Ode to Buster Posey

The runner flies down the third base line
With such reckless force he should be fined.
But willing is he to take a thoughtless chance
And alas our noble catcher cannot shift his stance.

Oh ignoble Cousins, what have you done?
Could you not have found a lane that was safe?
No, instead you ran pell mell
into our catcher at home plate.

The stands are quiet
The bats are still.
We hold our breath
muster our will.
And from the bleachers the chant begins:

Posey! Posey!
Posey! Posey!

And all across the ballpark
This chant gains force.
We chant until our voices are hoarse.
For we believe as we always have
That our shouts, our chants
Can sway the game
give our players fortune and fame
the opposing team grief and shame.
Our collective will can make Posey stand
And crush Cousins with an invisible hand.

But our lad has fallen.
Our lad is down.
His fist in vain pummels the ground.
Our voices falter, but not one fan sits down.

We fear the worst.
We know the dark.
Ah baseball gods, will ye not hark
to our collective will?
Make Posey stand, our wishes fulfill!

But our lad has fallen.
Our lad is down.
His fist pummels the ground.
Our faces in dismay still frown.

Oh Cousins, ignoble Cousins,
Some day great fear will you feel
When in the batter’s box you see
A ball coming swiftly toward your knee.
So fast, so furious you cannot move
And whether that ball strike you low or high
It will leave a lasting bruise
And make you cry and cry.

Then you will know a small measure of the pain you’ve caused
And perhaps next time that will give you pause
Before you barrel your two-bit game
Into a catcher of such noble fame!

For our lad has fallen, our lad is down.
But not forever and not for long
and someday again we will sing our song:

Posey! Posey!
Posey! Posey!

For we believe as we always have
that our Giants will rise and our Giants will win
on a glorious day so fair
for to think otherwise will plunge us into despair.

And when our Posey is on the mend
And he takes the field again
the opposing team will fall into his trap
and all of AT&T park will clap and clap.

But until Buster dons that catcher’s mask again
Messages of love we will send
To our lad so noble and so brave
temporarily undone by a callous knave.
And though our rookie of the year we now do lack
to our stalwart Posey we will remain true blue or actually orange and black.


Note: I've taken some poetic license here as I don't truly believe Cousins is a horrible fellow, but he must be vilified for dramatic affect - haha!

Copyright Birdstory Publications 2011

I Am Not Coming To Class Today

My students will not care.
They will revel in the time off. Listen to their IPods. Lay on the beach. Drink beer.

Like Billy Collins, I stand staring out the window this morning.
Billy says that’s what poets do.

I believe him. Who can doubt a Poet Laureate who steals lines from Ferlinghetti
and writes about the trouble with poetry?
Billy says poets stare out windows.
I want to be a poet today, not a teacher.

From my windows, I see

grey and brown tree limbs sprouting small, scarcely noticiable green niblets.
Shy and unassuming, they push their little heads above the moss-covered branches that quiver just a tad in the wind.

I want to burrow past those fresh bumps, taste the dark marrow of those trees on my tongue.

I see

the new garbage man. He wears wraparound sunglasses and his teeth shine as white as the high-quality, 8 ½ x 11 bond paper that rests in the paper tray of my printer waiting for the sharp bite of black ink.

I would like a bite from the garbage man.

In my kitchen, the light filters through the dirty window and screen,
casting gritty, grainy shadows on the counter top
cluttered with smeared banana and the careless trail of oatmeal flakes.

I will not come to class today.

I have odd lines to scribble and scratch in my notebook.
Squiblets and niblets of words to track across the page.
I must watch the sky, as its shades of blue shift and waver in the passing day.

I have dirty windows that need cleaning. I will use amonia and old newspapers.
The smell so sharp, my eyes will sting.
I’ll leave streaks across the glass that refract the light,
sketching strange patterns on the dark cherry wood of my dining room table.

I will not come to class today.
I am entirely too busy.
I have windows to stare through and poetry to write.

Taking Off Emily Dickinson's Clothes

(I offer this poem by Billy Collins for ThursdayNext, Percy B. Silly, me, and my daughter.)

First, her tippet made of tulle,
easily lifted off her shoulders and laid
on the back of a wooden chair. 

And her bonnet,
the bow undone with a light forward pull. 

Then the long white dress, a more
complicated matter with mother-of-pearl
buttons down the back,
so tiny and numerous that it takes forever
before my hands can part the fabric,
like a swimmer's dividing water,
and slip inside. 

You will want to know 
that she was standing
by an open window in an upstairs bedroom,
motionless, a little wide-eyed,
looking out at the orchard below,
the white dress puddled at her feet
on the wide-board, hardwood floor. 

The complexity of women's undergarments
in nineteenth-century America
is not to be waved off,
and I proceeded like a polar explorer
through clips, clasps, and moorings,
catches, straps, and whalebone stays,
sailing toward the iceberg of her nakedness. 

Later, I wrote in a notebook
it was like riding a swan into the night,
but, of course, I cannot tell you everything -
the way she closed her eyes to the orchard,
how her hair tumbled free of its pins,
how there were sudden dashes 
whenever we spoke. 

What I can tell you is
it was terribly quiet in Amherst
that Sabbath afternoon,
nothing but a carriage passing the house,
a fly buzzing in a windowpane. 

So I could plainly hear her inhale
when I undid the very top
hook-and-eye fastener of her corset

and I could hear her sigh when finally it was unloosed,
the way some readers sigh when they realize
that Hope has feathers,
that reason is a plank,
that life is a loaded gun
that looks right at you with a yellow eye.                 


http://charleshobson.com/books/emily.html
Take a look at this lovely chapbook – it’s out of print, but
oh! How I wish I had it.