Tuesday, March 23, 2010

New Followers

A drizzling morning to you all! Yup, it's raining here, and my son's going for his driving test today. Yikes. I'll let you know how it goes. But that's later. Right now I have something more exciting to disclose: NEW FOLLOWERS!! Yay! I can't tell you how excited I am to have new followers: 5 to be exact. Welcome to you and to my other loyals. I hope you find my blog informative, interactive, and well a tad wacky like me. 
(I have four kids. Wacky is what keeps me sane.)


Comment, Comment, Comment!! Fill my graffiti wall with tons to discuss and share. Come on. You know you want to. And I have a surprise. I'm finally opening up my GRAFFITI WALL with writer interviews. But not your ordinary chitchat garble. And I'm looking for you. Yes, you heard me correctly. Unpublished writers and those on their way!! Get your name out there. Don't hesitate. I don't bite. Well...only people I like. Interested? Dare to tread the paranormal waters that I wade in? Your brave. I can feel it. Email me HERE for the questions I'll ask. I'll highlight your interview as a post and your name will forever be on my GRAFFITI WALL!
  


In light of that fabulous news, I'm posting a poem about writing...and baseball. Although I live and breath ice hockey, I am also a baseball chick at heart. I love the language this poet uses and wanted to share it with all of you. (Make no mistake. Poetry is not my strong point, but my ear can appreciate someone who can write it. Enjoy!)


Baseball and Writing













Fanaticism?No.Writing is exciting
and baseball is like writing.
You can never tell with either
how it will go
or what you will do;
generating excitement--
a fever in the victim--
pitcher, catcher, fielder, batter.
Victim in what category?
Owlman watching from the press box?
To whom does it apply?
Who is excited?Might it be I?

It's a pitcher's battle all the way--a duel--
a catcher's, as, with cruel
puma paw, Elston Howard lumbers lightly
back to plate.(His spring
de-winged a bat swing.)
They have that killer instinct;
yet Elston--whose catching
arm has hurt them all with the bat--
when questioned, says, unenviously,
"I'm very satisfied.We won."
Shorn of the batting crown, says, "We";
robbed by a technicality.

When three players on a side play three positions
and modify conditions,
the massive run need not be everything.
"Going, going . . . "Is
it?Roger Maris
has it, running fast.You will
never see a finer catch.Well . . .
"Mickey, leaping like the devil"--why
gild it, although deer sounds better--
snares what was speeding towards its treetop nest,
one-handing the souvenir-to-be
meant to be caught by you or me.

Assign Yogi Berra to Cape Canaveral;
he could handle any missile.
He is no feather."Strike! . . . Strike two!"
Fouled back.A blur.
It's gone.You would infer
that the bat had eyes.
He put the wood to that one.
Praised, Skowron says, "Thanks, Mel.
I think I helped a little bit."
All business, each, and modesty.
Blanchard, Richardson, Kubek, Boyer.
In that galaxy of nine, say which
won the pennant?Each.It was he.

Those two magnificent saves from the knee-throws
by Boyer, finesses in twos--
like Whitey's three kinds of pitch and pre-
diagnosis
with pick-off psychosis.
Pitching is a large subject.
Your arm, too true at first, can learn to
catch your corners--even trouble
Mickey Mantle.("Grazed a Yankee!
My baby pitcher, Montejo!"
With some pedagogy,
you'll be tough, premature prodigy.)

They crowd him and curve him and aim for the knees.Trying
indeed!The secret implying:
"I can stand here, bat held steady."
One may suit him;
none has hit him.
Imponderables smite him.
Muscle kinks, infections, spike wounds
require food, rest, respite from ruffians.(Drat it!
Celebrity costs privacy!)
Cow's milk, "tiger's milk," soy milk, carrot juice,
brewer's yeast (high-potency--
concentrates presage victory

sped by Luis Arroyo, Hector Lopez--
deadly in a pinch.And "Yes,
it's work; I want you to bear down,
but enjoy it
while you're doing it."
Mr. Houk and Mr. Sain,
if you have a rummage sale,
don't sell Roland Sheldon or Tom Tresh.
Studded with stars in belt and crown,
the Stadium is an adastrium.
O flashing Orion,
your stars are muscled like the lion.

Marianne Moore 

3 comments:

  1. hey there - I'm one of those new followers. :) Glad to be here.
    I have only two children, and they are enough to keep me wacky! Don't know how you do it w/ 4.
    Hope your son passes his driving test. The memories that brings back. Yesh.

    ReplyDelete
  2. Woooo for new followers! And nice poem!!!! Candy likes!

    ReplyDelete
  3. Hey Jessie, thanks. Yeah, me wacky. Just got back from my son's driving exam. He didn't fail; he never even got to take it. He couldn't pass the eye exam. Ouch!! He was sooooo devastated and ornery. Now he has an eye appointment to be ticked off about too. Life as a teenager...remember. Yuck.

    ReplyDelete

!SPLAT Your Awesomeness! I love to hear from you!

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