliterations in the last stanza made me say damn!
??????????
Glenda,
I love how you can make art about your convictions with beauty and effectiveness. “For the Love of Football” is right. What we are willing to risk…
Oooo…killa final line, Glenda! You went right where I was wondering. Nailed it! Love this. Susie
Grabbing Hold
I was no athlete
but I wanted to be
part of a team, longed
for belonging.
When energy and imagination
burst forth from long limbs,
I ran, leapt, grabbed hold of
another limb reaching out
for me,
Lifting me, as my feet
maneuvered upwards
pushing
pulling
shifting
both tension and weight.
Finally, one leg swings over,
Propels, my 10 year old self
Into the welcoming
space of an elm,
holding me aloft
physical exertion and
a sense of comradery
with my favorite
tree.
This is great! I’m part of Team Wanna-be. I always practice my figure skating moves in front of the TV during winter Olympics. ha! Your poem took me right back to those days.
There is uplift here, not only in the finding of your “team” but also in the movement and energy you build into this so beautifully. I love that title!
Shelly, everyone wants to be part of a team. I love the how you capture that feeling. My favorite lines are the last three “a sense of comradery/with my favorite/ tree”.
Thank you for sharing your poem! The longing to belong – I can definitely relate to that!
Jamie Wants to Swim
By Nancy White
It’s nearly rush hour
And we are rushing
To get to my our grandson’s swim lesson
We arrive at the Y
And three year old Jamie yells, “Papa! Grammy!”
As he runs down the hall to crash into us with hugs.
Parents crowd around windows
To get a glimpse of their little Sara turn on balance beam,
And there’s Jake,13 and gangly, suspending himself on the rings.
Toddlers in pink tutus run by squealing.
But, we must hurry so we won’t be late.
We head out the side door and into the
swimming pool arena where the warm, chlorinated air
slaps us in the face like a wet sponge.
Jamie is standing in his turquoise trunks and lime green rash guard,
nervously excited to meet his new instructor.
Here she comes and off they go,
the cute little Guppy Class,
to sit at the side of the pool.
Their feet are kicking in the water,
Waiting their turns to jump to the teacher
who praises each one and shouts, “Kick! Kick! Kick!
Way to go—BIG splashes!”
Jamie has a huge smile.
He turns and waves, “Hi Papa!” and shows off by
blowing bubbles.
Today he sits alone coloring and watching TV.
He can’t play with his little friends at preschool
or join in any lessons.
There aren’t any.
But, he comes to visit Grammy and Papa.
We dig in the dirt. We play with Play Doh.
We play Hide And Seek.
But, Jamie wants to swim.
Somehow we make do with a hose and a blue plastic wading pool.
This new normal can be fun—
until we stop and think about
all the things he’s missing.
Gayle, my heart breaks that your grandson can not play sports or see his friends due to COVID, but it warms my heart to see the beautiful way you write about him and that you all are able to spend so much time exploring and learning together. Thank you so much for sharing!
Nancy,
Oh, there are so many precious moments in this poem that come alive with the dialogue and the play. Jamie wants you and us, as readers, in the moment of joy–needs you and Papa to make do. Jamie will remember the hose and blue wading pool, will remember the play. Love Grammy and Papa! And the Guppy class–my heart.
Sarah
Nancy,
That last stanza breaks my heart for Jamie. It literally drains the joy from a child forced to sit alone during these awful days. I know parents and grandparents do what they can, as you do w/ your grandchild in the garden, but it is not enough to fill their little souls. Hugs to you both.
First Base
I did not “athlete” growing up.
1960’s girls did not “athlete”.
Cheerleading and gymnastics
Summed it up. Tennis if you had a place to play.
Only feminine muscles were encouraged.
(I did not even have those…)
So I missed it.
Focused on books and looks instead.
I missed it; I missed out
on knowing my body as useful for more than
attraction and locomotion.
Fast forward forty years,
My students asked me to play kickball.
Not enough for a team—they were desperate,
a ragtag group of middle schoolers in a ragtag school
for kids who didn’t “fit in”.
Tough kids, with tough lives
and tougher reputations.
How could I refuse?
I kicked (badly) and ran (slowly).
They fluffed the catch (these troubled teens) to give me a chance.
Slowed the throw.
Tough kids with soft souls.
I struggled to first base, where a willowy boy wearing
a torn t-shirt and an ankle tracking bracelet
waited, his arms out.
Making sure I didn’t fall.
Making sure I was safe.
“I couldn’t go home if you got hurt, Ms. Sands.”
The first of many first bases
laden with laughter and teasing—and growth.
They became my teachers on the field;
As I became their student.
So much love.
So much trust.
So much change.
And that is how
I became an athlete.
GJSands October 2020
Sarah, thank you for this prompt and your heart warming poem of sister-love and sports. I could see and hear the story you told. Had to really think about this, as sports was not part of my life growing up. Thanks for the memory nudge and the break from politics!
Gayle,
For so many reasons, this piece made my heart leap. For starters, you reminded me of something I have not often considered; I cannot imagine as a young girl growing up without baseball, being the only girl on a team with a mix of all my male cousins. It reminded me how grateful I am for the experiences of sports when I was younger and specifically the chance I had to play them. When I read the line, “Tough kids with soft souls”, I had to stop for a moment and think. I currently work as a daycare teacher and help with the corresponding private school’s after school program; the daycare/school are nonprofit organizations that work hand and hand with DHS, and often times, we have children who have been through more trials that should be thinkable. Recently, I was outside with a group of elementary and middle schooler students as they played. One of the older students who has had a particularly heart wrenching story knelt down on his knees and taught three of the kindergarten girls how to throw the football. I watched for a while. The moment stuck with me, and for the same reason, so did this line. Finally, that last stanza brought a smile to my face. I am thinking about the wonderful relationships you must have with your students. So glad you wrote this! Wonderful!
Gayle, I love everything about this, but especially that ankle tracking braceleted boy and the safe place he created for you.
As soon as I read the line “I kicked (badly) and ran (slowly),” I knew you were being a role model for these kids…and I am sure you were/are…I mean, how beautiful that you played despite any interest, it is good to show kids this…but, wow, what a powerful stanza ensues!! This boy, truly challenged in his young life already, becomes the hero:
I LOVE THIS! What an inspirational poem. This is why one teaches! Right? Beautiful, just beautiful. Thank you so much!
“And that is how/ I became an athlete.” Well, if this isn’t the best story of becoming I’ve heard. My friend, I love this for the story and so appreciate the poetic parentheses. Makes me wish we’d teach mechanics and punctuation through poetry as you use all the marks like words, like you have pulled us all alongside your for a chat, leaning in a bit closer at the parentheticals.
Sarah
Well my heart has melted all over the floor and I’m trying to figure out how to put myself back together. The ankle bracelet with a big heart – what a beautiful truth for all of us today!
Gayle, thank you for sharing this! I was smiling wide throughout your poem — from the phrasing of your first line (“I did not ‘athlete’ growing up”) to the student’s genuine concern (“I couldn’t go home if you got hurt, Ms. Sands”) to the clever ending (“And that is how / I became an athlete”). I enjoyed this!
This was such a sweet poem and I loved the connection that is so clearly expressed between you and the students. I especially enjoyed your use of the parenthesis — I thought that was very clever.
I wasn’t sure what to do at first, but decided to read some of these articles for ideas. I started pulling phrases/lines from the one linked here: “Gym Class is Dead — but Long Live Physical Education.” I’m still not sure if this is the kind of poem being asked for…but it’s the poem I wrote.
“Gym Class is Dead” by Erica Johnson
Students emerged
lime-green trainers
knee-high tube socks
black shorts, white shirt
it’s time for gym class.
Once focused on gymnastics and hygiene —
true fitness and health —
has been warped.
Now a focus on military readiness,
trainers traded for boots.
Players on the field recruited
not to dugouts, but to barracks.
Sweat dews the body
and through the haze
a whistle pierces through,
a shock to the system.
Onto the court,
onto the field,
this was not the plan,
but this is not gym class.
Not any more.
Gym class is dead.
One more corpse,
at the feet of General Education.
Predeceased by art, music, drama —
Survived by math, science, and language arts.
Instead of an honorable funeral,
we’ve desecrated its grave.
Research and benefits ignored,
Scores and tests lauded,
over flexible minds and bodies.
It’s cheaper to fall in line,
than to teach skills outside of the box.
Gym class is dead.
One more twisted purpose,
in the hands of General Education.
Erica,
Wow. You poem speaks to me of a profession I have loved most of my life. Your words, “Predeceased by art, music, drama-” I felt the stings of those deaths, not their complete removal, but limiting access to that kind of free and creative expression. Your poem reminds me that I am not alone in this grief. Just knowing that, inspires me to continue to fight for what is right. Thanks for your beautiful words.
Yes. We need to teach to ALL the parts of our students, not just the state-tested parts! We lose so many kids this way. Good thoughts, well spoken!
This is a great poem that shows a point of view. Lots of images in it too…those lime green trainers. Predeceased by the arts…sad but true. This reminds me of the old phrase, “if you think education is expensive, try the price of ignorance.”
Erica! Whoa, this is something. I can’t stop thinking about the argument essay and that we should be teaching the form of argumentative poetry. So cool this contrast of trainers and boots and the economic angle of it all, twisted.
Sarah
I love the line “Sweat dews the body” so sad it leads to “Gym class is dead” you got me thinking about the joy of movement in the midst of the demise of gym class; there must be a place where the two can meet
Sarah, your poem – those concrete visual images, the energy, the spontaneous mentor-love of your older sister – they strike so deep. It lives and breathes poignantly real and now… I read “American Pharoah” (with his “misspelled name”) to see what inspired you and was swept away by it – made me recall Secretariat, the first Triple Crown Winner in 25 years, long ago when I was a child. I do not know exactly why but I always get choked up with emotion over Secretariat. Limon’s poem stirred that same sense of horse story-glory.
I have to say I wasn’t much of an athlete, ever, in my whole life.
My husband, however, was.
Here’s my attempt to capture something I witnessed recently, in that regard … thinking of your prompt on what we can/can’t do any more…and thank you for setting this open write in motion:
The Passing
She comes out of his study carrying it
in her four-year-old arms
and his face is transformed, glowing
as if a passing cloud has uncovered the sun.
He leans forward in the recliner as she
drops it, kicks it, sets it spinning
—Oh, no, he says, this one’s not for kicking,
it’s for dribbling, just as the ball stops
at his feet. He reaches down, lifts it
with the easy grace of the boy on the court,
hands perfectly placed on the brown surface
in split-second calculation of the shot
so many times to the roar of the school crowd
so many hours with friends, his own and then
his son’s, still outscoring them all, red-faced,
heart pounding, dripping with sweat, radiant
—and at twelve, all alone on the pavement
facing the hoop his mother installed
in the backyard of the new house
after his father died, every thump echoing
Daddy, Daddy, Daddy.
The game in the blood, the same DNA
that just last year left him with a heart full
of metal and grafts, too winded to walk
more than short distances, having to stop
to catch his breath, deflated
—it needs some air. Do you have a pump
at your house, he asks his son,
sitting there on the sofa,
eyes riveted to the screen emitting
continuous squeaks of rubber soles
against hardwood.
—Yeah, Dad. I’ve got one and the needle, too.
His father leans in to the little girl at his knee,
his heart in his hands:
—Would you like to have it?
She nods, grinning, reaching, her arms, her hands
almost too small to manage the brown sphere
rolling from one to the other like a whole world
passing.
Oh, Fran. My goodness, this is beautiful. The three generations here, like a whole world passing so, so quickly. There are so many things to love about your poem. This beautiful passage in the middle just has me seeing it all playing out:
What a poignant and lovely tribute to your basketball playing husband and “The Passing” to his granddaughter. Wow!
Fran,
So many great lines in this moment of moments. “as if a passing cloud as uncovered the sun” sparks a matrix of feelings–an upward movement to joy and meaning. It’s a sweet beginning… and the moments that follow, weaving the journey through other “passing clouds” capture a life. I love the full circle of your poem.
This brought tears to my eyes:
—and at twelve, all alone on the pavement
facing the hoop his mother installed
in the backyard of the new house
after his father died, every thump echoing
Daddy, Daddy, Daddy.
I could hear the rhythm and feel the pain. And the joy at the end as he shares the love with his daughter. Kudos for a heart-breaker!
Fran, this is beautiful and heartfelt. The story is tragic, the characters ones we care for. I love the concept of the passing down of the tradition like the passing of a ball. The beat of the dribble to “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy” very poignant. Great poem.
Fran, this is beautiful – the passing of the torch from grandfather to granddaughter to light the fire of the love of the game! Such a glorious way to hit the right target with family mementos that we hold so dear for so long and treasure…..only to realize the true treasure is giving these items renewed life and purpose so that they make a difference! Precious.
Oooooh, this poem stretched me! My first thought was about how un-athletic I am….until free-writing poked at memories of my attempts to join the junior high basketball team and soccer team. Then, I remembered my bike. It was so long ago. Thank you, Sarah for shaking those memories loose. This is a draft I can play with later.
I really like the sister connection in your poem, Sarah…that taking care of little sister from the ride to the drying of the uniform to the loan of number 8. I felt the bond and closeness between the two. It made me wish that my sisters and I had that at that age. It took more decades for us.
Winning
I won a contest when I was twelve
The prize was a ten-speed bike
Electric blue and shiny all over
Ready to expand my world
The prize was a ten-speed bike
I wrapped the handle-bars with tape
Learned to work hand breaks
Testing the quick-clicking glide
I wrapped the handle-bars with tape
Pitched forward over the front wheel
Testing the quick-clicking glide
Took off down the street for a ride
Pitched forward over the front wheel
My world expanded and sped-up
Past school and church and car wash
I could go anywhere my legs could pump
My world expanded and sped-up
What were blocks became miles
I could anywhere my legs could pump
Gear shifts softened the hills
What were blocks became miles
Edges of town blurred past
I became a great explorer
Gear shifts softened the hills
I won a contest when I was twelve
The prize was a ten-speed bike
Electric blue and shiny all over
Ready to expand my world
Linda, the Pantoum form is absolutely perfect here! I love the lines
Electric blue and shiny all over
Ready to expand my world
The expansion of the Pantoum expands like your world on the bike – it is perfect! And I also have to say that whether or not you intended the blue as a political party color, I stood in line for early voting yesterday and today in your poem
thought of the hopes of a shiny blue expanding our world!
Linda,
I think pantoum is my favorite form by far, and you have made me happy with this form and the way your memory takes shape within. I think my favorite line is this: “What were blocks became miles” — because that is what “sport” or “activity” does for our bodies and even spirit. Movement–an expansion of our corporeal world but also a chance — like winning a ten-speed bike.
Sarah
Linda – how wonderfully this form works with the carrying forward/echoing of lines! Threads of life tied together – learning, testing, triumph, growing in confidence and independence. I happened to have a sky blue bike given to me on my twelfth birthday – a “Free Spirit.” It wasn’t a ten-speed, though, which was a disappointment – but I was with you on every beat of this poem and the exhilarating ride to expand your world (a desire we should always have).
I love how the lines repeat and build the story of this bike. I remember enjoying riding my bike all over our neighborhood so I really connected to the idea of the world expanding just by having a bike. Your imagery was so good too: “Electric blue and shiny all over” and “I wrapped the handle-bars with tape
Pitched forward over the front wheel
Testing the quick-clicking glide
Took off down the street for a ride” I love the sound it makes when you say “quick-clicking glide” because I remember the sounds my own bike made when I shifted gears.
Well done!
Linda, I could relate to the thrill of a brand new 10 speed! Thanks for helping me revisit a big part of my childhood that I had not thought about in years. Such freedom and movement—I love this stanza:
“ What were blocks became miles/Edges of town blurred past/I became a great explorer/Gear shifts softened the hills”
Remember climbing a big hill? Oh, the magic of gear shifts!
Linda—wow!! The format was perfect for your theme!
Past school and church and car wash
I could go anywhere my legs could pump
My world expanded and sped-up
What were blocks became miles…
Edges of town blurred past
I became a great explorer
Gear shifts softened the hills
(And the world became yours, didn’t it?? )
love the line “What were blocks became miles” the joy of a ride; I remember my skates expanding my world beyond my neighborhood
Linda, nice poem to show the joy of that new bike! We wrote bicycling poems from different chapters today, didn’t we? I love the way you described having the new power of the gears: “Gear shifts softened the hills”
The first and last stanza is just beautiful! And when it is repeated at the end it is even more meaningful. Well done!
Wow, Sarah. Thank you for the inspiration today. I’ve been reading and viewing all the links you added. I have been lost for an hour in all the good mentors you pointed us to. Your poem is so sweet. I love this sweet and vivid memory of you and your sister and all the love and support it holds. It is just beautiful. I tried to follow your and Ada Limon’s lead and use enjambment, italics, and present tense. This experience just happened yesterday, so it was fun to record some of my thoughts and feelings around my later-life bike ride.
Each of us scrambles to borrow a bicycle. Not that many years
Ago I would hop on my own bike and pedal to the start
Of the Go Pink ride. I am in a new time and place, though, so I
Borrow one.
Sorry, there’s only one gear that works, my friend tells me.
We ram the old broken thing in my van and drive it
Home.
It needs a new seat, says my husband. Ride it down
The street to the shop on the corner, and we’ll see if he has one. He
Walks along, I ride. The crank arm breaks
On the two-block ride.
Two, three or three-and-a-half for the saddle;
Five for the gear shifters, ten for the crank, five for the
Derailleur. Why not take
A new one? Only 45 BD, the shop keeper says.
OK, says my husband.
This one is foldable, good for the car, the little man says, as we
Wheel it out of the shop. Back home,
We put it in our car. I set my alarm for
4:00 a.m. The alarm goes off, I stumble and
Pull on my pink tee-shirt backwards, extra wide shoes to
Alleviate pain from Morton’s neuroma, eat a banana and drive
To the Cycling Bees shop. Bahrain
is flat, the trip is ten
Kilometers, the seat is wide and cushy, my borrowed helmet is too big. I
manage to finish, in all my out-of-shape glory, at the end of the pack.
Thoughts of coronavirus
Haunt me as we talk, sometimes too close–them without
Masks. This is the first bicycle ride of my
Sixties. I remember rides in my
Twenties a bit differently. I devour
Huge plates of pasta at the campsite in Half Moon Bay,
Gorge on ice cream in Monterey—so much more gratifying
to fuel up on a bicycle than in a
Fossil-fueled vehicle. We pedal up
Hills, race down, and try to avoid semis in Big Sur,
80 to 100 miles a day. We do it all
Again the next day.
That was fun! The Cycling Bees have another ride next
week, how about it? The route looks charming, my friend says.
Nah, I’m OK.
“Nah, I’m okay” is my favorite line. I can so envision this too-big helmet and I like the way it somewhat symbolizes, in a strange sort of way, the idea that – just like when our eyes are bigger than our stomachs – that our helmets stay the same size – like once we’ve done a thing we will always be able to do it even in our sixties. And yet we come to those moments….with our helmets falling down over our eyes….and say “Nah, I’m okay.” This is priceless for our time!
Oh, the shoes to alleviate pain, the “out-of-shape glory” – I don’t know if I want to laugh or cry because I can relate. I am doing both. Mostly I’m in awe of your determination to ride again … and admiring your wisdom in knowing the limit! For a moment I tired to imagine biking along Big Sur – what a glorious memory that must be.
Ha! Oh, yeah….cycling now is so different. I too have morton’s neruoma and walking was my go-to activity. I took up swimming and fell in love with it just before the pandemic closed the pool. Oh, what a world. I do enjoy the insight into what it takes for a ride now v. then. I’m with ya, kiddo. Although, the idea of cycling in Bahrain does make it a bit more exotic….no?
So fun! I returned to bike riding ten years ago or so, after many, many years away from it – it was SO hard, SO different, SO challenging. I loved this: “I
manage to finish, in all my out-of-shape glory, at the end of the pack.”
I like – visually, poetically – how the word “I” was at the end of one line, standing on its own, separate from the rest.
Yes, I laughed at ‘Nah, I’m OK’ – but I encourage you to try it again. Perhaps not with a group of others…
Sarah, I feel that cold, wet jersey! I can’t help wondering if your jersey numbers correspond to your sibling arrangement like in your book. I love the way your sister wraps your shoulders in her cloaked branch – the warmth of temperature and the warmth of family and the special warmth of sisters! Thank you for an inspiring prompt today! I had no idea that I would be able to find such action in a found poem by the late, great Mary Oliver….but it was in there, hiding!
Unreachable
eager for action
running here,running there
when in motion
hardly able to stop, he leaps, he spins
leaps and dives up and down
time is draining from the clock
running forward
without a backward glance
unreachable
* * * *
all the way home
limping, lumbering
perfectly finished
-kim johnson through Mary Oliver
Taken from these poems, in this order:
“Percy Wakes Me”
“The Storm (Bear)”
“For I Will Consider My Dog Percy”
“The Storm (Bear)”
“The Dog Has Run Off Again (Benjamin)”
“The Gift”
“Percy Speaks While I Am
Doing Taxes”
“The Summer Beach”
“The First Time Percy Came Back”
“Untitled”
“Henry”
“In Pobiddy, Georgia”
I love Mary Oliver – her book Devotions stays on the shelf by my bed. Maybe in hopes I’ll absorb more lyrical beauty even as I sleep … what found poems you’ve crafted, with a building up and winding down of energy. The lines that catch me most :
time is draining from the clock
running forward
without a backward glance
-I feel a frenzy in it – like maybe trying to make the last shot in a game, or finishing a marathon, or even just the way we live our lives, “running here, running there” (before corona). Stepping away from humans though – a dog on a needed romp, feeling so good. Action, indeed! Well-captured.
Kim,
Found Poetry and Mary Oliver! Genius. Your poem captures a moment of movement, agility, and triumph. I imagined, at first, basketball, then the football field. It doesn’t really matter, the sport… the moment of trial, suspense, victory is expressed an arrangement of beautiful words. Well done.
I love the creativity of your poem. You so often add a new twist and sweetness to the prompts that make them all yours. You have found much movement to create your poem! I’ve seen you write so often about Mary Oliver, that I’ve just purchased her Devotions book on my Kindle. Thank you.
Kim, Thank you for this! (I’ll have you know that I spent an unapologetically long time perusing the works of those Mary Oliver poems — many that I didn’t know and had to Google — finding the corresponding lines in your poem.) Mary Oliver is so good! And I love the way you found a throughline of action in those poems. Great idea and well-done!
That’s so neat! I think would be a great activity with students….everyone chooses a poem, cuts it into it’s lines and exchanges them until they form a new poem. I’ve been having fun with the idea of being in conversation with another poet lately. By collecting these lines and arranging them you’ve shown us a beautiful conversation.
Cross Country Team
Steve and I walk out of the locker room
Through the gym, thinking of
Last years, Hollywood endings
And philosophizing over Trent Reznor
Our minds both racing around
The music we yearn to understand
Steve points out the signup sheets
Hanging on the wall by the exit
I was thinking about
Signing up
For cross country
Immediately I’m thrown back
To my first day of high school
When, in Earth Science, Matt and Colin told me
I should join the cross country team
I didn’t know them
I didn’t know why I should want to do that
But I thought about it enough
That I joined the team in my mind
And I ran and ran
And became really good friends with Matt and Colin
And then I did nothing and nothing
And Matt and Colin forgot about the whole thing
So I say to Steve
Yes! Let’s do it!
We’ll join the team together
We’ll get, like,
Really good at running
I love this plan
Then Steve’s pen is signing his name
On the yellowish piece of paper
And then I’m signing in pencil
We part ways to our separate classes
Before I leave for the day
I sneak back into the gym
And erase my name
Sorry, Steve
Fantasies always have a nice ring
But reality…
It’s just not my thing
Alex, that pencil is such a great way to rethink things! The use of the pencil for uncertainty and the pen for the commitment is a beautiful way to show the mercy of an eraser. I love the use of the line: “we’ll get, like, really good at running.” That use of like turns a plan more into a possible vision with some wiggle room in case things don’t pan out. ?
Oh, my goodness…that ending surprised me. Ha! The pencil marks can be erased. I like how the idea of doing what one once did “back in the day” is so attractive. I like the two characters in your poem. They are very believable. I’m there for the race and the erasing.
These lines…
Fantasies always have a nice ring
But reality…
It’s just not my thing
-so powerful. How many times in life do we sign up for what sounds good at the moment, only to realize…but at least you did! Captivating – I love a turn at the end of a poem.
YES!! This is great! The conversational tone, the permanent pen vs erasable pencil, the self-truth… love it!!
Alex,
I love this poem. I also always wanted to join the cross country team just to be apart of it with my friends and classmates but the reality always set in, that running was definitely never my thing.
Thank you for this refreshing share.