Garc

[bennmorland.livejournal.com]

A member of the community requested sports poems. I think this could, conceivably, qualify. It is a lament for a famous bullfighter who was gored by a bull during a fight in Spain not very long before that country's civil war.

Lament for Ignacio Sánchez Mejías

Federico García Lorca (1898/06/05—1936/08/19: b. Fuente Vaqueros, Granada, Spain; d. somewhere near Alfacar, Granada, Spain)

Translated from the Spanish by A. S. Kline

 

1. The Goring and the Death

 

At five in the afternoon.

It was just five in the afternoon.

A boy brought the white sheet

at five in the afternoon.

A basket of lime made ready

at five in the afternoon.

The rest was death and only death

at five in the afternoon.

 

( The wind blew the cotton wool away )

"Asking for More" by Sarah Manguso

[bohemiachiquita.livejournal.com]

Asking for More

I am not asking to suffer less.
I hope to be nearly crucified.
To live because I don’t want to.

That hope, that sweet agent—
My best work is its work.
The horse I ride into Hell is my best horse
And bears its name.
So, friends, drink your cocktails and wear your hats.
Thank you for leaving me this whole world to go mad in.

I am not asking for mercy. I am asking for more.
I don’t mind when no mercy comes
Or when it comes in the form of my mad self
Running at me. I am not asking for mercy.

Sarah Manguso

requesting sports poems

[lonelybusiness.livejournal.com]

I'm keen on finding poems that talk about sports other than "Casey at the Bat," one that's full of action and imagery. Specifically pertaining to baseball and football (soccer) but any other sport is fine with me.

Using sports as a metaphor for something else would also be fantastic. Thanks for the help!

One Sports Poem

[harpseals.livejournal.com]

A. E. Housman. 1859–

32. To An Athlete Dying Young

THE time you won your town the race
We chaired you through the market-place;
Man and boy stood cheering by,
And home we brought you shoulder-high.

To-day, the road all runners come, 5
Shoulder-high we bring you home,
And set you at your threshold down,
Townsman of a stiller town.

Smart lad, to slip betimes away
From fields where glory does not stay, 10
And early though the laurel grows
It withers quicker than the rose.

Eyes the shady night has shut
Cannot see the record cut,
And silence sounds no worse than cheers 15
After earth has stopped the ears:

Now you will not swell the rout
Of lads that wore their honours out,
Runners whom renown outran
And the name died before the man. 20

So set, before its echoes fade,
The fleet foot on the sill of shade,
And hold to the low lintel up
The still-defended challenge-cup.

And round that early-laurelled head 25
Will flock to gaze the strengthless dead,
And find unwithered on its curls
The garland briefer than a girl's.