Athlete Poets

August 6, 2018

“Decorating a Cake While Listening to Tennis” by Peg DuthiePosted by

Peg Duthie

DECORATING A CAKE WHILE LISTENING TO TENNIS

The commentator’s rabbiting on and on
about how it’s so easy for Roger, resentment
thick as butter still in a box. Yet word
from those who’ve done their homework
is how the man loves to train—how much
he relishes putting in the hours
just as magicians shuffle card after card,
countless to mere humans
but carefully all accounted for.
At hearing “luck” again, I stop
until my hands relax their clutch
on the cone from which a dozen more
peonies are to materialize. I make it look easy
to grow a garden on top of a sheet
of fondant, and that’s how it should appear:
as natural and as meant-to-be
as the spin of a ball from the sweetest spot
of a racquet whisked through the air like a wand.

—from Rattle #60, Summer 2018
Tribute to Athlete Poets

__________

Peg Duthie: “In high school, I reached the state cross-country meet; my trophies share a shelf with my Jane Austen action figure and my Loch Ness Monster caddy. These days I prefer to be on or in water, primarily as a paddleboarder; I’ve also covered tournaments for Tennis Buzz, and I spend more time on horse handicapping and fantasy tennis than I care to reckon up. As an introvert, I’m grateful to sports for opening conversational windows: being able to chat about gear, games, and moves has carried me through coffee breaks, lunch hours, cocktail parties, and business flights. And through those windows come both air and weight, which both clarify and complicate what I can write about.” (web)

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August 3, 2018

“Little Pretty Things” by Stephen DunnPosted by

Stephen Dunn

LITTLE PRETTY THINGS

As insects go, lacewings seem to have nothing to catapult
them into significance, most of the time just showing off
for the centipedes and sawflies. I imagine they envy
wasps their ability to make a house for themselves,
and boll-weevils their cottony usefulness. It seems
lacewings have nothing to do but be beautiful,
and so are dangerous. I’ve known a few
of their human counterparts, and have been fooled
by their slender bodies, the golden alertness
of their eyes, and for a while have forgiven a meanness,
even a cruelty, at their core.
Lacewings suck the bodily fluids
of aphids and other soft bodied creatures,
and devour their unhatched eggs. I suppose cruelty
has an evolutionary purpose, but whatever it is
I’ve learned to be wary of little pretty things
that exhibit it.
I can see some perverse nobility
in the Asian Tiger mosquito that needs nothing
more than a dab of blood from a few of us
before it lays itself down to die. And the behavior
of the Praying Mantis after sex has become part
of the inhuman comedy. I hear that in some cultures
lacewings are called stinkflies because of an odor
they emit to deter enemies. I don’t know who
or what these enemies are, but I hope enough exist
to save this world from creatures that stink and murder
and look graceful, gorgeous even, in the doing.

—from Rattle #60, Summer 2018
Tribute to Athlete Poets

__________

Stephen Dunn: “The poetry that ends up mattering speaks to things we half-know but are inarticulate about. It gives us language and the music of language for what we didn’t know we knew. So a combination of insight and beauty. I also liken the writing of it to basketball—you discover that you can be better than yourself for a little while. If you’re writing a good poem, it means you’re discovering things that you didn’t know you knew. In basketball, if you’re hitting your shots, you feel in the realm of the magical.” (web)

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August 1, 2018

“Magicker” by T.J. DiFrancescoPosted by

T.J. DiFrancesco

MAGICKER

Pulling a rabbit
out of a hat
out of a hat.

—from Rattle #60, Summer 2018
Tribute to Athlete Poets

__________

T.J. DiFrancesco: “I never planned for a future. Instead, I took thousands of swings a week. Dissected tapes. Ran drills. Studied the art of meditation and the art of war to try to get a mental edge. After blowing out a knee, I learned the secret is that you can’t plan for the future. You need to be dedicated to the moment. You need to read the slider out of the pitcher’s hand, the spiral of its seams making a red dot in the center of the ball. You focus on the violent moment of impact, then you run. My poems are about the violence of the moment and about the rededication and redemption one can find in spoiled dreams.”

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July 30, 2018

“Gimmie Shelter” by Erinn BatykeferPosted by

Erinn Batykefer

GIMMIE SHELTER

It was not the first time my mother threw me out
of the house and cranked the stereo
till the screen door rattled and you could hear the music
down the street. It was June 17th. Scorching.
I was seven and knew how to stay gone—
there was a storm drain at the end of the street
where I’d sit in the silt, dig my fingers
into the warm black tar around the grate and wait
for the music to subside. I expected the Beatles.
But the sound that poured from the windows
was a slow burn samba, the slither of doubled guitar,
and the serrated scrape of a guiro. The storm drain
caught the sound, and it echoed in my chest.
Twenty-five years before, my mother did her hair
in tin can curls and hopped the streetcar
to Westview Danceland where the unknown Stones
covered Buddy Holly and the blues.
Her father was alive then. She wore green jeans
for spite because he’d forbidden blue. I know that now.
I know Danceland burned to the ground and I know
the man who turned up on our porch that day
before my mother threw me out was the love of her life,
that the look he gave me before she turned him away
was the look of a man seeing his own grave.
But at the storm drain, I only knew that the crack
in Merry Clayton’s voice as she screamed rape, murder
was the sound of all my unnamed fury
and the low drone of Keef’s open tuning
was the dread that hung like a coat in my ribcage,
and, oh, children, I knew my mad bull mother
and I sometimes felt the same things,
Let it Bleed played loud enough
to make your ears ring.

—from Rattle #60, Summer 2018
Tribute to Athlete Poets

__________

Erinn Batykefer: “There’s something intimate about the physical work of being an athlete, particularly when your sport is rowing. You develop a deep, inarticulate knowledge about your boatmates, their bodies, their motivation, their pain and the way they bear it. The way they breathe, the way they cant their head when they get tired. The way your body compensates for their movements in order to maintain the perfect balance of the boat, and the meditative effect of focusing on a single stroke over and over, in perfect synch with the body in front of you, and the body behind, and thereby the boat. I write in the rhythm of rowing, with the sense that my drive to create, like my body in the boat, is the animal engine of a larger machine. Each vision I have for a poem hinges on the lever of language and tone, image and emotion, and it is not pried into motion alone. I write as I move, as my boatmates move, for my body and the vision are the same.” (web)

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July 27, 2018

“Midnight Lazaruses” by Chaun BallardPosted by

Chaun Ballard

MIDNIGHT LAZARUSES

we were married
to

concrete:
playgrounds, blacktops

where seven days,
nights

a ball would drop
and like that

bodies would complete
shadows

and a game would be
found

—from Rattle #60, Summer 2018
Tribute to Athlete Poets

__________

Chaun Ballard: “Basketball broadened my world, my experiences. Because of it, I had the opportunity to attend university as the first child in my immediate family. Basketball protected me from the streets, in a city that often swallowed its young. There was a time when I thought reaching the age of 25 was an accomplishment. Today, I know it is. I am 37 now—I like to believe I write for the gone: those who live on through us, and for those voices who go on unheard.” (web)

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July 25, 2018

“What Are You Doing Now?” by Elison AlcovendazPosted by

Elison Alcovendaz

WHAT ARE YOU DOING NOW?

Where did you play college ball
he asks with the voice
of someone you once knew
back in high school
where you were the star
athlete, and he was someone else.
I didn’t, you should say,
but he’s standing there waiting
for your co-worker to bring up his car
in his tailored suit taller
than should be possible
he was such a nobody before,
from what you remember.
UCLA, you say, injury
you know, feigning
a grimace and a tender leg
while you cover the hole
in your sleeve with your hand.
He nods the way they always nod,
slow and sure,
lips pursed as though swallowing
the words he wanted to say
back then.
Then he asks the question
and for some reason
maybe the shine of his watch
or the shine of his shoes
you can’t remember the usual story
and instead hear the crowd
chanting his name
and the gold being laid
around his neck.
He didn’t mean to do this,
you understand.
You understand
there is always
something to lose,
and so you smile
nod
apologize
and ask
what was your name again?

—from Rattle #60, Summer 2018
Tribute to Athlete Poets

__________

Elison Alcovendaz: “‘You’ll be the first Filipino in the NBA,’ people wrote in my yearbook. At eighteen, I was offered a spot on a pro basketball team that I stupidly turned down. Now, I’m almost 40 with nothing to show for my basketball skills other than a torn achilles and boxes filled with trophies I can’t, for some reason, get rid of. This is a poem about conversations I have with people who knew me from my basketball playing days.” (web)

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July 23, 2018

“No Name” by James AdamsPosted by

James Adams

NO NAME

He had a huge rep
an enormous clay court game
wicked topspin off both wings
and a big, big name—

his entourage clucked Spanish at him
in arrogant homage,

drip-breasted groupies
with their dark mascara smiling
at me during the brief warmup
with crocodile teeth
and dark-rouge
reptile cheeks.

His sponsor reps had popped
into town to snap pictures of him
wearing the latest, smiling
like the greatest, while
dismantling the first round
American No Name.

In warmup his strokes twisted my racquet
butting it against my hand and fingers—
heavy, sopping shots that promised
blisters before the second set
as the ball nap whizzed the air
dipping hornets, fizzing explosive
spin into my palm.

It was hard not to watch him stroke
he was that beautiful
the perfect brown skin,
the heavy gold chain, cross, earring,
Baryshnikov footwork, smooth
glide and anticipation.
Off to the side I saw the coach
casually pointing to the next round
opponent on the draw board.

Nobody stood holding towels for me
nobody sat in my stands
my German sports-oil sponsor
had said clothing patches were not
in the budget

the Italian shoe company had gone
out of business when their sole adhesive
melted in American hardcourt heat.

My Le Coq outfit was one I had won
in lieu of prize money—

“Time,” the official called
as people settled in with drinks and cellphones
on the far side of the court.

He looked through me,
cocking his head to the chief moll
who continued her knowing
smile at him to me
with a Jezebelled hook.

I can’t account for what happened

we were on my favorite surface
slick, low bounce indoor composite

but that couldn’t explain it:
I boomed every serve in the corners
his vicious returns were feathered

into sharp, angled cross court
drop volley winners,
nothing he could do

one-two-three
the first game at love in four minutes
I ripped all his serves on the lines
15 minutes more and
I was up 5-0.

He screamed to Barcelonic heaven
he threw yellow fluorescent
balls into the overhead lights
he cursed the Castillian tennis gods
shaking his head and fists
at the air, at the ground, at me

he stumbled to retrieve my cut slice
off-balance winners
looking foolish
each time I wrong-footed him
then turned to shrug sheepishly
at his coach, whose cigarette
had turned to ash on his lips

the reps had stood cameraless
but sat in shock
their drinks half full

I never felt emotion, no nerves
both knees dripping blood
from textbook low volleys
I was numb perfect
moving like a harrier, falcon jet
fast and bullet proof, I never missed
it was over like electricity

the girls kleenex’d their mascara

—as I packed my courtbag
and walked off
by myself to shower.

—from Rattle #60, Summer 2018
Tribute to Athlete Poets

__________

James Adams: “I grew up playing America’s top two sports: football and baseball. I always wanted to play in the NFL or MLB. When that didn’t work out, I started playing tennis seriously. Eventually, I became a member of the U.S. Professional Tennis Association, and got to play all over the U.S. and overseas. The all-encompassing tennis training discipline of mind, body, will, and spirit gave (and still gives) me the power to better concentrate on a page of poetry. Much of winning tennis is about mind over matter, in the face of tremendous adversity. Writing poems is the same challenge.”

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