Archive for Poem

Jacoby Ellsbury is suave as hell. (See photographic evidence below.) In 2011, he returned from an injury-plagued and horribly disappointing 2010 to become a 30-30 man in his age-27 season. That, in addition to his superb defense in centerfield, is sure to garner some MVP votes despite a Red Sox collapse for the ages.

“I will have that award, and that one, and that one over there, as well.”

But how will he fare against the lyrical prowess of Miggy Cashbery and Joey Bats?

A one-two, a one-two: Read the rest of this entry »

The Mets are facing a couple terrible decisions when it comes to their pair of homegrown stars on the left side of the infield. Given their recent history, Mets fans can be forgiven for being pessimistic. In that honor, here’s a pre-requiem for David Wright and Jose Reyes. Apologies to Walt Whitman.

Out of New York, Endlessly Raking

OUT of New York, endlessly raking,
Out of the Mama’s of Corona, the seven-train shuttle,
Out of the Willets Point midnight,
Over the sterile sands and the fields of Flushing, where the children, leaving their beds, wander’d alone, cap-headed, jersey’d,
Down like the curve of Waino,
Up watching the mystic play of dreadlocks, twining, twisting and jumping as if they were alive,
Out from the patches of blue and orange,
From the memories of the young duo that enchanted us,
From your memories, sad brother —- from the fitful risings and fallings in the standings,
From under that yellow half-moon, late-risen, and swollen as if with tears from game seven,
From those beginning notes of sick speed and excellent pop, there below the LaGuardia jetstream,
From the thousand responses of the crowd, seemingly never to cease,
From the myriad thence-arous’d chants,
From the shouts stronger and more delicious than any,
From such, as now they start, the scene revisiting,
As the fans, twittering, chatting, or on their way for beer,
Borne hither—ere all elude me, hurriedly,
A man — yet by these tears a little boy again,
Throwing myself on the infield dirt, confronting the departure,
I, chanter of wins and losses, uniter of here and hereafter,
Taking all drag bunts and dashing triples to use them — but swiftly leaping beyond the tag,
A reminiscence sing.

The god he does not believe in has never been more absent.

It is not like the time when he thought he saw his father, who had been dead for 20 years, standing in his kitchen in the middle of the night.

But something has grown restless and turned back …

It is nothing he could impart, nothing that even has a name. But the gnaw is enough to tear notches into the strong hearts of oaks rooted forever to the floor of the world.

Clipping old roses from the garden brings him to tears. The skin is mottled not from affliction but from cruelest design. His escaping finger forgets, for a moment, that bones tether it to other bones.

His face is dismal even for a frog’s. Even for an idiot’s. Or a dead emperor’s. His library is but a burnt offering to the man he believes he is believed to be.

He would fear mangling the next grounder, too …

But that suggests an order, a composition, where surely none survives.

(Image courtesy of C.F. Payne, by way of Pitchers and Poets)

José Bautista’s story is truly an amazing one.

But let’s get it straight from the pen of the man himself, complete with, um . . . line breaks?

At his best, he’s Joey Stache, breaker of bats, hearts, and records.

Read the rest of this entry »

In the coming weeks, our comrades on the FanGraphs side of the site will make arguments for and against various 2011 MLB awards candidates. Here at NotGraphs, it’s our duty to allow said candidates to make a case for themselves on the poetic level.

First to step to the mic is AL MVP hopeful, Miguel Cabrera (aka Miggy Cashbery aka Playboy Man Baby).

Miggy Cashbery, ’bout to reck tha mic.

Read the rest of this entry »

To you, Holland may be a country

between Belgium and Germany.

Wooden shoes and Amsterdam benders

with booze, hashish, and prostitutes.

To me, Holland is a lefty;

fastball between 93 and 96.

Baby faced, with a pubescent ‘stache

sitting atop his lip like a caterpillar.

Is it just his hipster-ironic statement

on how “uncool” he thinks mustaches are?

Or does he drink chocolate milk in the dugout?

(Is Hamilton allowed to have chocolate?)

Oh, Mr. Holland, Sunday was your magnum opus.

But all I want to know is

why I expect Chris Hansen to emerge from the ‘pen

whenever I watch you pitch?

Perhaps you just rebel, earnestly,

against the restraints placed on you by nature.

Break free from your genetic shackles.

The razor is merely a social construct!

Which is only to say:

when life gives you lemons,

egg yolks, and butter,

make Hollandaise.

As we learned in a previous edition of Found Poetry(!), the good patriots at Reddit are fond of pondering the baseball bat and its utility for dispensing righteous justice. The reader — the handsome reader — will be pleased to know that Reddit Nation is once again musing on this subject dear to us all. This particular urgent matter? Whether a baseball bat or a knife is most desirable for vanquishing scoundrels in need of being vanquished. Let us now read poetry!

Are you military or a martial artist?

I was in a fight with a guy who had a bat once …

I’ve been beaten down with both, and shot.

I’m a professional knife thrower.

I’ve taken an interest in European sword fighting.

I study European Medieval martial arts.

I use both long sword (which is a two handed weapon, mind you) and a one-handed sword with a buckler.

I’m in the Mereenese fighting pits …

I’ve been trained in martial arts for years, including fighting an enemy who has a knife or a long stick/club/bat.

I’m 6’4″ @ 230lbs.

I like slitting things open …

I just started carrying a gun.

It’s 4 AM here and I can’t really think so clearly.

A moderate injury is an acceptable price to deal a debilitating blow to the enemy.

A grown man’s tibia will break with just 47 Joules of transferred kinetic energy.

Knives are fucking awesome …

The stakes are high here.

BEAR JEW!

Thank you for helping keep poetry alive.

Today’s instance of baseball-related found poetry comes to us courtesy of a Reddit thread on the subject of whether a wooden bat or an aluminum bat is preferable for purposes of defense of self, home, God, and country. So, with editorial discretion and copy-and-paste functionality, let us begin …

I like the wooden bat. It feels more manly.
Bonk!
Break wooden bat over head, now stabbing weapon.
Don’t put nails in it. That will raise a lot of questions and ill will in court.
But … A spiked wooden bat is better …

Slamming someone in the head with an aluminum bat …
An aluminum baseball bat is a good back up in case your gun misfires.
Makes a better clang when you brain someone with it.
Bonk!

The wooden and the aluminum bat would fit up an intruder’s ass just the same.
Slamming someone in the head with an aluminium bat …
Trick r Treat. Yes.
Bonk!

The body …
Do you chop it up or incinerate? Bury it?
Where?

Thank you for helping keep poetry alive.

BleacherReport.com is much maligned in certain quarters of the sports fan internets. In my opinion, the ridicule heaped upon this humble web endeavor has reached truly absurd proportions. If not necessarily a source for quality sports analysis and discussion, BR is absolutely a source for quality art.

With only minimal effort (and alterations), I have uncovered some of the more beautiful sports-related poetry you will ever read.

Read the rest of this entry »

Will McDonald at the Royals Review did it again. His paragraph to Eric Hosmer written in the style of The Golden Bough is brilliant. It’s worth reading the whole thing, but here’s a great excerpt:

A near universal fear existed that Hosmer’s prodigious fly balls would knock out the sun, depriving the world of Spring. In some parts of Eastern Bavaria, each winter Hosmer’s name was forbidden to be spoken aloud until St. Dentlin’s Day in mid-March.

Imitation is flattery, so pardon us for stealing the idea. Here, for you, is a poem about Will Venable, in the style of Walt Whitman. I dunno, maybe it will make sense. It’s just a natural extension of my man crush on the power/speed lefty stuck in a lefty-killing ballpark. Of course, it’s 99% stolen. Mad libs!

With All Thy Tools

WITH all thy tools, mighty Venable,
(Standing strong, serenely confident, overlooking the field,)
Power, discipline, speed, vouchsafed to thee—With these, and like of these, vouchsafed to thee,
What if one gift thou lackest? (the ultimate human problem never solving;)
The gift of Perfect Athleticism fit for thee—What of that gift of gifts thou lackest?
That missing ability to make contact? that swing, hit, fly fit for thee?
Not that swinging, swinging, swinging – strike three.