Reviving the Art of Baseball Doggerel
In honor of Emily Dickinson, 1830-1886. In 1887, the first Negro League was formed.
Tell all the stats but tell them slant —
Success in the baseball Circuit lies
Too bright for our unconscious bias
The Truth’s superb surprise is
Like a ball hit lightening quick
With Josh Gibson atop
Ty Cobb’s dazzling batting record
Or every fan be blind —
Chaupai (quatrain) poetry celebrating Mangla and Rajesh’s 40th anniversary on Earth Day, April 22, 2024.
My children’s mother loves all four of them dearly, holds them closely,
Just as Mother Earth loves her seasons: Winter, Spring, Summer, and Fall.
As a fan, she loves all sports: Big Four, Olympics, and kabaddi;
As a teacher, she loves all students: quiet, chatty, short, and tall.
Holding my breath, I ask Mother Earth if there is a favorite.
She holds my head in her hands and shakes it like a Raggedy Ann.
“How can I choose one over the other; a child is not a chit.”
I reply, “My Queen, not our kids, but sports. Does one claim you its fan?”
She sighs. “It cannot be football, for it is violent and vile.
How can I root for players whose handsome faces I cannot see?
No, Fall’s game that blitzes and throws bombs and bullets raises my bile.
Chronic Traumatic Encephalopathy is too high a fee.”
She freezes. “It is not hockey, for it neglects too many shades.
How can such a lovely sport be so limited in its pigment?
While it’s scintillating when pucks spring off of slap shots from curved blades,
I look around the ice, and skins brown and black are but a figment.”
She smiles. “It could be basketball; just see the boys and girls in shorts.
To be sure, there is so much beauty in this game of balls and nets.
Still, there is something unforgiving about wood and concrete courts.
To defend against Tex Winter’s Triangle Offense, one plays chess.”
She glows. “I should not choose between my offspring, for they all bring joy.
But it is baseball. It is baseball. Yes, it is our dear baseball.
After Winter’s snow melts, on grassy fields bats and balls we deploy.
A game for all ages and seasons, from Spring to Summer to Fall.”
He arrived to throes
of joyous anticipation.
Say it ain’t Sho…
He went on to meet
About ev’ry expectation.
Just say no, Sho…
Discussed everywhere:
an awful new revelation.
Say it ain’t Sho…
The baseball world torn,
with the Cooperstown bronze dulling.
Say it ain’t Sho…
He pitches! Hits! Bets?
Despite first throes, the bloom is off
… Ohtani’s Rose.
In memory of Louise Glück, 1943-2023, winner of the 2020 Nobel Prize in Literature
When Louise was a young-adult,
The Orioles were high-flying.
Dave, Jim, and Mike were 20-game winners;
Brooks, Davey, and Paul were Gold-Glovers;
Boog and Frank slugged homers to grateful fans;
Earl shoved dirt on umpires’ cleats.
Days before Louise died,
The Orange Birds were swept.
Balty fans wept salty tears of sadness:
“We were made fools of.
And the scent of mock orange
drifts through the window.
How can I rest?
How can I be content
when there is still
that odor in the world?”
(Referencing Glück’s “Mock Orange”)
In memory of Louise Glück, 1943-2023, winner of the 2020 Nobel Prize in Literature
When Louise was born,
The Dodgers were in Brooklyn.
Before Jackie, a name for the ages,
There were other colorful monikers:
Arky, Augie, and Billy;
Dixie, Mickey, and Frenchy.
This was more than a decade before
Campy, Jackie, Pee Wee, and Sandy
Won the World Series.
This was decades before
Clayton’s Los Azure dreams
Died with Louise’s laments into oblivion,
A pain salved with rebirth in Spring:
“You who do not remember
passage from the other world
I tell you I could speak again: whatever
returns from oblivion returns
to find a voice:
from the center of my life came
a great fountain, deep blue
shadows on azure sea water.”
(Referencing Glück’s “Wild Iris”)