by Pseud à Nîmes
New York, London, Paris, Munich
Everybody talk about, mmm….
Pop music, aye, and news and sport
But to Bardball blast, we must retort
From the bleachers, and godly seats
Loving testimonies – and testy tweets
Au contraire, in Europe there is but little
Interest – like our economy, entirely brittle
In our excitement, we do refrain
From all small talk of one Ferris Fain
Unknown to us, across the Golden Pond
In our view, his sport just a frond
Of the nascent game we called rounders
Those damn Yankees – cads and bounders!
by Ember Nickel
Was that Tony La Russa after all?
The glasses look right. I don’t know the eyes.
Was that a slider? Changeup? Or curveball?
Perhaps this would be a good place for wise
They keep silent, cutaway to the same
Fan–wedding ring, hair dyed, breath quick to bate–
That they have been showing throughout the game.
Give me the details that I could not hear;
The red glove, the necklace striped blue and white.
We all are fans and we can all guess fear,
We know what is at stake on such a night.
And beyond night, I’ll try myself to share
The game with others–it’s morning out there.
Ember Nickel makes sport with the English language on her blog, Lipogram! Scorecard!
by Estrid Balslev
I felt: A bee was swarming in my bonnet!
A voice said, “You’re a bard, so you must write
A real poem, full of spunk and bite.
In other words, you have to write a sonnet.”
“And what about?” I asked the eerie voice.
“On baseball,” was his firm and clear reply.
“Excuse me that I have to ask you why,”
I answered, but he said I had no choice.
“Of baseball I know less than does my cat,”
I said to him. “Come, let us have a chat
On other things that I might write about.”
He told me I had better close my snout
And just get going. Curse him! All the same,
I’m sure that baseball is a splendid game.
Estrid Balslev is a poet and performance artist from Denmark.
By Ember Nickel
There’s more than clocks that must be cleaned in spring:
Some clocks were cleaned, but we don’t need them here.
There’s new faces to meet, all who will bring
Something different to their team for this year.
So say hello to Halladay. Don’t say
That Placido need be placid, though. Greet
Greenhorns around the leagues. Proudly call “hey”
To Justin Heyward and each star you meet.
Try your best to keep up with Garrett Jones.
Welcome back Marcum. Spring’s glories fade fast
So soak it all in before it all drones
Into no more than murmurs of the past.
Learn more of phenoms that you may have heard
Just briefly of. Say hi. Welcome a Byrd.
by Todd Herges
Harry Caray, a cup ‘o Bud and thou:
A day-game audience tuned to Channel 9.
With Stone up in the booth to keep it sane,
Up to the plate steps Galarraga now.
The bums in left all crowd around The Man,
Girls topped in bikinis fight to kiss his cheek.
Harry would like to do this every week
But risks abound: beer vendors in the stands.
(He can’t quite hold it like he did in youth.)
Late in the game, while drinking his last pitcher -
Though bleacher visits each time thrill the crowd -
Steve must correct his mis-call from the booth:
“Um, Harry, that was thrown from the catcher.
The Big Cat, Galarraga, just struck out.”