Talking Sports and Writing with Marianne Moore
She stepped from the turn of the century,
not this one, the last,
in her trademark black cape and tricorn hat,
distinguished in her stature,
independent in her style.
It was then I knew we had to talk awhile.
We exchanged a smile and formalities,
no conversational abnormalities, just talk --
of sports, writing, and other endeavors.
We spent an enjoyable hour or two together.
Miss Moore, do tell, I know you're passionate for baseball.
How is it that you relate sports to writing at all?
Of course, my own passion is for hockey, to be sure.
(You should see me at games, quite animated!)
I fully understand the competitive allure.
Do you suppose such antics make us fanatics?
"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?"
Like the perfect pass of the puck,
stick to stick, right on the tape --
nowhere for the goalie to escape;
right about then he must think he's stuck
one on one -- in the shooting gallery -
the winger dekes and zings the puck
top shelf past his ear -- heart and soul
on the line for that goal; no fear!
"They are subjects for art or exemplars of it, are they not?
I don't know how to account for a person
who could be indifferent to the miracles of dexterity,
a certain feat by Don Zimmer -- a Dodger at the time --
making a backhand catch,
of a ball coming hard from behind on the left,
fast enough to take his hand off."
Poetry in motion is the art of sport -- there's that one spot
in the season, on ice or pitcher's mound, no worse than
a loss on the line, ambivalent to the odds -- the purity
when the stars will align to stage a play at just the right time --
that save comes in the clutch,
the crowd is electric... the Governor's Cup or the Pennant;
that one moment in time is enough -- even better if you win it!
Our chat, both athletic and poetic,
reminiscent of the past,
when Marianne tossed in the first pitch that
set the Yankees in motion in '68, she'd thrive -
so alive, her poem the projectile in '55,
she challenged the Brooklyn Dodgers to win it --
published in The Times, the year they won the Pennant!
We exchanged a smile and formalities,
no conversational abnormalities, just talk --
of sports, writing, and other endeavors.
I'll never forget the time we spent together.
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Author Notes
Picture caption and credit: I, too, throw it: Marianne Moore tossing out the first ball, opening day at Yankee Stadium. Photo: Bob Olen, 1968. Marianne Moore Collection, Rosenbach Museum & Library, Philadelphia. (found in Google Public Domain)
Her style of poetry: Some is rhymed couplets such as, "Hometown Piece for Messrs. Alston and Reese." This was written for the 1955 Brooklyn Dodgers and published on the front page of the New York Times. This poem is found in The Complete Poems of Marianne Moore. Copyright �© 1961 Marianne Moore.
Her other poems I found to be more of a 'conversational free verse'. I will tease you with just the ending of her 1919 poem, simply titled, "Poetry," in hopes that you will be intrigued enough to go and read it for yourselves.
(excerpt courtesy of poets.org)
"In the meantime, if you demand on the one hand,
the raw material of poetry in
all its rawness and
that which is on the other hand
genuine, you are interested in poetry."
My "party" conversation with Marianne Moore constructed from my imagination, inspired by (and quoting) her poem, "Baseball and Writing," quotes by her and other facts I read in her biographies. (I spent a lot of time with her today, much to my pleasure.) My part of the "conversation" is in gold and hers is in blue. Consider the verses in black commentary and setting by myself, the author of this piece.
Interesting reading:
Baseball and Writing by Nancy Knutson The Iowa Review Vol. 17, No. 3 (Fall, 1987), pp. 164-166 Published by: University of Iowa http://www.jstor.org/stable/20156471
(courtesy of poets.org)
https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poet/marianne-moore (her biography is great!)
Baseball and Writing
Marianne Moore, 1887 - 1972
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(Suggested by post-game broadcasts)
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.
From The Complete Poems of Marianne Moore. Copyright �© 1961 Marianne Moore
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