April is National Poetry Month

April is National Poetry Month. In 2006 we attempted to post a poem every day, but got distracted after 11 days. In 2007 we made it through the entire month, to the dismay of a couple readers who complained near the end that they were anxious for something ‘different’. (But hopefully I introduced them to a few poets or poems that they enjoyed.)

And here we go again! My own personal guarantee is that no poem will be posted this April that I posted in prior Aprils. Even if that means I have to start sharing my own poetry (which I don’t think it will.)

Since Opening Day for the Baseball season was yesterday, this poem seems very appropriate, title and all. (Though of course, for the Cardinals, tonight is opening night since our game yesterday was rained out. And every fan will know Albert Pujols hit one more homer than the final tallies will declare, and Rick Ankiel’s 2-run double won’t count either. Sigh. April is the cruellest month.)

Line-Up for Yesterday:An ABC of Baseball Immortals
by Ogden Nash

A is for Alex
The great Alexander;
More Goose eggs he pitched
Than a popular gander.

B is for Bresnahan
Back of the plate;
The Cubs were his love,
and McGraw his hate.

C is for Cobb,
Who grew spikes and not corn,
And made all the basemen
Wish they weren’t born.

D is for Dean,
The grammatical Diz,
When they asked, Who’s the tops?
Said correctly, I is.

The rest of the poem

Here are the last six lines from a poem by a potentially surprising poet

The best times you’ve had
Have been with your Mom and your Dad
And a bat and a ball and a glove.

From the first time you played
Till the last time you prayed
It’s been a simple matter of love.

365 by Jack Buck (delivered on air, date unknown)

0 thoughts on “April is National Poetry Month

  1. DL Emerick

    A Chosen One’s Seasons

    Each Spring, before May,
    you’d sign-up to play,
    each year a little older,
    league divisions colder,
    never coming out better
    than equally aging peers.

    Right field was open,
    yours just to grope in,
    for flyballs flying over head,
    some bouncing on until dead —
    you’re an outfield go-getter
    laughed at by those not in tears.

    Catching the ball? Hah!
    You didn’t — Rah, Rah!
    Runners ran and some scored,
    Your team ranted and deplored
    fielding reeking wet; sweater
    of shames into failures’ fears.

    At the plate, you stood,
    holding useless wood,
    as balls flew by, some in zone,
    some balls, striking three, then gone,
    unless walked, a dead letter,
    K in the scorebook, appears.

    Once, you got on base,
    not knowing that space
    took time to cross as speed, too:
    you were thrown out at base two.
    Tripping back, a bench setter
    as a game goat has no cheers.

    Still, you practiced, played
    some years; you never made
    the team, though never chosen,
    the last man standing, frozen
    out, forced on them as fetter,
    then running home, fleeing jeers.