"THESE NINE IN BUCKRAM THAT I TOLD THEE OF"
The impingement of those dare
trees, on me, alone. The sun
in the east, unseen (the false dawn)
will come up, & will awaken us.
But now, driving in the pre-dawn fog,
the trees, the trees, state-
ly & single, looming. Not a forest at
all, but trees: that dark one & that
tall one & that— flanking
me. Each among their
number: complacency, & egotism,
& one tall conifer with a blasted trunk:
selfishness, or self-indulgence. How
I cut myself down. My wife & my son
in back, asleep, & myself driving,
marching on me from the banks of the road,
a horde: firs, the ground fog
around their (needs) knees
SONG
O power of Spring enter their bodies!
O melter of snows, chipper
of glaciers, painter of leaves green
upon the trees, O March
ram that unlocks the flower, fuse
with that Arizona sun & stream
into their bodies like Vitamin D.
Push their legs faster round the bases,
blow on those balls, push them
out of the park.
Roseate their faces & open their eyes
to holes in the outfield, unlock
their wrists to place-hit into them.
Quicken their hands for the double play
& place into them that pennant
(a real one this time) & let them
bring it home to us again,
next fall, tho you'll be gone by then.
IT IS VERY DISTINCT AT THE BALLPARK
It's very distinct at the ballpark:
410 ft to the center field barrier
behind which sit some patrons, most
of the time. The patrons are
requested not to enter onto the playing
field at any time. But they do,
from time to time, some insurance clerk,
his blue shirt-tails flapping in the breeze,
runs, out of breath to where the center-fielder
is standing, taken by surprise at
first, then allows his hand to be
shaken. Then the cops get their
hands on the guy, & lead him off to some
dark fate. At other times the fans
in the stands get a souvenir, arguing, as they
were, a minute previous, among
themselves, putting money on the next
pitch at 8 to five, turning suddenly
and raising the hands to grab the home run
ball, still warm from the pitcher's
hand, & turning, as fluidly, to collect
his bet, adjusting his cap.
It's very distinct at the ballpark:
the players play ball, the umpires
arbitrate, the groundskeepers manicure
the grounds, watering the basepaths
with grave, sylph-like movements. They're all
regally ignor-
ant of the spectators, watching (among other
things) their actions, their efforts.
Their cheers, their jeers, fall on deaf
ears.
The young Dominican pitcher surveys his
outfield, vibrant green under the
lights: Este es mi parque.
The cheers of the patrons rain down on
his deaf ears.
At the ballpark it's all very distinct.
Acknowledgements: "It Is Very Distinct at the Ballpark" appeared in, L'AUTRE (BLACK SPARROW, 1967), then was reprinted in my "selected poems" volume, "MEAT AIR; POEMS 1957 - 1969" (Harcourt Brace, 1970). It also appeared as part of the sound track on one episode of the HBO TV series, "WHEN IT WAS A GAME,' 9 (HBO, 1999). Both "'These Nine in Buckram That I Told Thee of"' and "Song" were published in Synapse 4 (Berkeley, 1965).
