Baseball and Poetry

In this blog post of mine, I include some of my favorite baseball poetry books.

http://herm4444.blogspot.com/2012/08/my ... films.html


In this one, part of the piece refers to a poem I was asked to write --

http://herm4444.blogspot.com/2012/09/yo ... clean.html

The poem (archived at the Baseball Hall of Fame and Museum) follows:

The Railroad Stop in Syracuse

Syracuse —
a stop on the Underground Railroad
for slaves of the mid 1800s South,
escapees from the plantations
that raised a white crop—the cotton they picked,
the symbol of slavery.

They sneaked off,
and on their way north to Canada, and freedom,
they might spend a night hidden in Syracuse.

Jackie Robinson arrived there in 1946
on the train from Montreal where he worked on
Mr. Branch Rickey’s farm,
a farm that also raised a white crop—
white ballplayers ―
to send south to Brooklyn.

But Jackie was following the opposite route to escape his slavery,
the slavery of the mid 1900s that kept the black man
off the white man’s land,
off the green grass and rich dirt
of his athletic plantations.

When he left that train from Montreal,
on his ride from slavery,
that white man’s train with its
black porters and black conductors
and white engineer,
and stepped into the bright sunlight
and the harsh glare of the public eye
he was no longer just another Negro
aspiring to a white man’s job.

He was a black man opening a door that could not be closed,
accompanied by every man and woman and child
who had ever ridden that other railroad —
fellow passengers to freedom.



© 1996
Hermon R. Card

Great stuff! Some of these poems are old friends, and some are new to me. It is good to be talking about poetry, for sure.

Here are a couple of other favorites of mine. First we've got Rolf Humphries' "Polo Grounds".

Rolfe Humphries - "Polo Grounds"

Time is of the essence. This is a highly skilled
And beautiful mystery. Three or four seconds only
From the time that Riggs connects till he reaches first,
And in those seconds Jurges goes to his right,
Comes up with the ball, tosses to Witek at second,
For the force on Reese, Witek to Mize at first,
In time for the out—a double play.
(Red Barber crescendo. Crowd noises, obbligatio;
Scattered staccatos from the peanut boys,
Loud in the lull, as the teams are changing sides) . . .

Hubbell takes the sign, nods, pumps, delivers—
A foul into the stands. Dunn takes a new ball out,
Hands it to Danning, who throws it down to Werber;
Werber takes off his glove, rubs the ball briefly,
Tosses it over to Hub, who goes to the rosin bag,
Takes the sign from Danning, pumps, delivers—
Low, outside, ball three. Danning goes to the mound,
Says something to Hub, Dunn brushes off the plate,
Adams starts throwing in the Giant bullpen,
Hub takes the sign from Danning, pumps, delivers,
Camilli gets hold of it, a long fly to the outfield,
Ott goes back, back, back, against the wall, gets under it,
Pounds his glove, and takes it for the out.
That's all for the Dodgers. . . .

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

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

Time is of the essence. The shadow moves
From the plate to the box, from the box to second base,
From second to the outfield, to the bleachers.

Time is of the essence. The crowd and players
Are the same age always, but the man in the crowd
Is older every season. Come on, play ball!


Then there's "At the Ball Game" by William Carlos Williams, which is more about the fans than the players.

At the Ball Game

The crowd at the ball game
is moved uniformly

by a spirit of uselessness
which delights them —

all the exciting detail
of the chase

and the escape, the error
the flash of genius —

all to no end save beauty
the eternal -

So in detail they, the crowd,
are beautiful

for this
to be warned against

saluted and defied —
It is alive, venomous

it smiles grimly
its words cut —

The flashy female with her
mother, gets it —

The Jew gets it straight - it
is deadly, terrifying —

It is the Inquisition, the
Revolution

It is beauty itself
that lives

day by day in them
idly —

This is
the power of their faces

It is summer, it is the solstice
the crowd is

cheering, the crowd is laughing
in detail

permanently, seriously
without thought

Very enjoyable!

Here's another really good one, by Robert Francis:

The Base Stealer

Poised between going on and back, pulled
Both ways taut like a tightrope-walker,
Fingertips pointing the opposites,
Now bouncing tiptoe like a dropped ball,
Or a kid skipping rope, come on, come on,
Running a scattering of steps sidewise,
How he teeters, skitters, tingles, teases,
Taunts them, hovers like an ecstatic bird,
He’s only flirting, crowd him, crowd him,
Delicate, delicate, delicate, delicate—now!

Thanks george! I still love that!