Golf & Poetry
The onset of winter always transports me into the strange netherworld of nostalgia, where the things that have happened merge with the things that didn’t, and run headlong into the things that could have, and perhaps should have.
Golf is a great lifeline to pull oneself through these currents – golf transports the mind back into the here-and-now of each shot, and offers a whole other collection of shoulda-woulda-couldas to fret over. But seeing as it’s winter in Illinois, golf is pretty much out for a few months.
Another way to stay afloat is poetry.
Now don’t laugh. Golf and poetry have more in common than you probably imagine. So bear with me.
Former U.S. Poet Laureate Billy Collins commented last year in an interview in Golf Magazine, that he wasn’t aware of any good golf poems–or any golf poems at all. For the magazine’s 45th Anniversary issue, he contributed one. That poem was good–competent and well-crafted, as one would expect from one of the nation’s premier poets.
Nevertheless, I took issue with the misconception that there were no golf poems before that one, as would, I think, John Updike, who has written eloquently in both prose and verse on the game.
To further address and redress the matter, I offer the following, written years ago as my wife and I awaited the birth of our first child, and I awaited an early-morning round.
Even
We begin
In dewy perfection –
Nowhere to go
But forward and down.
Squinting in genesis-light,
Yawning great, fresh breaths –
This is the best
We will ever be:
This green day,
This first brave step
Into preordained,
Unavoidable,
Thrilling and terrible
Decline.
No matter the place
Or condition
in which you finish
this long day,
Let all who saw you
know that once
You were flawless –
On that first tee
You were Even.
Then, inevitable as
The first inhalation
Leads ultimately to death,
So too the first swing
Brings you to
One over perfect.
| « Not missing the NHL | Giving Thanks » |


Recent comments