The BlueIris Semi-Nightly Poetry Break, 8/1/08 (by request: Stephen King)

[BlueIris]

"Brooklyn August"

(For Jim Bishop)

In Ebbets Field the crabgrass grows
              (where Alston managed)
              row on row
              as the day's axel turns into twilight
              I still see them, with the green smell
              of just-mown infield grass heavy
              in the darkening end of day:
              picked out by the rightfield floods, just
              turned on and already assaulted by
              battalions of circulating moths
              and bugs on the night shift;
              below, old men and offduty taxi drivers
              are drinking big cups of Schlitz in the 75¢ seats,
              this Flatbrush as real as velvet Harlem streets
              where Jive packs this jukes in this June of '56.
In Ebbets Field the infield's slow
and seats are empty, row on row
              Hodges is hulked over first, glove stretched
              to touch the throw from Robinson at third,
              the batters boxes float in the ghost-glow
              of this sky-filled Friday evening
              (Musial homered early, Flatbrush is down by 2).
              Newcombe trudged to an early shower through
              a shower of popcorn and newspaper headlines.
              Carl Earskine is in now and chucking hard but
              Johnny Podres and Clem Levine are heating
              in case he blows up late;
              he can, you know, they all can
In Ebbets Field they come and go
and play their innings, blow by blow
              time's called in the dimness of the 5th
              someone chucked a beer at Sandy Amoros at right
              he spears the empty cup without a word
              and hands it to a groundskeeper chewing Mail Pouch
              while the faceless fans cry down juicy Brooklyn vowels,
              a plague on both their houses.
              Pee Wee Reese leans on his knees west of second
              Campanella gives the sign
              with my eyes closed I see it all
              smell steamed franks and 8 pm dirt
              can see those heavenly shades of evening
              they swim with angels above the stadium dish
              as Erskine winds and wheels and throws low-inside:

—Stephen King

[Westegg]

1. Not much of an S.K. fan, but this ball is hit hard...

...and over the fence. Well done. Brought back memories I don't even have, as it was before my time and I'm not from NYC. But I live here now, and have come to appreciate the meaning and importance of baseball, and of Ebbetts Field, in my adopted city.

[BlueIris]

4. It is good, isn't it?

Why on earth has King not published his poetry??

[CaliforniaPeggy]

2. My dear BlueIris!

What a cool riff on that famous WWII poem! Or was it WWI?

This is lovely...

I didn't know Stephen King wrote poetry!

Thank you...

:hi:

[BlueIris]

5. "In Flanders Field"? WWI. nt

[CaliforniaPeggy]

7. That's the one!

This poem has the same rhythm...

:hi:

[BlueIris]

8. Kicking it, in case Sugar Smack hasn't found it yet. nt

[Mad_Dem_X]

3. SK is awesome

He writes some excellent poems.

[BlueIris]

6. This is the last one I could find under his name.

I put up the other two last fall.

I'm trying to dig around, but don't think I'm going to have much luck.

[BlueIris]

9. Kick.

For those big SK fans who missed it yesterday.