"unblinding" poems
Of Baseball, Poetry and the Human Condition
~~
From “The Art of Fielding.” by Chad Harbach
"You loved it,” he writes of the game (baseball), “because you considered it an art: an apparently pointless affair, undertaken by people with a special aptitude, which sidestepped attempts to paraphrase its value yet somehow seemed to communicate something true or even crucial about the Human Condition.
The Human Condition being, basically, that we’re alive and have access to beauty, can even erratically create it, but will someday be dead and will not."
~~
and thus, the circling noose grows ever small,
binding the obvious and unblinding the oblivious
more than the mere, poetry in baseball, for both forms of art,
knowledge intuited from watching the catcher's body weave
this way and that, a dancer en pointe, arms raised in worship,
addressing the heavens with a body's broad brush strokes,
all to catch with concentrated skill, a lazy, towering popup,
climaxing oft with an exclamation point -
a perilous desperation leap
into the dugout encampment of the inimical opposition
yeah, yeah, sure, sure,
you knew that,
tho daring to verbalize same,
before the age of thirty,
presumed maturity,
was not an act of the sane of heart,
or the sound of mind with body melded
what you dared not admit was that the conditional principle,
was primal and not tangential, though perhaps,
some itinerant fathers foolishly mumbled incoherently
of life's linkages and motifs parallel
of
that desperate beauty, the ferric magnetic irony,
that our full access pass to envisioning the finery,
imaging the stuff of our own daily creation genesis,
whether concocting undisciplined disassembled parts,
called words,
into a singular line, a stanza that froze your lungs from
the boredom of the regularity of heaving and breathing,
was in no way different
than the curvature of the boy's arm
in desperation outstretched, seeking spectacular safety for
a well hit ball of cork into a worn leather mitten and thus
confirming his humanity to the watching tribal membership
and these momentary moments of momentousness,
will live forever until we die, judged of equal stature,
a soldiers stripes, ribbons of his theaters of service,
medals of the honor and the errors of his own
truthful, youthful and crucial
human condition
Apr 21, 2017
Apr 21, 2017 at 4:57 PM UTC
You say you love me
Just not my choice
What I hear is
your ignorance
What I hear is
I love you,
all of you
Except the parts
I do not want to love
Except the parts
I refuse to acknowledge because
they do not fit my frame
of reality
Do you not see the importance
of this part of me?
I would not choose
a life of supposed immorality
contrary to a lifetime
of beliefs
causing turmoil and
inflicting pain on
the ones I love
I would not choose
this confliction of
body and mind
residing in a life
of constant discomfort
And yet
here I am
I endure the pain
of you rejecting
who I really am
of judgment cast
by churched minds
of sympathetic looks
saying Oh you poor,
lost soul
You poor, ignorant soul
You are blinded
by your unblinding truth
Refusing to accept
things that may fall
outside your preconceived box
structured by misinterpreted men
two thousand years ago
You can only see
through the cracks
of the wooden slats
A view not wide enough
to see the disentanglement
sgdexenre
s d xer
g en e
of ***
and gender
A view not wide enough
to see that a person
is not determined solely
by their given body
because bodies are temples
and temples need to be built
Temples need to be whole
inside and out
Temples need to be refined
after they are first built
Cut out rotting timber
Fortify with stronger rock
and carve on the outside
a reflection of the beauty
lying within
Aug 2, 2013
Aug 2, 2013 at 1:22 AM UTC
I am getting ready for the calm.
relief from the rampant and unwavering thoughts that **** my mind.
self doubt clinging to my awakening like an incurable disease.
I am getting ready for the artificial happiness to relent
surrcome to unforced laughter and genuine smiles.
I am getting ready for desire
locked in the cellar of my shame
along with so many other things
I am getting ready for hope
the warmth of it washing over me
engulfing, cleansing
bringing with it the unblinding sunlight
I am getting ready for you
my Beloved
Feb 2, 2014
Feb 2, 2014 at 7:56 PM UTC
Of Baseball, Poetry and the Human Condition
~~
From “The Art of Fielding.” by Chad Harbach**
***"You loved it,” he writes of the game (baseball), “because you considered it an art: an apparently pointless affair, undertaken by people with a special aptitude, which sidestepped attempts to paraphrase its value yet somehow seemed to communicate something true or even crucial about the Human Condition.
The Human Condition being, basically, that we’re alive and have access to beauty, can even erratically create it, but will someday be dead and will not."**
~~
thus, the circle grows ever small,
binding the obvious and unblinding the oblivious
more than the mere, poetry in baseball, for both forms of art,
knowledge intuited from watching the catcher's body weave
this way and that, a dancer en pointe, arms raised in worship,
addressing the heavens with a body's broad brush strokes,
all to catch with concentrated skill, a lazy, towering popup,
climaxing oft with an exclamation point
a perilous desperation leap
into the dugout encampment of the inimical opposition
yeah, you knew that,
tho verbalizing same,
before the age of thirty,
presumed maturity,
was not an act of the sane of heart,
or the sound of mind and body melded
what you dared not admit was that the conditional principle,
was primal and not tangential, though perhaps,
some itinerant fathers foolishly mumbled incoherently
of a life linkage parallel motifs
of
that desperate beauty, the ferric magnetic irony,
that our full access pass to envisioning the finery,
imaging the stuff of our own daily creation genesis,
whether concocting undisciplined disassembled parts, words,
into a line, a stanza that froze your lungs from
the boredom of the regularity of heaving and breathing,
was in no way different
than the curvature of the boy's arm
in desperation outstretched, seeking spectacular safety for
a well hit ball of cork into a worn leather mitten and thus
confirming his humanity to the watching tribal membership
and these momentary moments of momentousness,
will live forever until we die, judged of equal stature,
a soldiers stripes, ribbons of his theaters of service,
medals of the honor and the errors of his own
human condition
Apr 21, 2017
Apr 21, 2017 at 5:02 PM UTC
Let Us Move On
Turn off the sun
As blinding rays penetrates our gaze
In its wake we are fire, let us move on
It's a high sum but we won't be fazed
Stepping stones filled with fires
In the midst of the heat we are awesome
Fired we are wired to push past earthly desires
Flames burning our souls we ransom
Let us move on, never taking shade we are lost in a phantom maze
The past leads to hades
Secret tunnels envelops us our heads remain raised
As the sunlight fades
Into darkness the midnight wind grips
It suffocates our senses as morale drops deep
Darkness whips our heart it rips
Open wounds the road is narrow the fall is steep
Let us move on, into the city unrelenting in the midst of the storm
Locked out in the face of the shadows there we go
unblinding gaze we shout out for the son
Let us march on and bring down the gates like the walls of Jericho
For the swift is not fit for the race
Current under our wings this is our testimony
Flourishing as palm trees by the river side tis our grace
We have made our way and it is filled with milk and honey
Mar 17, 2017
Mar 17, 2017 at 4:38 PM UTC