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Excuse me, but
Garrison Keillor has gone around the bend.
I mean, really.
The poem he read on Writer's Almanac this morning is a clear sign to me of not only that, but that the entire poetry community has lost its collective mind. Or never had one.
I mean, really.
When I heard him announce the title of the poem he was going to read, in the 6:30 haze of pre-dawn twilight and just-awake haze, I thought "surely I didn't hear him right."
Oh, I did. "The Retarded Children Play Baseball" by Wesley McNair
I mean, really:
The Retarded Children Play Baseball
Never mind the coaches who try
to teach them the game,
and think of the pleasure
of the large-faced boy
on second who raises hand and glove
straight up making the precise
shape of a ball, even though
the ball's now over
the outfield. And think of the left
and right fielders going deeper
just to watch its roundness
materialize out of the sky
and drop at their feet. Both teams
are so in love with this moment
when the bat makes the ball jump
or fly that when it happens
everybody shouts, and the girl
with slanted eyes on first base
leaps off to let the batter by.
Forget the coaches shouting back
about the way the game is played
and consider the game
they're already playing, or playing
perhaps elsewhere on some other field,
like the shortstop, who stands transfixed
all through the action, staring
at what appears to be nothing.
When he said the name of the poem again at the end, I shouted from bed in the dark "ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!" (Which rather startled my companion, who, after I brought it up again a half hour later, suggested I let it go.)
I mean, really.
I mean, really.
The poem he read on Writer's Almanac this morning is a clear sign to me of not only that, but that the entire poetry community has lost its collective mind. Or never had one.
I mean, really.
When I heard him announce the title of the poem he was going to read, in the 6:30 haze of pre-dawn twilight and just-awake haze, I thought "surely I didn't hear him right."
Oh, I did. "The Retarded Children Play Baseball" by Wesley McNair
I mean, really:
The Retarded Children Play Baseball
Never mind the coaches who try
to teach them the game,
and think of the pleasure
of the large-faced boy
on second who raises hand and glove
straight up making the precise
shape of a ball, even though
the ball's now over
the outfield. And think of the left
and right fielders going deeper
just to watch its roundness
materialize out of the sky
and drop at their feet. Both teams
are so in love with this moment
when the bat makes the ball jump
or fly that when it happens
everybody shouts, and the girl
with slanted eyes on first base
leaps off to let the batter by.
Forget the coaches shouting back
about the way the game is played
and consider the game
they're already playing, or playing
perhaps elsewhere on some other field,
like the shortstop, who stands transfixed
all through the action, staring
at what appears to be nothing.
When he said the name of the poem again at the end, I shouted from bed in the dark "ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!" (Which rather startled my companion, who, after I brought it up again a half hour later, suggested I let it go.)
I mean, really.
no subject
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the quotable moose? *cry*
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