CAROLYN CREEDON, YOU’RE IN THE FINAL FOUR!

We believe that poetry can be popular again.

If the best poems by our poets were consistently and selflessly collected, advertised, anthologized, and taught, so that work of true merit were allowed to circulate in the public and academic spheres, the art would regain its former status as one of the fine arts.

After years of Modernist propaganda, poetry is equated with basket-weaving and the trinket market. The public at large views poetry as self-indulgent, as does the remaining professional class of poets and teachers of poetry—who define their poetry as whatever is stripped of all self-indulgence.  But the “self” has nothing to do with it.  Self-indulgence will always accompany the genius and the flub alike: great athletes can be self-indulgent, as can any great artist.  But they are still great athletes and great artists.  To make a rule that poetry ought not to be self-indulgent, ought not to be an indulgence, a selfish act, or express aspects of the self, misses the whole point: it only matters if poetry aspires to win both the critical and popular judgment, and it matters not how this is done, as long as it is done.

The poet who scorns popular taste is a cold-blooded creature; a lizard happy to stay where the rock is warmed by the slanting rays of his or her coterie.

The poet who scorns the critical taste, who is happy to be unread and unlearned, and who seeks to please only with crude sensationalism, cheap politics, and coarse music, is the jelly-fish feeding in warm shallows, eventually blending in with its surrounding element, and, when all is said and done, finally making less of an impact than the cold-blooded lizard on his rock.

The poet, however, who does both: who loves the public and is able to please this child of the ages—for here is humanity waiting to be fed—and pleases the select, the elite, the learned at the same time, is the true poet.

All sorts of excuses and obstacles exist to prevent this happy occasion: the trouble really began when Modernism cashed in on the idea that artistic and offensive were the same thing.

This wasn’t just a matter of a few crackpot theorists in the 1920s converting the world to their view, because the public, as gullible and distracted as it sometimes is, is not that easily persuaded.  What happened in the early 20th century was that art fraud made such a killing, art has not been the same since.  Modern art—the kind the public found to be rubbish—was bought cheap by insiders with a lot of money, and then, after critics and museums were purchased to increase the value of what had been bought, the insiders with a lot of money made even more money, so much money, that fraud became beautiful, and reality, by money, was turned upside down.  The ugly was now beautiful because the dollar said it was so.  The poet or artist once had to be talented—now they merely had to know the right people and cash in on fraud.  People like William James and John Dewey and Getrude Stein (she and her brother Leo belonged to those insiders with money who bought art for little that would soon make a lot) made it happen.  It is no accident that William James was Ralph Waldo Emerson’s godson, and that Gertrude Stein, taught by William James at Harvard, not only impacted modern art, but modern poetry, and John Ashbery wrote about Gertrude Stein, and O’Hara and Ashbery were in the Modern Art scene.  This wasn’t an accident.  Scams need scam artists and the best scam artists appear respectable, and the greatest scam artists pass for artists—or poets, or philosophers, or art critics.

Fraud, unfortunately, makes a great deal of money, so much money, that fraud then becomes the philosophical, economic, and aesthetic coin of the realm.

But we shouldn’t be too depressed by all this.  Beauty and wisdom and life remain—and laughter—as the wise laugh at the frauds.

Poems are still written and songs are still sung which are not offensive, which please both the popular and the critical taste.

Carolyn Creedon’s “litany” is one of those poems (and they are being written today) which should be celebrated and put in the spotlight.   Bad poems will always be written, but if the good poems are collected and celebrated, the public may trust the process again, and return to poetry.  The public is wary, however.  Fraud made its play, and won.  It will be a long process to woo the public back.

Gillian Conoley’s poem, “Beckon,” is too obscure to satisfy the popular taste; she has befuddled the opposition as she has advanced, but against the exquisite clarity of “litany,” Conoley’s words seem but islands, isolated and alone.

Again, we present one of the best poems of the 20th century, by Carolyn Creedon:

litany

Tom, will you let me love you in your restaurant?
i will let you make me a sandwich of your invention and i will eat it and call
it a carolyn sandwich. then you will kiss my lips and taste the mayonnaise and
that is how you shall love me in my restaurant

Tom, will you come to my empty beige apartment and help me set up my daybed?
yes, and i will put the screws in loosely so that when we move on it, later,
it will rock like a cradle and then you will know you are my baby

Tom, I am sitting on my dirt bike on the deck. Will you come out from the kitchen
and watch the people with me?
yes, and then we will race to your bedroom. i will win and we will tangle up
on your comforter while the sweat rains from our stomachs and foreheads

Tom, the stars are sitting in tonight like gumball gems in a little girl’s
jewelry box. Later can we walk to the duck pond?
yes, and we can even go the long way past the jungle gym. i will push you on
the swing, but promise me you’ll hold tight. if you fall i might disappear

Tom, can we make a baby together? I want to be a big pregnant woman with a loved face and give you a squalling red daughter.
no, but i will come inside you and you will be my daughter

Tom, will you stay the night with me and sleep so close that we are one person?
no, but i will lay down on your sheets and taste you. there will be feathers
of you on my tongue and then i will never forget you

Tom, when we are in line at the convenience store can I put my hands in your
back pockets and my lips and nose in your baseball shirt and feel the crook
of your shoulder blade?
no, but later you can lay against me and almost touch me and when i go i will
leave my shirt for you to sleep in so that always at night you will be pressed
up against the thought of me

Tom, if I weep and want to wait until you need me will you promise that someday
you will need me?
no, but i will sit in silence while you rage. you can knock the chairs down
any mountain. i will always be the same and you will always wait

Tom, will you climb on top of the dumpster and steal the sun for me? It’s just
hanging there and I want it.
no, it will burn my fingers. no one can have the sun: it’s on loan from god.
but i will draw a picture of it and send it to you from richmond and then you
can smooth out the paper and you will have a piece of me as well as the sun

Tom, it’s so hot here, and I think I’m being born. Will you come back from
Richmond and baptise me with sex and cool water?
i will come back from richmond. i will smooth the damp spiky hairs from the
back of your wet neck and then i will lick the salt off it. then i will leave

Tom, Richmond is so far away. How will I know how you love me?
i have left you. that is how you will know

MARLA MUSE INTERVIEWS CAROLYN CREEDON

MM: Carolyn Creedon!  One more win and you’re going to the Final Four!

CC: Wow.

MM: Think about that for a moment. You’re more or less an unknown poet, but you’ve shot, passed, and rebounded yourself into a position to win the Scarriet APR 2011 Title.

CC: I’m honored.

MM: Look at the poets in this tournament: Larkin, Olds, Ashbery, Hall, O’Hara, Lowell, Justice, Bly, Ginsberg, Plath, Sexton, Heaney…

CC: It blows my mind.

MM: No one knows who you are. Would you like to talk a little about your poetry career?

CC: I guess so.

MM: We can talk about Oprah memories we’ll never forget, if you like.

CC:  The cars. When she gave away the cars.

MM: I was kidding.

CC: I know.

MM: Are you nervous?

CC: You seem nervous.

MM: Scarriet is a nervous place.  But a good Muse is always a little edgy.

CC: I like to be calm when I write.

MM: Inspiration requires a certain shudder, even if it’s small, a nervous energy. I inspire. I’m a muse.  Marla Muse.

CC: The tiny hairs might move.

MM: Yes!

CC: Great!

MM: Let’s talk about ‘Litany,’ a poem I love, by the way.  Was his name really Tom?

CC:  No.  But I always liked the name.

MM:  If all poems were as good as ‘Litany,’ poetry would be popular again.

CC:  You flatter me!

MM: No, I’m serious.  But too many others want to publish inferior poetry.

CC: But I love other poets and other poems.

MM: Of course you do!  Carolyn Creedon, I have a feeling you’re going all the way!  Good luck!

CC: Thank you.

A CONSPIRACY OF A CONSPIRACY

Helen Vendler titled one of her books, “The Music Of What Happens,” a quote from the poet Seamus Heaney, whom she greatly admires.

But music doesn’t happen—music which moves us has an inevitable quality, just as mathematical science reveals nature’s permanence to our rolling eyes, just as beautiful verses make their statement like stone.

Leslie Scalapino, vying for Sweet Sixteen against Carolyn Creedon, is the supreme poet of what happens.  APR excerpted Ms. Scalapino’s that they were at the beach—one of four long parts in their anthology The Body Electric, source of Scarriet’s 2011 March (May) Madness Tournament.  I laughed when I read this:

Beginning to honk, because a man in a car behind me looked as if he were going to take my parking space, it’s near shops, is crowded—I honked before seeing that he’s old.  And it appearing he hadn’t wanted the parking place.

Here is poetry that happens, and this is Scalapino’s genius—no poetry happens quite like hers.  It lives in the present—reading her poem you think along with her in the present.  If poetry is news that stays news, Scalapino is the most up-to-the-minute news of all, because no one immerses you in happening right now like her.

As we pointed out during her second-round victory,  Scalapino’s poetry is nerdy and helpless and sensitive—which makes her absolutely adorable; she is so much in the present, the poem always moving forward so engagingly and innocently and vigilantly and anxiously and hopelessly, that as ‘experimental’ as perhaps this is, I actually enjoy reading her.

It would be a mistake, however, to think of Scalapino’s poetry( “I’m not retroactive—corresponds to making jokes because it’s in the past”) as bizarre or mysterious, because it’s the opposite of that—it’s plain to an extreme degree.  It represents the anti-spiritual, the anti-intellectual, the plain person who just wants to belong to the world in a plain way.

If you want what happens, read Scalapino.

If you want inevitable, read Creedon.

We read “Litany” by Carolyn Creedon with wonder and horror.  Its end is contained in its beginning.  We knew her poem had to end this way.

The details of Creedon’s poem come to us, not as events that are happening, as in that they were at the beach, but as images from a dream, which we turn over in our minds long afterwards.

The Tom of Creedon’s poem will love the narrator nevermore.

The Scalapino washes over us.  It is essentially comic.

The Creedon haunts us.  It is essentially tragic.

This whole Osama Bin Laden business:  not only is it rooted in horror and tragedy, but it has a secret, conspiratorial aspect. There are temperaments that look for conspiracy—and here we might genius, or we might find paranoia.  Usually paranoia—but we never should dissuade genius.  A conspiracy of a conspiracy is a natural development, for facts matter less in puzzling politicial matters than the factions it inevitably creates, with one side content they do not believe in conspiracies, and the other side tortured that they do.

Creedon’s poem speaks to the torture, Scalapino’s to the blandness associated with existing beneath the status quo in a world of sense experience—a world without conspiracy that happens by chance.

Creedon’s poem thinks: it was inevitable that Tom would leave me.

In this torture is a certain kind of art’s highest pleasure.

Creedon defeats Scalapino 101-100.

It had to be.

Right?

I’m only Tom, cheering helplessly from the stands.

litany

Tom, will you let me love you in your restaurant?
i will let you make me a sandwich of your invention and i will eat it and call
it a carolyn sandwich. then you will kiss my lips and taste the mayonnaise and
that is how you shall love me in my restaurant

Tom, will you come to my empty beige apartment and help me set up my daybed?
yes, and i will put the screws in loosely so that when we move on it, later,
it will rock like a cradle and then you will know you are my baby

Tom, I am sitting on my dirt bike on the deck. Will you come out from the kitchen
and watch the people with me?
yes, and then we will race to your bedroom. i will win and we will tangle up
on your comforter while the sweat rains from our stomachs and foreheads

Tom, the stars are sitting in tonight like gumball gems in a little girl’s
jewelry box. Later can we walk to the duck pond?
yes, and we can even go the long way past the jungle gym. i will push you on
the swing, but promise me you’ll hold tight. if you fall i might disappear

Tom, can we make a baby together? I want to be a big pregnant woman with a loved face and give you a squalling red daughter.
no, but i will come inside you and you will be my daughter

Tom, will you stay the night with me and sleep so close that we are one person?
no, but i will lay down on your sheets and taste you. there will be feathers
of you on my tongue and then i will never forget you

Tom, when we are in line at the convenience store can I put my hands in your
back pockets and my lips and nose in your baseball shirt and feel the crook
of your shoulder blade?
no, but later you can lay against me and almost touch me and when i go i will
leave my shirt for you to sleep in so that always at night you will be pressed
up against the thought of me

Tom, if I weep and want to wait until you need me will you promise that someday
you will need me?
no, but i will sit in silence while you rage. you can knock the chairs down
any mountain. i will always be the same and you will always wait

Tom, will you climb on top of the dumpster and steal the sun for me? It’s just
hanging there and I want it.
no, it will burn my fingers. no one can have the sun: it’s on loan from god.
but i will draw a picture of it and send it to you from richmond and then you
can smooth out the paper and you will have a piece of me as well as the sun

Tom, it’s so hot here, and I think I’m being born. Will you come back from
Richmond and baptise me with sex and cool water?
i will come back from richmond. i will smooth the damp spiky hairs from the
back of your wet neck and then i will lick the salt off it. then i will leave

Tom, Richmond is so far away. How will I know how you love me?
i have left you. that is how you will know

Carolyn Creedon

GOING FOR SWEET SIXTEEN!

Corso: Damn impulsive goon-faced proletariat-Shelley greaseball dopey fuck.

The East:

Barbara Guest v. Lisa Lewis

Leslie Scalapino v. William Matthews

Dorianne Laux v. Gillian Conoley

Gregory Corso v. Carolyn Creedon

Let’s get right to the action, because Sweet Sixteen is waiting!

First result:

Carolyn Creedon’s haunting “litany” (“Tom, will you let me love you in your restaurant”) has no trouble defeating Gregory Corso’s crazy “30th Year Dream” (“Damn impulsive goon-faced proletariat-Shelley greaseball dopey fuck!”)

CREEDON 90 CORSO 64

Carolyn Creedon is the first to make it to Sweet Sixteen!

CONGRATULATIONS TO THE FIRST ROUND MARCH MADNESS WINNERS!

winner

Let’s get this winners and losers business out of the way…

Here are the winners:

EAST BRACKET

LISA LEWIS (d. John Ashbery) Responsibility
WILLIAM MATTHEWS (d. James Wright) Good Company
GILLIAN CONOLEY (d. Robert Creeley) Beckon
CAROLYN CREEDON (d. James Tate)  litany
GREGORY CORSO (d. Stanley Kunitz)  30th Year Dream
DORIANNE LAUX (d. A.R. Ammons)  The Lovers
LESLIE SCALAPINO (d. Jack Spicer)  that they were at the beach
BARBARA GUEST (d. Larry Levis) Motion Pictures: 4

NORTH BRACKET

KAREN KIPP (d. Robert Lowell)  The Rat
JACK HIRSCHMANN (d. Robert Penn Warren*) The Painting
EILEEN MYLES (d. Frank O’Hara)  Eileen’s Vision
WILLIAM KULIK (d. Czeslaw Milosz)  Fictions
SHARON OLDS (d. Robin Becker)  The Request
TESS GALLAGHER (d. Richard Hugo)  The Hug
STEPHEN DOBYNS (d. Jim Harrison)  Allegorical Matters
AMY GERSTLER (d. Norman Dubie)  Sinking Feeling

NORTH BRACKET

JACK MYERS (d. Seamus Heaney)  The Experts
PHILIP LARKIN (d. Joseph Duemer)  Aubade
BILL KNOTT (d. Robert Bly)  Monodrome
EDWARD FIELD (d. Donald Justice)  Whatever Became of Freud
MAURA STANTON (d. Anne Carson)  The Veiled Lady
ALAN DUGAN (d. Hayden Carruth)  Drunken Memories of Anne Sexton
HOWARD NEMEROV (d. David Ignatow)  IFF
MICHAEL PALMER (d. Yusef Komunyakaa)  I Do Not

WEST BRACKET

ALLEN GINSBERG (d. Howard Moss) The Charnel Ground
DONALD HALL (d. Douglas Crase)  To A Waterfowl
RICHARD CECIL (d. Robert Hass)  Apology
JOY HARJO (d. Sylvia Plath)  A Post-Colonial Tale
JAMES SCHUYLER (d. Stephanie Brown)  Red Brick and Brown Stone
REED WHITTEMORE (d. Heather McHugh)  Smiling Through
STEPHEN DUNN (d. Sam Hamill)  What They Wanted
CAROL MUSKE (d. Charles Bukowski)  A Former Lover, A Lover of Form

* Robert Penn Warren resigned from the tourney

MARLA MUSE: Some of the losers I really don’t want to say goodbye to; the Milosz, the Justice, the Dubie, the McHugh…

The Bukowski…there’s something holy about his work, a wry honesty that few poets evince…I was thinking about the qualities that go into writing good poetry, both the New Critical qualities of the poem itself and those qualities the poet as a human being must have…

MARLA MUSE: The poet must say the right thing at the right time.

Or seem to.  Because in real situations in life, that’s a good quality to have: to be able to say the right thing at the right time, but for the poet, “time” can be years as they work on the poem, which distorts the meaning of that ability, the ability to say the right thing at the right time: if someone really has that ability in life, to really say the right thing at the right time, they wouldn’t need to fake it in a poem…

MARLA MUSE: Oh, you’re getting all Plato on me…life is real, poetry is fake

But isn’t it true, Marla, that ‘saying the right thing at the right time’ is not the same thing in life, as it is in poetry…poets can wait for the right time to pass, but in life, you can’t…the room is silent, and life calls for something to be said then, but to be a poet you can slink away and say something later…it doesn’t have to be at the right time

MARLA MUSE: The right time in the poem?

Yes, when you failed to say the right thing at the right time in life…

MARLA MUSE: But if we’re talking about qualities, the person who can say the right thing in a poem is probably the person who can say the right thing in life…

No, because if you can say the right thing at the right time in life, there’s no motivation to do so in a poem, for the poem is a shadow…life doesn’t let us wait years…

MARLA MUSE: But it does.  You are trying to connect life and poetry, you are trying to connect two things, and you can’t, and therefore you are saying nothing…

Am I?  So I shouldn’t have asked my original question: what qualities in life match those qualities in the poet…

MARLA MUSE: What about not fearing to go into an underground mine?  Does that help a poet?  To risk your life for somone else, does that have anything to do with being a poet?  I think we can only look at the poem.  I think the New Critics were right…

But Marla, you are beautiful!  How can you say something like that?

MARLA MUSE: Are we talking about poetry?

Thomas Brady is never talking about poetry, is he?

MARLA MUSE: Well, Tom, sometimes you do…

I’m thinking about that Bukowski poem, the car headlights, the remark by the mother, and the son’s joking, half-shameful, half-boastful response, and all the various parts in that Bukowski poem—isn’t the good poem when all those parts cohere?

MARLA MUSE: Bukowski lost! Why are you talking about him? Ah, you are recalling that debate you had…when you used the word “incoherent”…clever boy…you’re a New Critic, after all…

Yea, but the New Critics themselves were such narrow-minded, creepy—

MARLA MUSE: They hated the Romantics, that’s all, but that’s why you’re here, Tommy boy…

But right now this is not about me…congratulations, poets!

JAMES TATE, THE LAST NO. 4 SEED STANDING, TAKES ON CAROLYN CREEDON (13TH SEEDED)

Our last no. 4 seed first round contest (so far we’ve had three ‘Moorhead State over Louisville’ upsets) pits James Tate’s “Dream On” against “Litany” by Carolyn Creedon.  These are both relatively well-known works, but James Tate is by far the better known poet.

Tate tends to riff in an arch, detached manner on subjects accessible, gossipy, newsy, and then when the reader least expects it,  Tate shifts the detached view to an intimate one, and the reader is swallowed by the poem—expecting at first only to chuckle at it.  Much of it has to do with point of view—Tate is a wizard at not just mixing up point of view but using those changes in view to enthrall. Tate doesn’t waste energy trying to write ‘a poem.’ His prose finds the poem—often at the last minute.  Unlike other prose poets, like C.K. Williams, for example, Tate, more often than not, closes the deal—his poems finish with a jolt that makes the whole thing fall into place. With Tate, there’s no method or theory, only a ‘Jamesian intelligence’—one that gets it done much faster than that horrible fat old novelist could ever do.
 

DREAM ON

Some people go their whole lives
without ever writing a single poem.
Extraordinary people who don’t hesitate
to cut somebody’s heart or skull open.
They go to baseball games with the greatest of ease.
and play a few rounds of golf as if it were nothing.
These same people stroll into a church
as if that were a natural part of life.
Investing money is second nature to them.
They contribute to political campaigns
that have absolutely no poetry in them
and promise none for the future.
They sit around the dinner table at night
and pretend as though nothing is missing.
Their children get caught shoplifting at the mall
and no one admits that it is poetry they are missing.
The family dog howls all night,
lonely and starving for more poetry in his life.
Why is it so difficult for them to see
that, without poetry, their lives are effluvial.
Sure, they have their banquets, their celebrations,
croquet, fox hunts, their sea shores and sunsets,
their cocktails on the balcony, dog races,
and all that kissing and hugging, and don’t
forget the good deeds, the charity work,
nursing the baby squirrels all through the night,
filling the birdfeeders all winter,
helping the stranger change her tire.
Still, there’s that disagreeable exhalation
from decaying matter, subtle but everpresent.
They walk around erect like champions.
They are smooth-spoken and witty.
When alone, rare occasion, they stare
into the mirror for hours, bewildered.
There was something they meant to say, but didn’t:
“And if we put the statue of the rhinoceros
next to the tweezers, and walk around the room three times,
learn to yodel, shave our heads, call
our ancestors back from the dead–”
poetrywise it’s still a bust, bankrupt.
You haven’t scribbled a syllable of it.
You’re a nowhere man misfiring
the very essence of your life, flustering
nothing from nothing and back again.
The hereafter may not last all that long.
Radiant childhood sweetheart,
secret code of everlasting joy and sorrow,
fanciful pen strokes beneath the eyelids:
all day, all night meditation, knot of hope,
kernel of desire, pure ordinariness of life
seeking, through poetry, a benediction
or a bed to lie down on, to connect, reveal,
explore, to imbue meaning on the day’s extravagant labor.
And yet it’s cruel to expect too much.
It’s a rare species of bird
that refuses to be categorized.
Its song is barely audible.
It is like a dragonfly in a dream–
here, then there, then here again,
low-flying amber-wing darting upward
then out of sight.
And the dream has a pain in its heart
the wonders of which are manifold,
or so the story is told.

–James Tate

MARLA MUSE: I wonder if the last line might be written ‘or so the poem says’ to make the poem even more self-reflexive.

Marla, you can’t go out there and play the games for these guys!  We watch the games!  We admire the poetry!  You can’t do that!

MARLA MUSE: OK.

This poem by Tate is a tough one to beat.  Can Carolyn Creedon do it?

LITANY

Tom, will you let me love you in your restaurant?
i will let you make me a sandwich of your invention and i will eat it and call
it a carolyn sandwich. then you will kiss my lips and taste the mayonnaise and
that is how you shall love me in my restaurant

Tom, will you come to my empty beige apartment and help me set up my daybed?
yes, and i will put the screws in loosely so that when we move on it, later,
it will rock like a cradle and then you will know you are my baby

Tom, I am sitting on my dirt bike on the deck. Will you come out from the kitchen
and watch the people with me?
yes, and then we will race to your bedroom. i will win and we will tangle up
on your comforter while the sweat rains from our stomachs and foreheads

Tom, the stars are sitting in tonight like gumball gems in a little girl’s
jewelry box. Later can we walk to the duck pond?
yes, and we can even go the long way past the jungle gym. i will push you on
the swing, but promise me you’ll hold tight. if you fall i might disappear

Tom, can we make a baby together? I want to be a big pregnant woman with a
loved face and give you a squalling red daughter.
no, but i will come inside you and you will be my daughter

Tom, will you stay the night with me and sleep so close that we are one person?
no, but i will lay down on your sheets and taste you. there will be feathers
of you on my tongue and then i will never forget you

Tom, when we are in line at the convenience store can I put my hands in your
back pockets and my lips and nose in your baseball shirt and feel the crook
of your shoulder blade?
no, but later you can lay against me and almost touch me and when i go i will
leave my shirt for you to sleep in so that always at night you will be pressed
up against the thought of me

Tom, if I weep and want to wait until you need me will you promise that someday
you will need me?
no, but i will sit in silence while you rage, you can knock the chairs down
any mountain. i will always be the same and you will always wait

Tom, will you climb on top of the dumpster and steal the sun for me? It’s just
hanging there and I want it.
no, it will burn my fingers. no one can have the sun: it’s on loan from god.
but i will draw a picture of it and send it to you from richmond and then you
can smooth out the paper and you will have a piece of me as well as the sun

Tom, it’s so hot here, and I think I’m being born. Will you come back from
Richmond and baptise me with sex and cool water?
i will come back from richmond. i will smoothe the damp spiky hairs from the
back of your neck and then i will lick the salt off it. then i will leave

Tom, Richmond is so far away. How will I know how you love me?
i have left you. that is how you will know

–Carolyn Creedon

Gulp…both these poems are terrific…It’s tied…with three minutes to go…Creedon has the ball…love to loves-me-not…shoots!  Goooood!
Creedon up by two…poetry comes across the line…pass in the corner…dribbles…pass inside!…back
to the basket…hook…no good!…off the glass to…love…back up court…beautiful pass inside!…oh, but
it’s knocked away…loose ball…poetry has the ball…tied up again…possession love…time out!

Creedon up by two with two minutes left, and has the ball.  Takes it out…love, stuck in the corner…back outside…love sets a pick…driving inside…foul on the play…love to the free throw line with a minute and forty seconds to go…first shot is good…Creedon up by three, now…next shot, no good…Tate brings up the ball…passing around the perimeter…shot from three!…no good!…rebound Tate!…back up! good and fouled!!  One minute twenty five seconds…free throw is good…we’re tied…

Creedon takes it up…to love…love looks…poetry’s all over her…love passes outside…stolen by Tate!
lay-up is good…and Tate leads by two, with a minute, five seconds to go…Time out!  They talk…

Creedon with the ball…goes to love in the paint…turns…doesn’t take the shot, back outside…well-covered there…fifty seconds left…twenty on the shot clock…in the corner…now underneath…goes up!…no good!….rebound…who’s got it…love, outside for the three…no good!…ball, out of bounds…to Tate! Tate still ahead by two and we’ve got 42 seconds on the clock…time out Creedon! What a nail-biter, ladies and gentlemen!

Tate, up by two, brings it up…we’re down to 30 seconds…25 seconds…who’s going to take a shot?  We
are down to 20 seconds…fifteen…8 seconds on the shot clock…poetry drives…NO GOOD! and the
rebound comes off to love…Creedon has the ball, down by two, with 10 seconds left! Time out?  No, no time out…Quickly a pass inside…no room!…five seconds…back outside…love…takes a three…

GOOOOOOOD!!!!!!!

Carolyn Creedon has upset James Tate!!  A three point shot with two seconds left on the clock!

Carolyn Creedon advances!


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