THE LINEUPS

NL

Philadelphia Poe 1. Gilmore Simms rf, 2. Charles Brockden Brown ss, 3. Baudelaire 2b, 4. Byron 1b, 5. Thomas Moore c, 6. Dostoevsky 3b, 7. Virginia Poe cf, 8. Fanny Osgood lf, 9. Alexander Pope p

New York Bryants 1. William Cowper 2b, 2. Oliver Goldsmith cf, 3. Homer c, 4. Thomas Cole lf, 5. James Fenimore Cooper ss, 6. Fitz-Greene Halleck 3b, 7. Asher Brown Durand rf, 8. Charles Sprague 1b, 9. Lincoln p

Hartford Whittiers 1. Paul Laurence Dunbar ss, 2. Langston Hughes cf, 3. Charles Dickens 3b, 4. Harriet Beecher Stowe rf, 5. Daniel Webster 2b, 6. George Ripley c, 7. Henry Ward Beecher lf, 8. Frederick Douglas 1b, 9. William Lloyd Garrison p

Cambridge Longfellows  1. Washington Irving cf, 2. Richard Henry Dana lf, 3. Dante rf, 4. Michelangelo ss, 5. Goethe 1b, 6. Alessandro Manzoni 3b, 7. Queen Victoria c, 8. Fanny Appleton 2b, 9. Horace p

Boston Lowells 1. Elizabeth Barrett 2b, 2. Robert Browning ss, 3. Mark Twain lf, 4. Nathaniel Hawthorne c, 5. Henry James rf, 6.  Chaucer 1b, 7. John Pierpont cf, 8. Maria White 3b, 9. Leigh Hunt p

Concord Emersons 1. Thomas Carlyle 2b, 2. Seneca 3b, 3. Swedenborg c, 4. Thoreau lf, 5. Jones Very cf, 6. Margaret Fuller ss, 7. William Ellery Channing rf, 8. William Dean Howells 1b, 9. William James, p

Brooklyn Ashberys 1. Frank O’ Hara ss, 2. Kenneth Koch 2b, 3, W.H. Auden 1b, 4. William De Kooning rf, 5. Gertrude Stein c, 6. James Tate 3b, 7. James Schuyler lf, 8. Larry Rivers cf, 9. Andy Warhol p

New Jersey Ginsbergs  1. Gregory Corso rf, 2. Jack Kerouac cf, 3. Charles Bukowski 1b, 4. William Blake 3b, 5. Bob Dylan lf, 6. Amiri Baraka ss, 7. Sharon Olds c, 8. Gerald Stern 2b, 9. William Burroughs, p

Tennessee Ransoms  1. Robert Lowell cf, 2. John Gould Fletcher ss,  3. Allen Tate c, 4. Robert Graves lf, 5. Donald Davidson rf, 6. Merrill Moore 2b, 7. Andrew Nelson Lytle 3b, 8. William Ridley Wills 1b, 9. Cleanth Brooks p

Maine Millays 1. George Dillon 2b, 2. Floyd Dell ss, 3. Sappho rf, 4. Shakespeare cf, 5. Euclid 1b, 6. John Reed 3b, 7. John Peale Bishop c, 8. Dorothy Parker lf, 9. Edmund Wilson p

AL

Brooklyn Whitmans 1. D.H. Lawrence ss, 2. Bronson Alcott cf, 3. Rimbaud rf, 4. Robinson Jeffers 1b, 5. William Rossetti c, 6. Edgar Lee Masters 2b, 7. Lawrence Ferlinghetti 3b, 8. Bram Stoker lf, 9. Oscar Wilde p

New England Frost  1. Edward Thomas 2b, 2. Mary Oliver lf, 3. Seamus Heaney 1b, 4. William Wordsworth 3b, 5. Donald Hall c, 6. Philip Larkin ss, 7. Galway Kinnell cf, 8. Robert Hass rf, 9.  Louis Untermeyer p

London Eliots  1. Lady Ottoline Morrell cf, 2. Arthur Symons c, 3. Thomas Kyd rf, 4. John Donne 3b, 5. Jules LaForgue 1b, 6. John Quinn lf, 7. Rudyard Kipling ss, 8. Vivienne Haigh-Wood 2b, 9. Betrand Russell p

Rapallo Pound 1. Wyndham Lewis cf, 2. Hilda Doolittle 2b, 3. William Butler Yeats ss, 4. Ford Madox Ford 1b, 5. James Joyce lf, 6. James Laughlin 3b, 7. Ernest Fenollosa c, 8. Benito Mussollini rf, 9. Hugh Kenner p

New Jersey Williams 1. Duchamp cf, 2. Robert Creeley ss, 3. Kenneth Rexroth 1b, 4. Robert Duncan lf, 5. Gary Snyder 2b, 6. Mina Loy rf, 7. Yone Noguchi c, 8. Jack Spicer 3b, 9. Man Ray p

Hartford Stevens  1. Edward Lear ss, 2. Lewis Carroll 2b, 3. Paul Valery 3b, 4. Stephane Mallarme cf,  5. John Hollander rf, 6. James Merrill lf, 7. Dana Gioia 1b, 8. Richard Wilbur c, 9. George Santayana p

New York Moores 1. Elizabeth Bishop 2b, 2. Peggy James ss, 3. Ted Hughes 1b, 4. Alfred Stieglitz c, 5. Lincoln Kirstein 3b, 6. Kay Ryan lf, 7. Hart Crane cf, 8. Monroe Wheeler rf, 9. Walter Pater p

Cambridge Cummings 1. Archibald MacLeish cf, 2. Apollinaire 1b, 3. Picasso rf, 4. John Dos Passos lf, 5. William Slater Brown 3b, 6. Marion Morehouse c, 7. Louis Aragon lf, 8. Amy Lowell ss, 9. T.E. Hulme p

Amherst Emily 1. Mabel Loomis Todd 2b, 2. Sylvia Plath rf, 3. Alfred Tennyson cf, 4. John Keats ss, 5. Charles Wadsworth 1b, 6. Austin Dickinson 3b, 7. Helen Hunt Jackson c, 8. Lucie Brock-Broido, 9. Thomas Wentworth Higginson p

Iowa City Grahams 1.  Joanna Klink ss, 2. Mark Levine 2b, 3. James Galvin 3b, 4. Robert Pinsky lf, 5. Marvin Bell c, 6. Donald Justice 1b, 7. Joshua Clover cf, 8. Leslie Scalapino rf, 9. Bin Ramke p

Aristotle (p) is holding out for more money.  Socrates (p) is rumored to be going to Philadlephia.

53 Comments

  1. Desmond Swords said,

    April 10, 2010 at 5:43 am

    • thomasbrady said,

      April 13, 2010 at 1:47 pm

      This guy is clearly a lizard man.

  2. Desmond Swords said,

    April 10, 2010 at 6:05 am

    This poem, like a lot of poems, is about a girl, and it’s called:

    Beautiful Goth.

    I saw a beautiful Goth girl whilst in Botanic Gardens the other day.
    Her hair was raven tresses which framed a face of pure porcelain

    But on it was etched pain. A pout of raspberry refrained from talking
    Because no words could sum up what was etched on her pretty
    Painted face.

    And while I could understand this, I still had to ask myself: If this girl
    is so pretty; then why does she wear so much make-up?

    Perhaps she’s hiding an ugly face?
    Is it a human face?

    Or is it the face of a lizard man’s daughter?

    Lizard men come from outer space and have been trying to enslave
    The human race. They are in government. In entertainment. In all walks

    Of life. They could work at your job. They could be your dog
    Because lizard men can take many forms. They’ve been here

    For centuries. They built the pyramids. They killed the Kennedys. I have proof
    That they did. They show up at your door. They knock you to the floor

    And they try to eat your brains. They ate my freinds brains and made it look
    Like a burglary. Because lizard men are smart. But lizard men won’t get me

    No! Because I sleep with a gun!

    • Wfkammann said,

      April 10, 2010 at 5:28 pm

      Lizard men are smart; so, we’ve nothing to fear here Des.

  3. Bob Tonucci said,

    April 10, 2010 at 10:57 am

    Make Your Own Napalm

    Rosemary Daniell

    Rip free
    the plastic that binds the tops of
    beer cans. Over a pan of water with
    tongs or pliers hold it at arm’s length.
    light a match to the edge of the stuff:
    hear it begin to screech watch it melt
    & drip see it fall in blobs like
    fat or flesh from muscle. Observe
    how the flame holds on like the teeth
    of a dog gone rabid: a fire that makes
    fritters of matter that boils even the
    fragments in water. Yes go now: make
    your own napalm & each night before
    you sleep dream how that flame
    crawls your skin or your baby’s

  4. Bob Tonucci said,

    April 10, 2010 at 11:07 am

    An Asterisk as Big as a Ball

    Tim Peeler

    the ball talked to
    three hundred thirty feet of air,
    rising into the teeth
    of the bat’s echo,
    crashing into right field bleachers
    like any other Yankee missile —
    an exiled hero
    circled the Ruthian diamond
    to footnote glory —
    just down the first base line
    the magic bat lay,
    like a gun that had killed
    its owner.

  5. thomasbrady said,

    April 10, 2010 at 11:55 am

    No Wonder That My Muse

    No wonder that my muse
    Does well without me,
    I exclude her from booze,
    Keep all intoxication to myself,
    Demand that she work for free,
    Do not let her fatten on my shelf,
    She might forget to put one back,
    Irresponsible, she must be denied,
    But she grows accurate from each lack.
    I am sated, my sea’s too deep and wide.
    I trill syllables, feed blindly on the day,
    While she invents verse from all I toss away.

    Ladies and gentlemen, our national anthem:

    The Star Spangled Banner

    Oh, say, can you see, by the dawn’s early light,
    What so proudly we hail’d at the twilight’s last gleaming?
    Whose broad stripes and bright stars, thro’ the perilous fight,
    O’er the ramparts we watch’d, were so gallantly streaming?
    And the rockets’ red glare, the bombs bursting in air,
    Gave proof thro’ the night that our flag was still there.
    O say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave
    O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave?

    On the shore dimly seen thro’ the mists of the deep,
    Where the foe’s haughty host in dread silence reposes,
    What is that which the breeze, o’er the towering steep,
    As it fitfully blows, half conceals, half discloses?
    Now it catches the gleam of the morning’s first beam,
    In full glory reflected, now shines on the stream:
    ‘Tis the star-spangled banner: O, long may it wave
    O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave!

    And where is that band who so vauntingly swore
    That the havoc of war and the battle’s confusion
    A home and a country should leave us no more?
    Their blood has wash’d out their foul footsteps’ pollution.
    No refuge could save the hireling and slave
    From the terror of flight or the gloom of the grave:
    And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave
    O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave.

    O, thus be it ever when freemen shall stand,
    Between their lov’d homes and the war’s desolation;
    Blest with vict’ry and peace, may the heav’n-rescued land
    Praise the Pow’r that hath made and preserv’d us a nation!
    Then conquer we must, when our cause is just,
    And this be our motto: “In God is our trust”
    And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave
    O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave!

    Marla, Francis Scott Key is still out there. No one’s picked him up, yet!

    Let’s run down the pitching staffs. I don’t think we’ve published those yet:

    NL
    Poe: Pope, Humboldt, Coleridge, Lord Bacon, Shelley
    Bryant: Lincoln, Alex. Hamilton, John Fremont, Peter Cooper, Parke Godwin
    Whittier: W. Lloyd Garrison, Wilberforce, C. Langston, J. Langston
    Longfellow: Horace, Ticknor, Sumner, George Washington Greene
    Lowell: Leigh Hunt, Henry Adams, Charles Eliot Norton, Mencken, S.H. Gay
    Emerson: W. James, Horace Greeley, Griswold, Nietzsche
    Ashbery: Warhol, Sam Beckett, Wittgenstein, Charles Bernstein
    Ginsberg: Bill Burroughs, Mark Van Doren, Cassady, Ken Kesey, Tim Leary
    Ransom: Cleanth Brooks, Penn Warren, Jarrell, I.A. Richards, Paul Engle
    Millay: Edmund Wilson, Eugene O’Neill, Sophocles, Philip Sidney, Norma Millay

    AL
    Whitman: Oscar Wilde, F.O. Matthiessen, M. McClure, Peter Doyle, A. Gilchrist
    Frost: Untermeyer, Sandburg, EA Robinson, Anne Sexton
    Eliot: Bertie Russell, James Frazier, Corbiere, Christopher Cranch, J. Webster
    Pound: Hugh Kenner, Charles Olson, Rudge, Harriet Monroe, Zukovsky
    Williams: Man Ray, Philip Whalen, Robin Blaser, Ron Silliman
    Stevens: Santayana, Vendler, Perloff, Landis Everson, X.J. Kennedy
    Moore: Pater, Alfred Kreymborg, Robert McAlmon, Richard Aldington
    Cummings: Hulme, AJ Ayer, Scofield Thayer, Mayakovsky, Roethke
    Dickinson: Thomas Wentworth Higginson, Virgil, Sam Bowles, Ed Hitchcock
    Graham: Ramke, Sacks, Yvor Winters, John Berryman, Don Revel

  6. Bob Tonucci said,

    April 10, 2010 at 12:39 pm

    “No. 4: Lumberjacks’ Chorus” from libretto to “Paul Bunyan”

    W.H. Auden

    My birthplace was in Sweden, it’s a very long way off,
    My appetite was hearty but I couldn’t get enough;
    When suddenly I heard a roar across the wide blue sea,
    ‘I’ll give you steak and onions if you’ll come and work for me.’

    We rise at dawn, at dawn of day,
    We’re handsome, handsome, free and gay,
    We’re lumberjacks
    With saw and axe
    Who are melting the forests away.

    In France I wooed a maiden with an alabaster skin,
    But she left me for a fancy chap who played the violin;
    When just about to drown myself a voice came from the sky,
    ‘There’s no one like a shanty boy to catch a maiden’s eye.’

    We rise at dawn, at dawn of day,
    We’re handsome, handsome, free and gay,
    We’re lumberjacks
    With saw and axe
    Who are melting the forests away.

    O long ago in Germany when sitting at my ease,
    There came a knocking at the door and it was the police;
    I tiptoed down the backstairs and a voice to me did say,
    ‘There’s freedom in the forests out in North Americay.’

    We rise at dawn, at dawn of day,
    We’re handsome, handsome, free and gay,
    We’re lumberjacks
    With saw and axe
    Who are melting the forests away.

    In Piccadilly Circus I stood waiting for a bus
    I thought I heard the pigeons say ‘Please run away with us’;
    To a land of opportunity with work and food for all
    Especially for shanty boys in Winter and in Fall.

    We rise at dawn, at dawn of day,
    We’re handsome, handsome, free and gay,
    We’re lumberjacks
    With saw and axe
    Who are melting the forests away.

  7. Desmond Swords said,

    April 10, 2010 at 12:49 pm

    Poe, Humboldt, Pope and Coleridge, Bacon, Shelley, Parke and Greene
    Bryant, Lincoln, Fremont, Cooper, Alex Langston and Charles Bernstein

    Rudge and Whalen, Wilde and Blaser, Hamilton, Godwin, Nietzsche and Gay
    Whittier, Garrison, Ticknor, Greeley, Washington, Horace and Wittgenstein

    Samuel Beckett, Alan Ginsberg, Henry Adams, Lowell and Leigh, Corbiere
    Wilberforce, Longfellow, Matthiessen, Silliman, Vendler and Sophocles

  8. thomasbrady said,

    April 10, 2010 at 1:58 pm

    Today’s Pitching LInes

    National League:

    Phil (COLERIDGE) v. Concord (GRISWOLD)

    Club Emerson picked up Rufus Griswold as an intimidation factor against rival Philadelphia (Poe). Coleridge has that ratiocinative and moody combo which should work well on Poe’s ballclub.

    NY (FREMONT) v. Brklyn (WITTGENSTEIN)

    The Bryants are going with more Saturday Evening Post political allies; Fremont was the first Republican and first anti-slavery major party candidate for president. Ashbery is going with the famous language philosopher.

    Hartford (C. LANGSTON) v. NJ (NEAL CASSADY)

    Whittier features the African-American Langston brothers as no. 3 and 4 starters. They formed the Ohio Anti-Slavery Society together. Ginsberg is calling on his strong-armed friend, Neal Cassady.

    Camb (CHARLES SUMNER) v. Tenn (RANDALL JARRELL)

    Longfellow taps his political connections to pitch game 3, while Ransom continues to go with his fellow critics and his students.

    Boston (CHARLES ELIOT NORTON) v. Maine (SOPHOCLES)

    James Russell Lowell sends a distinguished Harvard colleague to the hill against team Millay, who makes use of classical greats—Edna took them seriously.

    And, upcoming match-ups in the American League today:

    Brklyn (MICHAEL MCCLURE) v. Hartford (PERLOFF)

    Coming off a 5-4 victory behind Helen Vendler, Wallace Stevens comes back at the Whitmans with Marjorie Perloff, while Walt defends himself with a west coast Beat stalwart.

    New England (E.A. ROBINSON) v. NY (ROBERT MCALMON)

    Frost tabs another accessible poet while Marianne Moore counters with a prolific writer and friend of WC Williams.

    London (TRISTAN CORBIERE) v. Camb (SCOFIELD THAYER)

    Eliot sends the French poet to the mound against his friend and publisher, Scofield Thayer (nephew of Casey at the Bat author) who will twirl for the Cummings club.

    Rapallo (HARRIET MONROE) v. Amherst (SAMUEL BOWLES)

    Pound looks for something good from his ‘Poetry’ editor while Dickinson taps journalist and friend of the family, Sam Bowles.

    NJ (ROBIN BLASER) v. Iowa City (YVOR WINTERS)

    WC Williams goes with a SF Renaissance poet. Jorie Graham uses the well-known west coast writing program and critic icon, Winters, who Robert Pinsky helped bring to the Grahams.

  9. Bob Tonucci said,

    April 10, 2010 at 6:18 pm

    When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d

    (The text as Paul Hindemith set it for his “A Requiem for Those Who Love”)

    1. PRELUDE
    When lilacs last in the dooryard bloom’d,
    And the great star early droop’d in the western sky in the night,
    I mourn’d, and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring.
    O ever-returning spring, trinity sure to me you bring,
    Lilac blooming perennial and drooping star in the west,
    And thought of him I love.

    O powerful western fallen star!
    O shades of night — O moody, tearful night!
    O great star disappear’d — O the black murk that hides the star!
    O cruel hands that hold me powerless — O helpless soul of me!
    O harsh surrounding cloud that will not free my soul.

    In the dooryard fronting an old farm-house near the white-wash’d palings,
    Stands the lilac-bush tall-growing with heart-shaped leaves of rich green,
    With many a pointed blossom rising delicate, with the perfume strong I love,
    With every leaf a miracle — and from this bush in the dooryard,
    With delicate-color’d blossoms and heart-shaped leaves of rich green,
    A sprig with its flower I break.

    2. ARIOSO
    In the swamp in secluded recesses,
    A shy and hidden bird is warbling a song.
    Solitary, the thrush,
    The hermit withdrawn to himself, avoiding the settlements,
    Sings by himself a song.

    Song of the bleeding throat,
    Death’s outlet song of life, (for well dear brother I know,
    If thou wast not granted to sing, thou would’st surely die).

    3. MARCH
    Over the breast of the spring, the land, amid cities,
    Amid lanes and through old woods, where lately the violets
    peep’d from the ground, spotting the gray debris,
    Amid the grass in the fields each side of the lanes,
    passing the endless grass,
    Passing the yellow-spear’d wheat, every grain from its shroud
    in the dark-brown fields uprising,
    Passing the apple-tree blows of white and pink in the orchards,
    Carrying a corpse to where it shall rest in the grave,
    Night and day journeys a coffin.

    Coffin that passes through lanes and streets,
    Through day and night with the great cloud darkening the land,
    With the pomp of the inloop’d flags with the cities draped in black,
    With the show of the States themselves as of crepe-veil’d women standing,
    With processions long and winding and the flambeaus of the night,
    With the countless torches lit, with the silent sea of faces
    and the unbared heads,
    With the waiting depot, the arriving coffin, and the sombre faces,
    With dirges through the night, with the thousand voices
    rising strong and solemn,
    With all the mournful voices of the dirges pour’d around the coffin,
    The dim-lit churches and the shuddering organs — where amid these
    you journey,
    With the tolling bells’ perpetual clang,

    Here, coffin that slowly passes,
    I give you my sprig of lilac.

    (Nor for you, for one alone,
    Blossoms and branches green to coffins all I bring,
    For fresh as the morning, thus would I chant a song for you,
    O sane and sacred death.

    All over bouquets of roses,
    O death, I cover you with roses and early lilies,
    But mostly and now the lilac that blooms the first,
    Copious I break, I break the sprigs from the bushes,
    With loaded arms I come, pouring for you,
    For you and the coffins all of you, O death.)

    4. O western orb sailing the heaven,
    Now I know what you must have meant as a month since we walk’d,
    As we walk’d up and down in the dark blue so mystic,
    As we walk’d in silence the transparent shadowy night,
    As I saw you had something to tell, as you bent to me night after night,
    As you droop’d from the sky low down, as if to my side, (while the other
    stars all look’d on,)
    As we wander’d together the solemn night, (for something I know not
    what kept me from sleep),
    As the night advanced, and I saw on the rim of the west,
    ere you went, how full you were of woe,
    As I stood on the rising ground in the breeze,
    in the cool transparent night,
    As I watch’d where you pass’d and was lost in the netherward
    black of the night,
    As my soul in its trouble dissatisfied sank, as where you, sad orb,
    Concluded, dropt in the night, and was gone.

    5. ARIOSO
    Sing on, there in the swamp,
    O singer bashful and tender, I hear your notes, I hear your call,
    I hear, I come presently, I understand you,
    But a moment I linger, for the lustrous star has detain’d me,
    The star my departing comrade holds and detains me.

    6. SONG
    O how shall I warble myself for the dead one there I loved?
    And how shall I deck my soul for the large sweet soul that has gone?
    And what shall my perfume be for the grave of him I love?

    Sea-winds blown from the east and west,
    Blown from the Eastern sea, and blown from the Western sea,
    till there on the prairies meeting,

    These, and with these and the breath of my chant,
    I’ll perfume the grave of him I love.

    O what shall I hang on the chamber walls?
    And what shall the pictures be that I hang on the walls,
    To adorn the burial-house of him I love?

    Pictures of growing spring, and farms, and homes,
    With the Fourth-month eve at sundown,
    and the gray smoke lucid and bright,
    With floods of the yellow gold of the gorgeous, indolent,
    sinking sun, burning, expanding the air,

    7. INTRODUCTION AND FUGUE
    With the fresh sweet herbage under foot,
    and the pale green leaves of the trees prolific,
    In the distance of the flowing glaze, the breast of the river,
    with a wind-dapple here and there,
    With ranging hills on the banks, with many a line against the sky,
    and shadows,
    And the city at hand with dwellings so dense, and stacks of chimneys,
    And all the scenes of life and the workshops,
    and the workmen homeward returning.

    Lo, body and soul! — this land,
    Mighty Manhattan with spires, and the sparkling and hurrying tides,
    and the ships,
    The varied and ample land, the South and the North in the light,
    Ohio’s shores and flashing Missouri,
    And ever the far-spreading prairies, cover’d with grass and corn.

    Lo, the most excellent sun so calm and haughty,
    The violet and purple morn with just-felt breezes,
    The gentle, soft-born measureless light,
    The miracle spreading, bathing all, the fulfill’d noon,
    The coming eve delicious, the welcome night and the stars,
    Over my cities shining all, enveloping man and land.

    8. Sing on, sing on, you gray-brown bird,
    Sing from the swamps, the recesses, pour your chant from the bushes,
    Limitless out of the dusk, out of the cedars and pines.
    Sing on, dearest brother, warble your reedy song,
    Loud human song, with voice of uttermost woe.
    O liquid and free and tender!
    O wild and loose to my soul — O wondrous singer!
    You only I hear — yet the star holds me (but will soon depart),
    Yet the lilac with mastering odor holds me.

    Now while I sat in the day and look’d forth,
    In the close of the day, with its light and the fields of spring,
    and the farmer preparing his crops,
    In the large unconscious scenery of my land, with its lakes and forests,
    In the heavenly aerial beauty, (after the perturb’d winds and storms),
    Under the arching heavens of the afternoon swift passing,
    and the voices of children and women,
    The many-moving sea-tides, and I saw the ships, how they sail’d,
    And the summer approaching with richness,
    and the fields all busy with labor,
    And the infinite separate houses, how they all went on,
    each with its meals and minutiae of daily usages,
    And the streets, how their throbbings throbb’d, and the cities pent —
    lo, then and there,
    Falling upon them all and among them all, enveloping me with the rest,
    Appear’d the cloud, appear’d the long black trail,

    HYMN “FOR THOSE WE LOVE”
    And I knew death, its thought, and the sacred knowledge of death.
    Then with the knowledge of death as walking one side of me,
    And the thought of death close-walking the other side of me,
    And I in the middle as with companions, and as holding the hands of companions,

    I fled forth to the hiding receiving night that talks not,
    Down to the shores of the water, the path by the swamp in the dimness,
    To the solemn shadowy cedars and the ghostly pines so still.
    And the singer so shy to the rest receiv’d me,
    The gray-brown bird I know received us comrades three,
    And he sang what seem’d the carol of death, and a verse for him I love.

    From deep secluded recesses,
    From the fragrant cedars and the ghostly pines so still,
    Came the carol of the bird.

    And the charm of the carol rapt me,
    As I held, as if by their hands, my comrades in the night,
    And the voice of my spirit tallied the song of the bird:

    9. DEATH CAROL
    Come lovely and soothing death,
    Undulate round the world, serenely arriving, arriving,
    In the day, in the night, to all, to each,
    Sooner or later delicate death.

    Prais’d be the fathomless universe,
    For life and joy, and for objects and knowledge curious,
    And for love, sweet love — but praise! praise! praise!
    For the sure-enwinding arms of cool-enfolding death.

    Dark mother, always gliding near with soft feet,
    Have none chanted for thee a chant of fullest welcome?
    Then I chant it for thee, I glorify thee above all,
    I bring thee a song that when thou must indeed come, come unfalteringly.

    Approach, strong deliveress,
    When it is so, when thou hast taken them I joyously sing the dead,
    Lost in the loving, floating ocean of thee,
    Laved in the flood of thy bliss, O death.

    From me to thee, glad serenades,
    Dances for thee I propose, saluting thee, adornments and
    feastings for thee,
    And the sights of the open landscape and the high-spread sky are fitting,
    And life and the fields, and the huge and thoughtful night.

    The night in silence, under many a star,
    The ocean shore and the husky whispering wave whose voice I know,
    And the soul turning to thee, O vast and well-veil’d death,
    And the body gratefully nestling close to thee.

    Over the treetops I float thee a song,
    Over the rising and sinking waves, over the myriad fields
    and the prairies wide,
    Over the dense-pack’d cities all, and the teeming wharves and ways,
    I float this carol with joy, with joy to thee O death.

    10. To the tally of my soul,
    Loud and strong kept up the gray-brown bird,
    With pure deliberate notes spreading, filling the night.

    Loud in the pines and cedars dim,
    Clear in the freshness moist, and the swamp-perfume,
    And I with my comrades there in the night.
    While my sight that was bound in my eyes unclosed,
    As to long panoramas of visions.

    And I saw askant the armies,
    And I saw, as in noiseless dreams, hundreds of battle-flags,
    Borne through the smoke of the battles and pierced with missiles,
    I saw them,

    And carried hither and yon through the smoke, and torn and bloody,
    And at last but a few shreds left on the staffs (and all in silence),
    And the staffs all splinter’d and broken.

    I saw battle-corpses, myriads of them,
    And the white skeletons of young men, I saw them,
    I saw the debris, and debris of all the dead soldiers of the war,
    But I saw they were not as was thought,

    They themselves were fully at rest, they suffer’d not,
    The living remain’d and suffer’d, the mother suffer’d,
    And the wife and the child and the musing comrade suffer’d,
    And the armies that remain’d suffer’d.

    11. FINALE
    Passing the visions, passing the night,
    Passing, unloosing the hold of my comrades’ hands,
    Passing the song of the hermit bird and the tallying song of my soul,
    Victorious song, death’s outlet song, yet varying, ever-altering song,
    As low and wailing, yet clear the notes, rising and falling, flooding the night,
    Sadly sinking and fainting, as warning and warning,
    and yet again bursting with joy,
    Covering the earth and filling the spread of the heaven,
    As that powerful psalm in the night I heard from recesses,
    Passing, I leave thee, lilac with heart-shaped leaves,
    I leave thee there in the door-yard, blooming, returning with spring.

    I cease from my song for thee,
    From my gaze on thee in the west, fronting the west, communing with thee,
    O comrade lustrous with silver face in the night.

    Yet each I keep, and all, retrievements out of the night,
    The song, the wondrous chant of the gray-brown bird,
    And the tallying chant, the echo arous’d in my soul,
    With the lustrous and drooping star, with the countenance full of woe,
    With the lilac tall, and its blossoms of mastering odor,
    With the holders holding my hand, nearing the call of the bird,
    Comrades mine, and I in the midst, and their memory ever I keep,
    for the dead I loved so well,

    For the sweetest, wisest soul of all my days and lands — and this
    for his dear sake,

    Lilac and star and bird, twined with the chant of my soul,
    There in the fragrant pines and the cedars dusk and dim.

    (When lilacs last in the dooryard bloom’d.)

  10. Wfkammann said,

    April 10, 2010 at 6:59 pm

    Commissioned by Robert Shaw after the death of FDR in 1945. Great baseball trivia.

  11. Bob Tonucci said,

    April 10, 2010 at 7:48 pm

    I used your comment as my template, thank you! I’m planning to bang in Roger Sessions’ version next….

    • Wfkammann said,

      April 10, 2010 at 8:08 pm

      You sound like someone whose been hit on the chin by more balls than Yogi Berra. Keep up the good work!

  12. Bob Tonucci said,

    April 10, 2010 at 8:01 pm

    “Hike” from “The Sultan of Sulu”

    George Ade

    We haven’t the appearance, goodness knows,
    Of plain commercial men;
    From a hasty glance, you might suppose
    We are fractious now and then.
    But though we come in warlike guise
    And battle-front arrayed,
    It’s all a business enterprise;
    We’re seeking foreign trade.

    We’re as mild as any turtle-dove
    When we see the foe a-coming,
    Our thoughts are set on human love
    When we hear the bullets humming.
    We teach the native population
    What the golden rule is like,
    And we scatter public education
    On ev’ry blasted hike!

    We want to assimilate, if we can,
    Our brother who is brown,
    We love our dusky fellow-man
    And we hate to hunt him down.
    So, when we perforate his frame,
    We want him to be good.
    We shoot at him to make him tame,
    If he but understood.

  13. thomasbrady said,

    April 10, 2010 at 10:47 pm

    Here’s the results of today’s games:

    In the NL:

    The Philadelphia Poe won its third straight, beating their bitter rival Rufus Griswold and the Concord Emerson in the Emersons’ home park. Philly scored two unearned runs in the ninth. Griswold baffled team Poe for 8 innings, taking a 2-0 lead into the final frame. Byron produced an in-the-park homerun in the 10th to give Poe a 3-2 win. Coleridge went 10 innings to get the win for Philadelphia.

    Phil 3 Concord 2, 10 inns. W-Coleridge

    In other scores:

    NY 6 Brklyn 0 W-Fremont

    John Fremont spins the first shutout of the young season for the Bryants, who are 2-1. Ashbery’s club falls to 1-2.

    NJ 11 Hartford 4 W-Neal Cassady

    Cassady gets plenty of run support as the Ginsbergs score 11 runs for the second straight day against the Greenleaf Whittier nine. Bob Dylan, Will Blake, and Chuck Bukowski all homered.

    Tenn 5 Camb 3 W-Randall Jarrell

    The Ransoms pick up their first victory of the season behind the pitching of Randall Jarrell. A 3 run double by Allen Tate was the difference.

    Boston 4 Maine 1 W-Charles Eliot Norton

    Norton was brilliant for James Russell Lowell’s team as they improve to 2-1.

    Over in the AL:

    Hartford 6 Brklyn 0 W-Marjorie Perloff

    Perloff looked convincing for Wallace Stevens in her complete game shutout. Hartford is now 3-0. The Whitmans have been outscored 34-5 in this opening series.

    NY 3 NE 2 W-Robert McAlmon

    McAlmon pitches brilliantly for Marianne Moore as her club wins its first game of the season against the Frost, who scored 16 runs in the first two contests.

    London 10 Camb 4 W-Corbiere

    T.S. Eliot’s club goes to 3-0 as they clobber the Cummings. John Donne went 4 for 4 and knocked in 4 for the London team.

    Amherst 7 Rapallo 4 W-Samuel Bowles

    The Emily joins the Stevens and the Eliots in first place with a 3-0 record, knocking off Pound’s shaky unit. James Joyce crashed into a fence in left and had to leave the game. Francois Villon replaced, and struck out with the bases loaded to end the game. “It’s a long season,” Pound said grimly.

    Iowa City 5 NJ 4 W-Winters

    Yvor Winters pitched the Grahams to their second victory of the season. Donald Justice paced the Iowa City attack with 3 RBIs.

  14. Desmond Swords said,

    April 10, 2010 at 11:41 pm

    The Art of Always Being Right.

    This is the point. He will stand on it
    Until all around him fall.

    The convicted and self-righteous huff
    And puff. Insults are flung,
    Hands wrung

    Door slams and everyone is gone.
    This is the point, he never doubts.

    He sits alone.
    One man and his throne.

    Orla Martin

    • thomasbrady said,

      April 13, 2010 at 1:51 pm

      I think Paul did this better with “Fool On a Hill” and there’s more going on in Paul’s song…this is so obviously a self-righteous, cliche-ridden put-down “He sits alone/One man and his throne” wowthat’sdeep

  15. Bob Tonucci said,

    April 10, 2010 at 11:46 pm

    Phobic

    Orla Martin

    Fine
    feathered words,
    glittering ballroom lights,
    midnight passes and I find
    my handsome Prince, His
    fingers handcuffed around
    my ankle, prison bar arms.
    Have I swapped one dusty
    jail for the kingdom come of
    coupledom?

    Leave me untamed,
    uneven, odd, hopping
    for my life down
    the street.

    • thomasbrady said,

      April 13, 2010 at 1:55 pm

      Orla, darling, I’ll be your “handsome Prince…” and you can stay “untamed” and I will be “untamed” –yea, that’ll be cool! “untamed!”

  16. Don Share said,

    April 11, 2010 at 7:46 am

    She’s very good. I like her.

  17. Christopher Woodman said,

    April 11, 2010 at 8:24 am

    Me too. I like the way Orla Martin dares to use clichés, each one a shock in itself — only to liberate herself and the poem from the modern phobia against using real words and phrases that everybody knows and everybody simply has to come to terms with.

    “Fine/feathered words” — the line break liberating the word “fine” from the word “feathered” so that they are no longer condemned to lie down together as they’ve been taught to both by our language and our social expectations.

    “Prince, His/ — which in any other context would send the PC police screaming through the night. And the “kingdom come of/coupledom” with no capitals this time, ready for the jail-break from our prayers.

    And the whole last section — having worked our way out of so much convention we can do like a bird and transcend the cage that, if we’re really truly lucky in love, can blissfully contain us.

    ~

    Thank you for coming, Don — it means a great deal to me that you were actually there.

    And thank you for your support and your work.

    ~

    Perhaps you have seen the post
    by “Global Poetry News” offering me advice I find hard to accept but must. This has been a steep learning curve for poetry on the internet, for me certainly and for everybody else I suspect. If we all can hang in there and get through it American poetry can make the next big wonderful step.

    Toward, or is it away from (?), “Phobic!”

    Christopher

  18. Bob Tonucci said,

    April 11, 2010 at 8:26 am

    TREES

    Joyce Kilmer

    I think that I shall never see
    A poem lovely as a tree.

    A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
    Against the earth’s sweet flowing breast;

    A tree that looks at God all day,
    And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

    A tree that may in Summer wear
    A nest of robins in her hair;

    Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
    Who intimately lives with rain.

    Poems are made by fools like me,
    But only God can make a tree.

  19. Bob Tonucci said,

    April 11, 2010 at 8:29 am

    Girl

    Orla Martin

    At what stage did she get lost,
    a stone, a couple of pounds less in the mirror,
    letters unopened on the mantelpiece.

    Decisions now made by him, she glances over
    to get approval. No dresses or skirts now,
    jeans and occasionally lipstick for going out

    where they sit in a corner, two glasses of Guinness and
    excuses to leave. Her friends continue the night
    without her. Sighs, out the door

    walking two steps behind him.

  20. Christopher Woodman said,

    April 11, 2010 at 8:36 am

    But what does all that do, Bob –when there’s never a peep from you about any of it? It’s just grafitti, it’s just peeing on the corners of the lot!

    This is a Blog, not a Forum, and when you post every poem that comes in your head you force posters who work hard at what they say off the Recent Comments list — which is our index, which is the way commentators get heard.

    Think of others. Think of the coherence of the site.

    • Bob Tonucci said,

      April 11, 2010 at 8:56 am

      I think it’s a good poem, not grafitti.

      • Christopher Woodman said,

        April 11, 2010 at 9:20 am

        Urine is good too, indeed as indispensable as blood.

        For everything there is a purpose, a place and a moment, and all you think about is your own agenda. Some of us have worked very hard to make this site interesting, and some of us want to be able to follow it too. It means a lot to us.

        Pay attention, be responsive, add your thoughts. Don’t just advance your personal agenda.

      • Bob Tonucci said,

        April 11, 2010 at 11:29 am

        Oops, graffiti — we yanks are always misspelling that.

  21. Bob Tonucci said,

    April 11, 2010 at 8:48 am

    “No. 9: The Blues: Quartet of the Defeated” from “Paul Bunyan”

    W.H. Auden

    1. Gold in the North came the blizzard to say,
    I left my sweetheart at the break of day,
    The gold ran out and my love grew grey.
    You don’t know all, sir, you don’t know all.

    2. The West, said the sun, for enterprise,
    A bullet in Frisco put me wise,
    My last words were, ‘God damn your eyes!’
    You don’t know all, sir, you don’t know all.

    3. In Alabama my heart was full,
    Down to the river bank I stole,
    The waters of grief went over my soul.
    You don’t know all, sir, you don’t know all.

    4. In the streets of New York I was young and well,
    I rode the market, the market fell,
    One morning I found myself in hell.
    I didn’t know all, sir, I didn’t know all.

    ALL
    We didn’t know all, sir, we didn’t know all.

    4. In the saloons I heaved a sigh
    1. Lost in the deserts of alkali I lay down to die
    3. There’s always a sorrow can get you down
    2. All the world’s whiskey can never drown

    ALL
    You don’t know all, sir, you don’t know all.

    3. Some think they’re strong, some think they’re smart,
    Like butterflies they’re pulled apart,
    America can break your heart.

    ALL
    You don’t know all, sir, you don’t know all.

  22. April 11, 2010 at 9:13 am

    Bob, c’mon, though I wouldn’t say it myself, there are plenty who would say this is just ‘shit’, amigo. Proper pony and pants. Stuff a foet would compose.

    Not me mind, as I am indifferent to it, like whatsiname, unconcerned about things and people who are older than her, or was it him?

    That person whose name is irrelevant, you know the Critic who exposed the Poetry Of Everything Theory and a Transendentalist NWO AmPo Conspiracy to award all the prizes to a small select bunch of foets who write crappy stuff. Not like your works of genius Bob, not like this fantastically formal yet informal specimen of really moving verse that so moves on my darling Roberto.

    Thank god the Critic who’ll be honest with you and say they think it’s ‘shit’ is working long into the night on finalising the Theory and is far too busy and important to break off from bringing down the whole rotten stink of American poetry.

    Here, have some Noel. He’s shit as well. 670,000 views, the fake.

    But there is one truly beautiful moment from the man who made noughties British culture so effin this and that, at 4 min 34 seconds, the voice alone.

    Shit stuff.

  23. thomasbrady said,

    April 11, 2010 at 7:53 pm

    Breaking news…Concord, MA

    Bench-clearing brawl at Concord in Philadelphia Poe/Concord Emersons contest. Some of the fans even got into it.

    Emersons starter Friedrich Nietzsche knocked down Byron in the top of the third and in the bottom of the third Lord Verulam (Francis Bacon) of the Philadelphia Poe plunked Swedenborg and all hell broke loose.

    45 minutes to restore order.

    Bad blood was expected in this contest and things got out of hand in the fourth and final game of the series at the Emersons’ home park. Philly has taken the first three games.

  24. Bob Tonucci said,

    April 11, 2010 at 11:30 pm

    The Philosophers’ Drinking Song

    Monty Python

    Immanuel Kant was a real pissant
    Who was very rarely stable
    Heidegger, Heidegger was a boozy beggar
    Who could think you under the table
    David Hume could out-consume
    Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel
    And Wittgenstein was a beery swine
    Who was just as schloshed as Schlegel

    There’s nothing Nietzsche couldn’t teach ya
    ‘Bout the raising of the wrist
    Socrates himself was permanently pissed.

    John Stuart Mill, of his own free will
    With half a pint of shandy got particularly ill
    Plato, they say, could stick it away
    Half a crate of whiskey every day
    Aristotle, Aristotle was a bugger for the bottle
    Hobbes was fond of his dram
    And Rene Descartes was a drunken fart
    “I drink therefore I am”

    Yes, Socrates himself is particularly missed
    A lovely little thinker but a bugger when he’s pissed

  25. Bob Tonucci said,

    April 12, 2010 at 1:06 am

    Tom, Marla here, below is Whitman’s great poem in the setting given to it by American composer Roger Sessions (1896-1985). As Whitman biographer Justin Kaplan wrote:

    “The most sweet and sonorous nocturne ever chanted,” Swinburne called it—the terms he used acknowledge the poem’s fundamentally musical feeling and structure. There are three main symbols and motifs: the Star (the slain president), the Lilac (the poet’s tribute), and the Bird (voice of reconciliation and acceptance of “sane and sacred death”). Like musical themes, they are developed in a manner roughly analogous to the sonata form.

    When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d

    [The text as Roger Sessions set it for his cantata of the same name]

    I.

    When lilacs last in the dooryard bloom’d,
    And the great star early droop’d in the western sky in the night,
    I mourn’d, and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring.

    O ever-returning spring! trinity sure to me you bring;
    Lilac blooming perennial, and drooping star in the west,
    And thought of him I love.

    O powerful, western, fallen star!
    O shades of night! O moody, tearful night!
    O great star disappear’d! O the black murk that hides the star!
    O cruel hands that hold me powerless! O helpless soul of me!
    O harsh surrounding cloud, that will not free my soul!

    In the dooryard fronting an old farm-house, near the white-wash’d palings,
    Stands the lilac-bush, tall-growing, with heart-shaped leaves of rich green,
    With many a pointed blossom, rising, delicate, with the perfume strong I love,
    With every leaf a miracle…. and from this bush
    A sprig, with its flower, I break.

    In the swamp, in secluded recesses,
    A shy and hidden bird,
    Solitary, the thrush,
    The hermit,
    Sings by himself a song.

    Song of the bleeding throat!
    Death’s outlet song of life— (for well, dear brother, I know,
    If thou wast not gifted to sing, thou would’st surely die).

    II.

    Over the breast of the spring, the land, amid cities,
    Amid lanes, and through old woods, where lately the violets peep’d from the ground,
    Amid the grass in the fields, passing the endless grass;
    Passing the yellow-spear’d wheat,
    Passing the apple-tree blows of white and pink in the orchards;
    Carrying a corpse to where it shall rest in the grave,
    Night and day journeys a coffin.

    Coffin that passes through lanes and streets,
    Through day and night, with the great cloud darkening the land,
    With the pomp of the inloop’d flags, with the cities draped in black,
    With the show of the States themselves, as of crepe-veil’d women, standing,
    With processions long and winding, and the flambeaus of the night,
    With the silent sea of faces,
    With the waiting depot, the arriving coffin, and the sombre faces,
    And the dirges through the night, with the thousand voices rising strong and solemn;
    Pour’d around the coffin,
    The dim-lit churches and the shuddering organs,
    And the tolling, tolling bells’ perpetual clang;

    Here! coffin that slowly passes,
    I give you my sprig of lilac.
    (Nor for you, for one alone;
    Blossoms and branches green to coffins all I bring:
    For fresh as the morning—thus will I carol a song for you, O sane and sacred death.

    All over bouquets of roses,
    O death! I cover you with roses and early lilies;
    But mostly and now the lilac that blooms the first,
    With loaded arms I come, pouring for you,
    For you, and the coffins all of you, O death.)

    O western orb, sailing the heav’n!
    Now I know what you must have meant,
    As we walk’d up and down in the dark blue so mystic,
    As we walk’d in silence the transparent shadowy night,
    As I saw you had something to tell, as you bent to me night after night,
    As you droop’d from the sky low down, as if to my side, (while the other
    stars all look’d on;)
    As we wander’d together, I saw ere you went, how full you were of woe;
    As I stood in the cold, transparent night,
    As I watch’d where you pass’d,
    And my soul, in its trouble, sank.

    Sing on, there in the swamp!
    O singer bashful and tender! I come—I understand you;
    But a moment I linger—for the star, my departing comrade, holds me.

    O how shall I warble myself for the dead one there I loved?
    And how shall I deck my song for the large sweet soul that is gone?
    And what shall my perfume be, to adorn the grave of him I love?

    Sea-winds, blown from east and west,
    Blown from the Eastern sea, and blown from the Western sea,

    With these will I perfume the grave of him I love.

    O what shall the pictures be that I hang on the chamber walls,
    To adorn the burial-house of him I love?

    Pictures of growing spring, and farms, and homes,
    With the Fourth-month eve at sundown, and the gray smoke lucid and bright,
    With floods of yellow gold of the gorgeous, indolent, sinking sun, burning, expanding the air;
    With the fresh sweet herbage under foot, and the pale green leaves of the trees;
    In the distance the flowing glaze of the river, with a wind-dapple here and there;
    With ranging hills on the bank, with many a line against the sky, and shadows;
    And the city at hand, with dwellings so dense, and stacks of chimneys,
    And all the scenes of life, and the workshops, and the workmen homeward returning.

    Lo! body and soul! this land!
    Mighty Manhattan, with spires, and the sparkling and hurrying tides, and the ships;
    This varied and ample land—the South and the North in the light—Ohio’s shores, and flashing Missouri,
    And ever the far-spreading prairies, cover’d with grass and corn.

    Lo! the most excellent sun, so calm and haughty;
    The violet and purple morn, with just-felt breezes;
    The gentle, soft-born measureless light;
    The miracle, spreading, bathing all—the fulfill’d noon;
    The coming eve, delicious—the welcome night, and the stars,
    Over my cities shining all, enveloping man and land.

    Sing on! sing on, you gray-brown bird!
    Sing from the swamps, the recesses—pour your chant
    Limitless out of the cedars and pines.

    Sing on, dearest brother—warble your
    Loud human song, with voice of uttermost woe.

    O liquid, and free, and tender!
    O wild and loose to my soul! O wondrous singer!
    You only I hear… yet the star holds me, (but will soon depart;)
    Yet the lilac, with its mastering odor, holds me.

    III.

    Now while I sat in the day, and look’d forth,
    In the close of the day, with its light, and the fields of spring, and the farmer preparing his crops,
    In the large unconscious scenery of my land, with its lakes and forests,
    In the heavenly aereal beauty,
    Under the arching heavens of the afternoon, and the voices of children and women,
    The many-moving sea-tides, and ships how they sail’d,
    And the summer approaching with richness, and the fields all busy with labor,
    And the infinite separate houses, each with its daily usages;
    And the streets, how their throbbings throbb’d, and the cities pent— lo!
    Falling upon them all, and enveloping me with the rest,
    Appear’d the cloud, appear’d the long black trail;
    And I knew Death, its thought, and the sacred knowledge of death.

    Then with the knowledge of death as walking one side of me,
    And the thought of death close-walking the other side of me,
    And, as holding the hands of companions,
    I fled forth to the hiding, receiving night,
    Down to the shores of the water,
    To the solemn shadowy cedars, and the ghostly pines so still.

    And the singer so shy, receiv’d us comrades three;
    And he sang what seem’d the carol of death, and a verse for him I love.
    And my spirit tallied the song.

    Come, lovely and soothing Death,
    Undulate round the world, serenely arriving, arriving,
    In the day, in the night, to all, to each,
    Sooner or later, delicate Death.

    Prais’d be the fathomless universe,
    For life and joy, and for objects and knowledge curious;
    And for love, sweet love — But praise! praise! praise!
    For the sure-enwinding arms of cool-enfolding Death.

    Dark Mother, always gliding near, with soft feet,
    Have none chanted for thee a chant of fullest welcome?
    Then I chant it for thee—I glorify thee above all;
    I bring thee a song that when thou must indeed come, come unfalteringly.

    Approach, strong Deliveress!
    When it is so—when thou hast taken them, I joyously sing the dead,
    Lost in the loving, floating ocean of thee,
    Laved in the flood of thy bliss, O Death.

    From me to thee glad serenades,
    Dances for thee I propose, saluting thee—adornments and feastings for thee;
    And the sights of the open landscape, and the high-spread sky, are fitting,
    And life and the fields, and the huge and thoughtful night.

    The night, in silence, under many a star;
    The ocean shore, and the husky whispering wave, whose voice I know;
    And the soul turneth to thee, O vast and well-veil’d Death,
    And the body gratefully nestling close to thee.

    Over the tree-tops I float thee a song!
    Over the rising and sinking waves—over the myriad fields, and the prairies wide;
    Over the dense-pack’d cities all, and the teeming wharves and ways,
    I float this carol with joy, with joy to thee, O Death!

    To the tally of my soul,
    Loud and strong kept up the gray-brown bird,
    With pure, deliberate notes, spreading, filling the night.

    Loud in the pines and cedars dim,
    Clear in the freshness moist, and the swamp-perfume;
    And I with my comrades there in the night.

    While my sight unclosed,
    As to long panoramas of visions.

    And I saw askant the armies,
    I saw, as in noiseless dreams, hundreds of battle-flags;
    Borne through the smoke of the battle, and pierc’d with missiles, I saw them,
    And carried hither and yon through the smoke, and torn and bloody;
    And at last but a few shreds left on the staffs, (and all in silence,)
    And the staffs all splinter’d and broken.

    I saw battle-corpses, myriads of them,
    And the white skeletons of young men—I saw them;
    I saw the debris, and debris of all the dead soldiers of the war;
    And we saw they were not as was thought;
    They themselves were fully at rest—they suffer’d not,
    The living remain’d and suffer’d—the mother suffer’d,
    And the wife and the child, and the musing comrade suffer’d,
    And the armies that remain’d suffer’d.

    Passing the visions, passing the night;
    Passing, unloosing the hold of my comrades’ hands;
    Passing the song of the hermit bird, and the tallying song of my soul,
    Passing, I leave thee, lilac with heart-shaped leaves;
    I leave thee there in the door-yard, blooming, returning with spring.
    I cease from my song for thee;
    From my gaze on thee in the west, communing with thee,
    O comrade lustrous, with silver face in the night.

    Yet each I keep, and all, retrievements out of the night;
    For the sweetest, wisest soul of all my days and lands…
    Lilac and star and bird, twined with the chant of my soul,
    There in the fragrant pines, and the cedars dusk and dim.

  26. Bob Tonucci said,

    April 12, 2010 at 1:23 am

    Portrait of My Mother as Lillian Virginia Mountweazel

    James Allen Hall

    Most of all, my mother wanted to mean something.

    The desire consumed her—like it did Lillian Mountweazel,
    who devoted her life first to photography, then weaponry;
    she too wanted to go on transforming the flesh
    from the real into the tortured. My mother

    was filled with wanderlust, a legion of mercenaries
    setting their campfires on the beachhead, scoring fear
    into the adversary, watching from the walls.

    Most of all, she wanted to tongue-lash, to conquer
    the barbaric fathers, then govern their bodies.
    Incurable among the battle lusts, she lay down
    her camera to fight. In this photograph, self-portrait

    tinged sepia, she’s rallying her troops, lecturing them
    on how to bruise the man, drown him, make him
    wear the lacy underwear, then demand he demean her.

    First rule of offense: teach a man to degrade you,
    you spoil his heart.

    In another, she’s wearing bespoke boots, stepping over the rubble
    saying, ‘I will remember you just like this’, picking off the armor
    saying, ‘My name is not what I said it was’.

    First rule of offense: if you’re never lackluster,
    the enemy’s never lacklusting.

    Most of all, my mother wanted to live forever. No laws
    or dams or mountain ranges or children are named
    for her. No effigy burns, no ash is left to corrupt.
    When I want to be tragic, I put on her mothworn bustier,

    I cross up the brassiere, powder my face oyster-white,
    roll up the tattered red stockings. I am alive then,
    lifting her discarded camera. I devastate the mirror.

  27. Bob Tonucci said,

    April 12, 2010 at 1:49 am

    Baseball

    Paul Hoover

    When the world finally ends,
    a baseball will be hovering
    over a diamond somewhere in New Jersey:
    a flash of flesh falling out of its clothes
    and suddenly no one’s there.
    The baseball, singed and glowing,
    drops to the ground again.
    But let’s back up twenty years or so.
    It’s the 1970s and the Oakland A’s
    have 19th Century faces,
    as if they’d stepped from a Balzac novel
    belatedly in spring.
    A dynasty of troublesome players
    who like to fight and slide,
    they’ve just won their third World Series
    but trip on their long hair
    and wear Edwardian clothes,
    the messy but dressy look.
    Back then, I’d lie in bed all day,
    watching the Cubs and Watergate
    on a black and white TV.
    Then I’d get up, write some poems,
    and pick the goldfish off the floor,
    which liked to leap from its tank
    because the kissing gouramis
    would suck pink holes in its sides.
    The poems were not about kissing
    but had a violent side,
    the way a man’s gaze can be “violent,”
    fixing you into an object
    that, while it lacks a “lack,”
    stands up like a fetish.
    You feel your face go rubber,
    as if your body were filling
    with grief. Meanwhile, Reggie Jackson,
    while not completely phallocentric,
    did create a firm impression
    as he “stroked” the ball
    for a homer. Sometimes
    he flailed and fell, but now
    he’s out of ball. Left-handedness
    is a sinister business, but in
    the major leagues, you want
    a few of these wizards
    on first base or the mound.
    Does “mound” have a sexual sound?
    What about “stick men”?
    Baseball in the movies—
    for instance ‘Field of Dreams’—
    is basically conservative,
    says Pauline Kael and one agrees:
    “Play ball” is the message,
    the dream of male tradition
    passing and to come. Besides,
    those uniforms, so quasi-pseudo-
    semi-demi-military in fashion.
    They make us watch them swing
    their sticks, slide between
    another man’s legs, as if
    that torso heaven were all
    the spit we’re worth, we who
    sit and dream, eat and talk,
    as gulls stir over the field.
    I like to watch the grass,
    a simple wedge of astonishment
    each time I enter the park.
    Then the boffo noise of the crowd
    clucks and drones like an engine.
    I want a hot dog now! And beer
    to spill down concrete steps.
    My goodness, some of those guys
    actually look like gods!
    And some of them look just
    upwardly mobile, tossing a wink
    at their accountants Horvath,
    Perkins, Wiggins, and Peal.
    One imagines the Yankee Clipper,
    smooth as smoke, crossing an outfield of fog.
    Lou Gehrig stands at the mike,
    saying an iron goodbye, and Babe Ruth
    points at the fence where the ball
    will probably go if all the myths
    were right. Here’s Pepper Martin
    putting his spikes in your face,
    Dizzy Dean’s elegant rasp
    as he chews a point with Pee Wee Reese.
    I remember when Cincinnati
    had Birdie Tebbetts, Dusty Rhodes,
    Vada Pinson, and Ted Kluszewski.
    The sponsor was Hudepohl beer,
    and they played in Crosley Field.
    The man sitting next to us
    waved a gun whenever a run was scored,
    then put it back in his girlfriend’s
    purse. We thought that was fine.
    Claes Oldenburg insists
    baseball is an “aesthetic game,”
    all that flutter of color
    creating the eye when strict rows
    randomly move. But “poetry in motion”?
    I can’t say I believe. Poetry
    comes in your mouth like flesh;
    it rises to the surface
    like a ball held underwater,
    bouncing a little but staying there,
    hardly transcendental but present
    nevertheless. You watch it watching you,
    staying and going, the silk
    suck of a curtain that seems
    to leave the building by way
    of a window one day, then slips
    back over the sill because a door
    was opened. Its absolute feet
    aren’t there, disappearing like
    a corner the moment you approach.
    Baseball, on the other hand,
    presents itself like air,
    love’s green moment still,
    at two in the afternoon.

  28. thomasbrady said,

    April 12, 2010 at 2:09 am

    Marla, speaking of Whitman and Swinburne, the Brooklyn Whitmans have just signed Swinburne to a 3-year deal. The Whitmans have been struggling so far this season and that’s a good pickup for them.

    Here’s Sunday scores:

    Poe moves to 4-0 as Lord Bacon blanks the Emersons and Friedrich Nietzsche in a game stopped for 45 minutes by a brawl, final score, 5-0. Philadelphia sweeps the 4 game series in Concord.

    The New York Bryants improved their record to 3-1 behind the pitching of Peter Cooper, defeating the Ashberys 9-1.

    The Hartford Whittiers evened their mark at 2-2, nipping the Ginsbergs in 10 innings, 6-5. Langston bested Ken Kesey in New Jersey.

    George Washington Greene outpitched I.A. Richards as the Longfellows beat the Ransoms 4-2. Boston goes to 3-1 while Tennessee falls to 1-3.

    William Shakspeare hit a two run homer in the bottom of the 10th to give Maine a 7-5 win over the Boston Lowells. Both teams are now 2-2. Philip Sidney got the win for the Millays—or the Sonnets, as they’re sometimes called.

    In the American league:

    The Brooklyn Whitmans notched their first win of the season as they beat up on the Stevens 13-6. Peter Doyle was the winning pitcher and D.H. Lawrence had a couple of homeruns. Hartford, who had Landis Everson on the mound today, are now 3-1.

    The Frost edged the Moores 3-2 as Anne Sexton was a little better than Richard Aldington. New England took three out of four in New York.

    The London Eliots are the only team in the AL to remain unbeaten as they sweep the Cummings in Cambridge, winning today 9-6 behind Christopher Pearse Cranch.

    The Rapallo Pound got their first win as Olga Rudge beat the Amherst Emily 7-5. The Emily are tied for second place with a 3-1 mark.

    And finally, the Iowa City Grahams also improve to 3-1 as John Berryman shuts out the New Jersey Williams, 5-0. The losing pitcher was Ron Silliman, who struck out 8 but had a wild second where he walked in two with the bases loaded.

    THE STANDINGS

    NL

    POE 4-0
    BRYANTS 3-1
    LONGFELLOWS 3-1
    GINSBERGS 2-2
    LOWELLS 2-2
    WHITTIERS 2-2
    MILLAYS 2-2
    RANSOMS 1-3
    ASHBERYS 1-3
    EMERSONS 0-4

    AL

    ELIOTS 4-0
    STEVENS 3-1
    EMILY 3-1
    GRAHAMS 3-1
    FROST 3-1
    WILLIAMS 1-3
    MOORES 1-3
    POUND 1-3
    WHITMANS 1-3
    CUMMINGS 0-4

  29. Bob Tonucci said,

    April 12, 2010 at 8:49 am

    In Praise of Lies

    James Allen Hall

    The woman who taught me to curse first gave me She-Ra dolls.
    My favorite, flame-haired Cast-a-Spella, crumbled castle walls
    with the furious blue heat of her incantations.
    And so I learned early
    the world changed to better deserve the princess warrior.

    My mother told me I had a beautiful face.

    Later, when a boy at school called me “faggot,” my mother overheard.
    She flashed her badge, threatened jail time. She was a crossing guard,
    an abuse of power in steel-toe boots. My mother taught me
    “may-el-ven-ee,” Finnish for “go to hell.”
    For years, I fouled my enemies
    with gibberish, believing her words protected me.

    The day I came out, we argued in a kitchen. Our fight heated
    beyond repair. She charged, her fist a glimmering horde of steak knives.

    I struck my mother down and my father took her place.
    I struck my father down and I took his place.
    Something cobbled from the wreck rose in my stead.

    It did not have a beautiful face.

    Wherever my mother is tonight,
    praise her. She invented the woman who taught me passion,
    not beauty, is the mother of truth.

    Bad copy that I am, I can only turn to ash She-Ra’s plastic fortress,
    every cave that shelters the monster who serves my mother still.

  30. thomasbrady said,

    April 14, 2010 at 12:50 pm

    CONCORD EMERSONS WIN THEIR FIRST CONTEST

    Last night’s scores:

    NL

    Poe 2 Ashbery 1 W-Pope
    Ginsberg 4 Bryant 2 W-Burroughs
    Whittier 3 Ransom 1 W-Garrison
    Longfellow 3 Millay 2 W-Horace
    Emerson 4 Lowell 3 W-James

    AL

    Whitman 7 Moore 1 W-Wilde
    Frost 5 Cummings 4 10 inns. W-Untermeyer
    Eliot 3 Emily 2 W-Russell
    Pound 5 Graham 0 W-Kenner
    Stevens 6 Williams 0 W-Santayana

  31. thomasbrady said,

    April 15, 2010 at 12:44 pm

    POE STAYS UNBEATEN IN NL, ELIOTS 5-1 IN AL

    April 14 Wednesday scores:

    NL

    POE 5 ASHBERY 1 W-HUMBOLDT
    GINSBERG 13 BRYANT 3 W-VAN DOREN
    WHITTIER 3 RANSOM 2 W-WILBERFORCE
    MILLAY 6 LONGFELLOW 5 W-O’NEIL
    EMERSON 7 LOWELL 6 W-GREELEY

    AL

    MOORE 10 WHITMAN 2 W-KREYMBORG
    CUMMINGS 3 FROST 2 W-AYER
    ELIOT 2 EMILY 1 W-FRAZIER
    GRAHAM 4 POUND 3 W-SACKS
    WILLIAMS 4 STEVENS 2 W-WHALEN

  32. thomasbrady said,

    April 16, 2010 at 12:42 pm

    Scores from Thursday, April 15

    NL

    Poe 5 Ashbery 2 W-Coleridge
    Bryant 8 Ginsberg 1 W-Fremont
    Ransom 4 Whittier 3 W-Jarrell
    Millay 7 Longfellow 5 W-Sophocles
    Emerson 7 Lowell 6 W-Griswold

    AL

    Whitman 8 Moore 4 W-McClure
    Frost 5 Cummings 2 W-Robinson
    Emily 6 Eliot 4 W-Bowles
    Pound 5 Graham 2 W-Monroe
    Stevens 9 Williams 4 W-Perloff

    Tonight’s Schedule

    NL

    Ginsberg (Kesey) at Poe (Bacon)
    Ransom (Richards) at Bryant (Cooper)
    Millay (Sidney) at Whittier (Langston)
    Ashbery (Bernstein) at Longfellow (Greene)
    Emerson (Nietzsche) at Lowell (Mencken)

    AL

    Cummings (Mayakovsky) at Whitman (Doyle)
    Emily (Hitchcock) at Frost (Sexton)
    Graham (Berryman) at Eliot (Cranch)
    Moore (Aldington) at Pound (Rudge)
    Stevens (Everson) at Williams (Silliman)

  33. thomasbrady said,

    April 17, 2010 at 4:47 pm

    POE REMAINS UNBEATEN

    SILLIMAN WINS FIRST GAME FOR NEW JERSEY

    Friday Nite Scores

    NL

    Poe 5 Ginsberg 2 W-Bacon
    Ransom 2 Bryant 1 W-Richards
    Whittier 5 Millay 4 W-Langston
    Ashbery 9 Longfellow 0 W-Bernstein
    Lowell 7 Emerson 2 W-Mencken

    AL

    Cummings 5 Whitman 2 W-Mayakovsky
    Emily 11 Frost 5 W-Hitchcock
    Graham 3 Eliot 2 W-Berryman
    Moore 10 Pound 2 W-Aldington
    Williams 4 Stevens 3 W-Silliman

  34. thomasbrady said,

    April 17, 2010 at 10:53 pm

    STANDINGS THRU FRI APRIL 17

    NL

    PHILADELPHIA POE 9-0
    NEW JERSEY GINSBERGS 5-4
    MAINE MILLAYS 5-4
    HARTFORD WHITTIERS 5-4
    NEW YORK BRYANTS 5-4
    TENNESSEE RANSOMS 4-5
    BOSTON LOWELLS 4-5
    CAMBRIDGE LONGFELLOWS 4-5
    CONCORD EMERSONS 3-6
    BROOKLYN ASHBERYS 2-7

    AMHERST EMILY 6-3
    LONDON ELIOTS 6-3
    IOWA CITY GRAHAMS 6-3
    NEW JERSEY STEVENS 5-4
    NEW ENGLAND FROST 5-4
    NEW JERSEY WILLIAMS 4-5
    NEW YORK MOORES 4-5
    RAPALLO POUND 3-6
    CAMBRIDGE CUMMINGS 3-6
    BROOKLYN WHITMANS 3-6

    HOMERUNS

    NL

    BOB DYLAN NJ 3
    BYRON PHIL 2
    VIRGINIA POE PHIL 2

    AL

    JAMES MERRILL HART 2
    ROBERT HASS NE 2
    YEATS RAP 2
    PICASSO CAMB 2
    DH LAWRENCE BRKLYN 2

    RBIS

    NL

    BOB DYLAN NJ 10
    SHARON OLDS NJ 10

    AL

    JOHN HOLLANDER HART 12
    SEAMUS HEANEY NE 12
    PAUL VALERY HART 11
    MALLARME HART 10
    DOS PASSOS CAMB 10

  35. thomasbrady said,

    April 18, 2010 at 5:42 pm

    POE WINNING STREAK STOPPED AT NINE

    The Philadelphia Poe lost to the New Jersey Ginsbergs as Timothy Leary prevailed over Percy Shelley, 4-3. The Ginsbergs, whose Bob Dylan/Sharon Olds offense leads all NL clubs with 60 runs scored, move up to 6-4, 3 games behind the 9-1 Poe.

    Other NL scores:

    NY BRYANTS 6 TENNESSEE RANSOM 3 W-PARKE GODWIN
    HARTFORD WHITTIERS 5 MAINE MILLAYS 4 W-JOHN BROWN
    CAMBRIDGE LONGFELLOWS 3 BROOKLYN ASHBERYS 2 W-PAUL REVERE
    BOSTON LOWELLS 5 CONCORD EMERSONS 4, 11 inns. W-S.H. GAY

    In the AL, the IOWA CITY GRAHAMS moved into first place as they tripped up the LONDON ELIOTS, 5-4 in 13 innings. MARIE HOWE got the win in relief of Donald Revel.

    In other Saturday games:

    BROOKLYN WHITMANS 8 CAMBRIDGE CUMMINGS 4 W-SWINBURNE
    NEW ENGLAND FROST 10 AMHERST EMILY 8 W-ROBERT BURNS
    RAPALLO POUND 5 NEW YORK MOORES 0 W-LOUIS ZUKOVSKY
    NEW JERSEY WILLIAMS 3 HARTFORD STEVENS 2 W-W.S. MERWIN

    PTICHING LEADERS

    SHUTOUTS (TIED WITH 1)

    FREMONT, NY BRYANTS
    PERLOFF, HARTFORD STEVENS
    BACON, PHIL POE
    BERRYMAN, IOWA CITY GRAHAMS
    SHELLEY, PHIL POE
    CHARLES BERNSTEIN, BRKLN ASHBERYS
    LOUIS ZUKOVSKY, RAPALLO POUND

    WINS

    NL

    POPE, POE 2-0
    HUMBOLDT, POE 2-0
    COLERIDGE, POE 2-0
    BACON, POE 2-0
    VAN DOREN, GINSBERGS 2-0
    LEARY, GINSBERGS 2-0
    FREMONT, BRYANTS 2-0
    WILLIAM LLOYD GARRISON, WHITTIERS 2-0
    J. LANGSTON, WHITTIERS 2-0
    HORACE, LONGFELLOWS 2-0
    JARRELL, RANSOM 2-0

    AL

    SAMUEL BOWLES, EMILY 2-0
    BERRYMAN, GRAHAMS 2-0
    BERTRAND RUSSELL, ELIOTS 2-0
    JAMES FRAZIER, ELIOTS 2-0
    UNTERMEYER, FROST 2-0
    SANTAYANA, STEVENS 2-0
    PERLOFF, STEVENS 2-0
    PHILIP WHALEN, WILLIAMS 2-0

  36. thomasbrady said,

    April 19, 2010 at 4:12 pm

    POE (9-2) DEFEATED BY THE GINSBERGS AGAIN; POPE KNOCKED AROUND BY RED HOT NEW JERSEY; POE’S NL LEAD CUT TO 2 GAMES

    IOWA CITY GRAHAMS (8-3) EDGE ELIOTS AS THEY CONTINUE TO SURPRISE; IOWA CITY ALONE IN FIRST IN AL.

    Sunday’s scores

    NL

    Ginsbergs 12 Poe 4 W-Burroughs
    Bryants 8 Ransom 5 W-Lincoln
    Whittiers 7 Millays 4 W-William Lloyd Garrison
    Longfellows 5 Ashberys 0 W-Horace
    Lowells 7 Emersons 4 W-Leigh Hunt

    AL

    Whitmans 1 Cummings 0 W-Wilde
    Frost 3 Emily 1 W-Untermeyer
    Grahams 6 Eliots 5 W-Ramke
    Moores 1 Pound 0 W-Pater
    Stevens 4 Williams 3 W-Santayana

  37. Bob Tonucci said,

    April 20, 2010 at 9:01 am

    The Night Game

    Robert Pinsky

    Some of us believe
    We would have conceived romantic
    Love out of our own passions
    With no precedents,
    Without songs and poetry—
    Or have invented poetry and music
    As a comb of cells for the honey.

    Shaped by ignorance,
    A succession of new worlds,
    Congruities improvised by
    Immigrants or children.

    I once thought most people were Italian,
    Jewish or Colored.
    To be white and called
    Something like ‘Ed Ford’
    Seemed aristocratic,
    A rare distinction.

    Possibly I believed only gentiles
    And blonds could be left-handed.

    Already famous
    After one year in the majors,
    Whitey Ford was drafted by the Army
    To play ball in the flannels
    Of the Signal Corps, stationed
    In Long Branch, New Jersey.

    A night game, the silver potion
    Of the lights, his pink skin
    Shining like a burn.

    Never a player
    I liked or hated: a Yankee,
    A mere success.

    But white the chalked-off lines
    In the grass, white and green
    The immaculate uniform,
    And white the unpigmented
    Halo of his hair
    When he shifted his cap:

    So ordinary and distinct,
    So close up, that I felt
    As if I could have made him up,
    Imagined him as I imagined

    The ball, a scintilla
    High in the black backdrop
    Of the sky. Tight red stitches.
    Rawlings. The bleached

    Horsehide white: the color
    Of nothing. Color of the past
    And of the future, of the movie screen
    At rest and of blank paper.

    “I could have.” The mind. The black
    Backdrop, the white
    Fly picked out by the towering
    Lights. A few years later

    On a blanket in the grass
    By the same river
    A girl and I came into
    Being together
    To the faint muttering
    Of unthinkable
    Troubadours and radios.

    The emerald
    Theater, the night.
    Another time,
    I devised a left-hander
    Even more gifted
    Than Whitey Ford: a Dodger.
    People were amazed by him.
    Once, when he was young,
    He refused to pitch on Yom Kippur.

  38. thomasbrady said,

    April 20, 2010 at 12:25 pm

    I was a Juan Marichal fan myself, but not for any elaborate ethnic reasons. He pitched for the Giants. While the Pinsky poem is nicely done, there is an odor of dishonesty about it. For instance,

    Possibly I believed only gentiles
    And blonds could be left-handed.

    Possibly. One gets the idea he never believed this, but for the sake of the poem he puts it in. The narrator isn’t really trustworthy. For the sake of the poem he is too naive.

    But baseball is certainly a great hook to hang all kinds of things on.

    It might be amusing to point out the following:

    The Philadelphia Poe has a much better away record; the Poe are not loved in their own city.

    The New York Bryants (possibly) have an effigy of Thomas Jefferson looking rather miserable, hanging over centerfield.

    Every game the Whittiers play features some kind of riot in the stands.

    The Longfellows’ home park features a giant chestnut tree growing in rightfield. It’s a rightfielder’s nightmare.

    The Lowells forbid booing in their ballpark.

    The Maine Millays play on a rock, overlooking the sea.

    The New Jersey Ginsbergs play home games in a haze of pot smoke.

    The Ransoms have literary principles in their programs.

    The Ashbery home field has wiggles and swirls on the outfield fences, making it impossible for the batter to pick up the ball.

    The Emersons have giant invisible eyeballs on their uniforms and their logo is the Union Jack.

    Whitman wants all his players to grow beards—even the women.

    The Williams relief pitchers are wheeled into play by red wheelbarrows, which always gets the crowd clucking.

    Frost refuses to have his outfield walls made of anything but loose boulders.

    The Eliots charge the highest prices in their park. The organist plays dirges when the other team is up, cheap drinking songs when the Eliots are at bat.

    You don’t want to attend a game at Pound’s home park. Wine is everywhere.

    Commissioner Bloom and Player Union Rep Paglia are going out of their minds…

  39. thomasbrady said,

    April 21, 2010 at 1:25 pm

    NEW JERSEY BEATS PHILADLEPHIA AGAIN; POE LOSES THIRD STRAIGHT TO GINSBERGS AS MARK VAN DOREN OUTDUELS ALEXANDER HUMBOLDT. THE COLUMBIA PROFESSOR IS 3-0!

    NEW YORK BRYANTS AND THE TENNESSEE RANSOM PLAY WITH SECTARIAN EMOTION—NORTH V. SOUTH—HAMILTONIAN FEDERALISM V. JEFFERSONIAN AGRARIANISM. NY TOOK 3 OUT OF 4 AT HOME IN A ROWDY ATMOSPHERE.

    Tues. nite April 20 scores

    NL

    Ginsbergs 4 Poe 2 W-Van Doren
    Bryants 5 Ransoms 4 W-Alexander Hamilton
    Millays 4 Whittiers 2 W-Eugene O’Neill
    Longfellows 5 Ashberys 2 W-Ticknor
    Lowells 6 Emersons 1 W-Henry Adams

    AL

    Whitmans 5 Cummings 3 W-Matthiessen
    Frost 7 Emily 6 W-Sandburg
    Eliots 5 Grahams 1 W-George Frazier
    Pound 6 Moore 4 W-Charles Olson
    Stevens 2 Williams 1 W-Vendler

    THE WHITMANS LOST THEIR FIRST 3 GAMES, BUT HAVE BATTLED BACK TO .500 IN THE AL, WITH ACE OSCAR WILDE WINNING TWO STRAIGHT.

    THE NEW ENGLAND FROST, HAVING JUST BEATEN AMHERST 3 STRAIGHT, HAVE TIED IOWA CITY, THE SURPRISE IN THE AL, FOR FIRST PLACE. BOTH CLUBS ARE NOW 8-4. IOWA CITY HAS 2 WINS EACH FROM RAMKE AND BERRYMAN, WHILE THE FROST HAVE 3 WINS FROM LOUIS UNTERMEYER AND 2 FROM CARL SANDBURG. THE FROST HAVE ALSO PICKED UP STARTING PITCHER BOBBY BURNS, WHO SHOULD BE A BIG HELP.

    THE ASHBERYS ARE LIVING IN THE BASEMENT IN THE NL, BUT IT SHOULD BE ONLY A MATTER OF TIME BEFORE THEY START WINNING, AS THEIR STARTING PITCHERS ARE ANDY WARHOL, SAMUEL BECKETT, WITTGENSTEIN, CHARLES BERNSTEIN, AND ANDREW MARVELL. THESE GUYS ARE NOTHING IF NOT CLEVER. THERE IS TALK THAT WARHOL (0-3) DOESN’T HAVE THE COMPETITIVE FIRE, BUT WE’LL SEE.

    STANDINGS

    NL

    POE 9-3
    GINSBERGS 8-4
    BRYANTS 7-5
    LONGFELLOWS 7-5
    LOWELLS 7-5
    WHITTIERS 7-5
    MILLAYS 6-6
    RANSOMS 4-8
    EMERSONS 3-9
    ASHBERYS 2-10

    AL

    GRAHAMS 8-4
    FROST 8-4
    ELIOTS 7-5
    STEVENS 7-5
    EMILY 6-6
    WHITMANS 6-6
    WILLIAMS 5-7
    MOORES 5-7
    POUND 5-7
    CUMMINGS 3-9

  40. thomasbrady said,

    April 23, 2010 at 9:44 pm

    Here’s Thursday night’s scores:

    NL

    Poe 4 Ransom 0, W- Pope
    Bryants 4 Millays 3 W-Lincoln
    Longfellows 6 Whittiers 3 W-Horace
    Lowells 5 Ashberys 2 W-Leigh Hunt
    Emersons 4 Ginsbergs 3 W-William James

    AL

    Whitmans 4 Emily 3, 12 innings, W-Wilde
    Frost 3 Grahams 1 W-Untermeyer
    Eliots 4 Pound 2 W-Bertie Russell
    Moores 4 Williams 3 W-Pater
    Stevens 5 Cummings 4 W-Santayana

    The red-hot Whitmans move over .500, after starting the year at 0-3. The New England Frost move into first place in the AL at 9-4 as Louis Untermeyer continues to pitch like an ace.

    In the NL, the hard-charging Ginsbergs lost 4-3 to William James and the Emersons as they fall 2 games behind the first place Philadelphia Poe, who blanked the Tennessee Ransom behind Alexander Pope. Tennessee’s Allen Tate charged the mound in the fourth inning, leading to a small riot which halted play for a half hour. The Poe and the Ransom do not like each other and they make no secret about it.

    Horace of the Cambridge Longfellows, Santayana of the Hartford Stevens, and Untermeyer of the New England Frost, all in the AL, are the league’s first 4 game winners.

  41. thomasbrady said,

    April 24, 2010 at 10:19 pm

    Friday night scores…

    NL

    PHILADELPHIA POE 1 TENNESSEE RANSOM 0 W-ALEXANDER HUMBOLDT
    NEW YORK BRYANTS 3 MAINE MILLAYS 2 W-ALEXANDER HAMILTON
    CAMBRIDGE LONGFELLOWS 7 HARTFORD WHITTIERS 4 W-TICKNOR
    BOSTON LOWELLS 5 BROOKLYN ASHBERYS 4 W-HENRY ADAMS
    CONCORD EMERSONS 3 NEW JERSEY GINSBERGS W-HORACE GREELEY

    AL

    AMHERST EMILY 6 BROOKLYN WHITMANS 1 W-VIRGIL
    IOWA CITY GRAHAMS 3 NEW ENGLAND FROST 2 W-PETER SACKS
    RAPALLO POUND 15 LONDON ELIOTS 4 W-GEORGE FRAZIER
    NEW JERSEY WILLIAMS 6 MOORE 5, 15 inns. W-F.S. FLINT
    HARTFORD STEVENS 5 CAMBRIDGE CUMMINGS 3 W-HELEN VENDLER

  42. Anonymous said,

    April 25, 2010 at 5:12 pm

    POE BLANKS RANSOM IN THIRD STRAIGHT GAME

    The Southern ‘back-stab’ of Poe by the Fugitive/Southern Agrarian/New Critics has been revenged in a big way, as the Philadelphia Poe have taken it to the Tennessee Ransom by shutting them out for 27 consecutive innings.

    Meanwhile the Poe have put some distance between themselves and the New Jersey Ginsbergs in the National League. NJ came within one game of Philly after taking 3 out of 4 against the Poe in Philly’s home park.

    Sam Coleridge twirled a 3 hitter for the Poe, striking out 13 against the hapless Tennessee ballclub who fall to 4-11 after losing their sixth straight. The last victory for the Ransom was a 2-1 victory over the New York Bryants on April 16, with I.A. Richards the winning pitcher for Tennessee.

    Good news for the Ransom, though. They are close to signing Aristotle.

    Here are the scores for Saturday, April 24:

    NL

    Poe 4 Ransom 0 W- Coleridge
    Millays 3 Bryants 2 W-Sophocles
    Whittiers 6 Longfellows 4 W-C. Langston
    Lowells 4 Ashberys 3 W-Charles Eliot Norton
    Emersons 7 Ginsbergs 3 W-Rufus Griswold

    AL

    Emily 5 Whitmans 4 W-Samuel Bowles
    Frost 9 Grahams 3 W-E.A. Robinson
    Eliots 5 Pound 4 W-Tristan Corbiere
    Williams 7 Moores 2 W-Robin Blaser
    Cummings 8 Stevens 3 W-Scofield Thayer

  43. thomasbrady said,

    April 26, 2010 at 10:08 pm

    POE COMPLETES BLANKING OF RANSOM, EMERSONS SWEEP GINSBERGS

    SUNDAY’S NL SCORES

    POE 3 RANSOM 0 W-LORD BACON
    MILLAYS 9 BRYANTS 5 W-PHILIP SIDNEY
    LONGFELLOWS 4 WHITTIERS 3 W-G.W. GREENE
    LOWELLS 4 ASHBERYS 3, 11 INNS W-H.L.MENCKEN
    EMERSONS 5 GINSBERGS 2 W-NIETZSCHE

    SEXTON PITCHES FROST INTO FIRST, LANDIS EVERSON WINS FOR STEVENS AS THEY HANG CLOSE, RON SILLIMAN PITCHES WILLIAMS TO THEIR 3RD STRAIGHT WIN.

    AL SUNDAY SCORES

    EMILY 6 WHITMANS 2 W-EDWARD HITCHCOCK
    FROST 5 GRAHAMS 2 W-SEXTON
    POUND 3 ELIOTS 2 W-OLGA RUDGE
    WILLIAMS 3 MOORES 2, 11 INNS. W-SILLIMAN
    STEVENS 4 CUMMINGS 3 W-LANDIS EVERSON


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