Poetry, April 30
Apr. 30th, 2008 08:12 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jade_sabreIt's the last day of National Poetry Month! I hope you have, at least at one point during the month, read something that you really enjoyed, and maybe went out and reread one of your old favorites, or discovered someone or something new to think or talk about. I know I've had a lot of fun looking for poems, and remembering to post at the last minute, and reading people's thoughts and being guided by their suggestions. And don't forget the budding poets among us: I know ![[info]](https://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif)
jyms, for one, is working on a collection called Dystopic Menagerie that I really really like, and she could use feedback on it, so help her out! Thanks to all y'all for making this fun!
So for today, our final poem, I bring to you one of my absolute favorite poems from my childhood. We have a book back home called Poetry to Read Aloud (which is what you should do with most poetry anyway), and it's kinda dusty, but whenever we broke it out I always requested the same poem. And sometimes we would break it out because I requested the poem. And so, for today, from Ernest Lawrence Thayer:
Casey at the Bat
The outlook wasn't brilliant for the Mudville nine that day;
The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play,
And then when Cooney died at first, and Barrows did the same,
A pall-like silence fell upon the patrons of the game.
A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest
Clung to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast;
They thought, "If only Casey could but get a whack at that —
We'd put up even money now, with Casey at the bat."
But Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake,
And the former was a hoodoo, while the latter was a cake;
So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat;
For there seemed but little chance of Casey getting to the bat.
But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,
And Blake, the much despised, tore the cover off the ball;
And when the dust had lifted, and men saw what had occurred,
There was Jimmy safe at second and Flynn a-hugging third.
Then from five thousand throats and more there rose a lusty yell;
It rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell;
It pounded on the mountain and recoiled upon the flat,
For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.
There was ease in Casey's manner as he stepped into his place;
There was pride in Casey's bearing and a smile lit Casey's face.
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Casey at the bat.
Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt.
Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt.
Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,
Defiance flashed in Casey's eye, a sneer curled Casey's lip.
And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,
And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped —
"That ain't my style," said Casey. "Strike one!" the umpire said.
From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,
Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore;
"Kill him! Kill the umpire!" shouted some one on the stand;
And it's likely they'd have killed him had not Casey raised his hand.
With a smile of Christian charity great Casey's visage shone;
He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;
He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the dun sphere flew;
But Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said "Strike two!"
"Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered "Fraud!"
But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed.
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
And they knew that Casey wouldn't let that ball go by again.
The sneer has fled from Casey's lip, the teeth are clenched in hate;
He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate.
And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,
And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey's blow.
Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright,
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,
And somewhere men are laughing, and little children shout;
But there is no joy in Mudville — mighty Casey has struck out.
jyms, for one, is working on a collection called Dystopic Menagerie that I really really like, and she could use feedback on it, so help her out! Thanks to all y'all for making this fun!So for today, our final poem, I bring to you one of my absolute favorite poems from my childhood. We have a book back home called Poetry to Read Aloud (which is what you should do with most poetry anyway), and it's kinda dusty, but whenever we broke it out I always requested the same poem. And sometimes we would break it out because I requested the poem. And so, for today, from Ernest Lawrence Thayer:
Casey at the Bat
The outlook wasn't brilliant for the Mudville nine that day;
The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play,
And then when Cooney died at first, and Barrows did the same,
A pall-like silence fell upon the patrons of the game.
A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest
Clung to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast;
They thought, "If only Casey could but get a whack at that —
We'd put up even money now, with Casey at the bat."
But Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake,
And the former was a hoodoo, while the latter was a cake;
So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat;
For there seemed but little chance of Casey getting to the bat.
But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,
And Blake, the much despised, tore the cover off the ball;
And when the dust had lifted, and men saw what had occurred,
There was Jimmy safe at second and Flynn a-hugging third.
Then from five thousand throats and more there rose a lusty yell;
It rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell;
It pounded on the mountain and recoiled upon the flat,
For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.
There was ease in Casey's manner as he stepped into his place;
There was pride in Casey's bearing and a smile lit Casey's face.
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Casey at the bat.
Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt.
Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt.
Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,
Defiance flashed in Casey's eye, a sneer curled Casey's lip.
And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,
And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped —
"That ain't my style," said Casey. "Strike one!" the umpire said.
From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,
Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore;
"Kill him! Kill the umpire!" shouted some one on the stand;
And it's likely they'd have killed him had not Casey raised his hand.
With a smile of Christian charity great Casey's visage shone;
He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;
He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the dun sphere flew;
But Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said "Strike two!"
"Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered "Fraud!"
But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed.
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
And they knew that Casey wouldn't let that ball go by again.
The sneer has fled from Casey's lip, the teeth are clenched in hate;
He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate.
And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,
And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey's blow.
Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright,
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,
And somewhere men are laughing, and little children shout;
But there is no joy in Mudville — mighty Casey has struck out.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2008-05-01 12:52 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-05-01 05:45 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-05-01 12:54 am (UTC)Thank you for posting all the poetry. I don't read enough of it and when I do I often blow through it so I don't really enjoy it. You made me slow down and read it; lots of different styles. I didn't always comment, but I always read it
(no subject)
Date: 2008-05-01 05:46 am (UTC)It was my pleasure! It really was. I actually only did it because my roommate the math-major got a poster in the mail reminding us of National Poetry Month and I, feeling this to be an affront to my English-major-ness, was determined to celebrate it properly. But I usually forget about poetry unless the mood strikes me right, and so having to look at it every day was a challenge, but fun too. I'm glad you enjoyed it! :-)
(no subject)
Date: 2008-05-01 02:16 am (UTC)isn't there a followup poem about casey? i can't remember the title, but i'm sure it exists...
(no subject)
Date: 2008-05-01 05:47 am (UTC)hm...I feel like I would not want to read that one. Although follow-up poems are usually fun. Like "Dover Bitch." Heh.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-05-01 04:20 am (UTC)And the former was a hoodoo, while the latter was a cake;
MWAHAs.
other than that, this poem strikes me as kind of sad. and this whole affair is kind of sad, knowing we shan't have any pretty poems to brighten our friends page any longer. you MUST do this again next year (:
and THANK YOU ever so muchly for the plug ;D
(no subject)
Date: 2008-05-01 05:48 am (UTC)(also it reminds me of how Major Dobbin is a SPOONEY.)
huh. It is kinda sad, I guess, but to me it's always just been--funny. It's a happy memory sort of poem. And I'm sure I'll post more poetry, as I find it...and of course I'll do it next year! :-)
no problem! I want more people to read your poetry. And help you with it, 'cause God knows I suck at editing poetry too. :-)
(no subject)
Date: 2008-05-01 03:19 pm (UTC)We read it in class a couple of times too...part of me is surprised that anyone raised in America could've not encountered this poem.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-05-02 06:11 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-05-03 05:55 pm (UTC)Those days are few but precious, mwahhaaaa.