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Friday, September 25, 2009

Hey, Batter, Batter

Whatever it takes to write a poem
I don’t have it.
All the editors of America agree.
Nor could I ever hit a baseball well enough
to impress any coach
glancing up from a clipboard.

In the evening this late in the year
the sun presses green and golden through laced leaves
like light through sacred glass.

Lines like that
always kill me—
swing and a miss.

The truth you must not tell:
My poems yawn about the heart
forever wounded.
I am much too old to make the team.

I stand in the cage
humming dollar after dollar through the machine
swinging the lumber.

5 comments:

  1. a good poem that disproves its opening sentiment, I'd say! write on! KTF

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  2. I would say the same as the above. So far the person with the clipboard has not looked up.

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  3. There are several circles in this, which all start to overlap at the end. A poem, somewhat about self doubt, and yet a poem about someone who is a natural, effortless poet. But, we do this in our own lives, using our talents to try and convince others that we don't have any talent (or at least not 'that' one). It is a poem before the poet has been born. Excellent!

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  4. I was reading Bradstreet's "The Author to her Book" when I wrote this. There's the intertext.

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  5. you do such exceptional work someone someday will have to notice

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