Showing posts with label Donald Hall. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Donald Hall. Show all posts

Monday, April 6, 2009

Donald Hall, Baseball

Donald Hall begins his poem "Extra Innings" this way: "My friend David tells me that Jasper Johns/ never takes his advice, so when David/ suggests "Extra Innings," K.C. picks up/ a bat. Last April the Boston Red Sox/ beat Toronto opening day, then lost/ three straight. At least, Kurt, the season started,/ and even losing three out of four is/ preferable to off-season--as life/ despite its generic unpleasantness/ appears under almost all conditions."

Hall is a New Englander, and a lifelong Red Sox fan. "Extra Innings" appears in his book The Museum of Clear Ideas, a very fine collection that includes, in addition to "Extra Innings," a sequence of baseball poems: The First Inning, The Second Inning, The Third, etc.

To celebrate the start of baseball's regular season AND National Poetry Month, I thought I'd post on this book. See how he discusses baseball and poetry (the crafting of language):

Who can say what his or her work is?
I write out these tentative verses
--K.C. at the Desk, Mudville at bat,
last of the ninth--working in the dark
morning while a cat climbs on my lap
nibbling at pen and paper. For sure,
my pleasure is an habitual
recreational tapping at blocks
of the language, absentmindedly

Or later, life itself:

The bodies of major league baseball
players are young. We age past the field
so quickly; we diminish, watching
over decades, observing the young
as they dodder.

What I find so magical about the poems in The Museum of Clear ideas is how langauge is crafted from the hard block of mythic baseball. That is, baseball serves as a metaphor--a very apt one, in my estimation--for the passing of time.

I am no poet. I read poetry, sadly, sparingly--and it's been a couple years since I read this book. But a glance through its pages reminds me of just how much the book spoke to me. You don't have to be a baseball fan to appreciate the magnitude of Donald Hall's gifts as a poet. His is a sharp tool that taps smartly at "the blocks of the language."

Nothing I write here, especially this late in the day, could do the work justice.