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Best Famous Baseball Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Baseball poems. This is a select list of the best famous Baseball poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Baseball poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of baseball poems.

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Written by Marianne Moore | |

Baseball and Writing

 Fanaticism?No.
Writing is exciting and baseball is like writing.
You can never tell with either how it will go or what you will do; generating excitement-- a fever in the victim-- pitcher, catcher, fielder, batter.
Victim in what category? Owlman watching from the press box? To whom does it apply? Who is excited?Might it be I? It's a pitcher's battle all the way--a duel-- a catcher's, as, with cruel puma paw, Elston Howard lumbers lightly back to plate.
(His spring de-winged a bat swing.
) They have that killer instinct; yet Elston--whose catching arm has hurt them all with the bat-- when questioned, says, unenviously, "I'm very satisfied.
We won.
" Shorn of the batting crown, says, "We"; robbed by a technicality.
When three players on a side play three positions and modify conditions, the massive run need not be everything.
"Going, going .
.
.
"Is it?Roger Maris has it, running fast.
You will never see a finer catch.
Well .
.
.
"Mickey, leaping like the devil"--why gild it, although deer sounds better-- snares what was speeding towards its treetop nest, one-handing the souvenir-to-be meant to be caught by you or me.
Assign Yogi Berra to Cape Canaveral; he could handle any missile.
He is no feather.
"Strike! .
.
.
Strike two!" Fouled back.
A blur.
It's gone.
You would infer that the bat had eyes.
He put the wood to that one.
Praised, Skowron says, "Thanks, Mel.
I think I helped a little bit.
" All business, each, and modesty.
Blanchard, Richardson, Kubek, Boyer.
In that galaxy of nine, say which won the pennant?Each.
It was he.
Those two magnificent saves from the knee-throws by Boyer, finesses in twos-- like Whitey's three kinds of pitch and pre- diagnosis with pick-off psychosis.
Pitching is a large subject.
Your arm, too true at first, can learn to catch your corners--even trouble Mickey Mantle.
("Grazed a Yankee! My baby pitcher, Montejo!" With some pedagogy, you'll be tough, premature prodigy.
) They crowd him and curve him and aim for the knees.
Trying indeed!The secret implying: "I can stand here, bat held steady.
" One may suit him; none has hit him.
Imponderables smite him.
Muscle kinks, infections, spike wounds require food, rest, respite from ruffians.
(Drat it! Celebrity costs privacy!) Cow's milk, "tiger's milk," soy milk, carrot juice, brewer's yeast (high-potency-- concentrates presage victory sped by Luis Arroyo, Hector Lopez-- deadly in a pinch.
And "Yes, it's work; I want you to bear down, but enjoy it while you're doing it.
" Mr.
Houk and Mr.
Sain, if you have a rummage sale, don't sell Roland Sheldon or Tom Tresh.
Studded with stars in belt and crown, the Stadium is an adastrium.
O flashing Orion, your stars are muscled like the lion.


Written by William Matthews | |

Mingus At The Showplace

 I was miserable, of course, for I was seventeen
and so I swung into action and wrote a poem

and it was miserable, for that was how I thought
poetry worked: you digested experience shat

literature.
It was 1960 at The Showplace, long since defunct, on West 4th st.
, and I sat at the bar, casting beer money from a reel of ones, the kid in the city, big ears like a puppy.
And I knew Mingus was a genius.
I knew two other things, but as it happens they were wrong.
So I made him look at this poem.
"There's a lot of that going around," he said, and Sweet Baby Jesus he was right.
He glowered at me but didn't look as if he thought bad poems were dangerous, the way some poets do.
If they were baseball executives they'd plot to destroy sandlots everywhere so that the game could be saved from children.
Of course later that night he fired his pianist in mid-number and flurried him from the stand.
"We've suffered a diminuendo in personnel," he explained, and the band played on.


Written by James Tate | |

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.


More great poems below...

Written by Edward Taylor | |

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.


Written by Charles Webb | |

Enthusiasm

  "Don't overdo it," Dad yelled, watching me
Play shortstop, collect stamps and shells,
Roll on the grass laughing until I peed my pants.
"Screw him," I said, and grabbed every cowry I could find, hogged all the books I could From Heights Library, wore out the baseball Diamond dawn to dusk, and—parents in Duluth— Gorged on bountiful Candy dusk to dawn.
Not until a Committee wrote of my poems, "Enthusiasm should be tempered," Did I change my song.
I write now The way I live: calm and sober, steering Toward the Golden Mean.
The Committee Was right to withhold funds.
I'd have bought A hundred box turtles with lemon-speckled shells, Flyfished for rainbows six months straight, Flown to the Great Barrier Reef and dived Non-stop among pink coral and marble cones, Living on chocolate malts, peaches, and barbecue.
I'd have turned into a ski bum, married Ten women in ten states, written nothing Poetry would glance at twice, instead Of rising at 5:00 as I do now, writing 'Til noon about matters serious and deep, Teaching 'til 6:00, eating a low-fat meal High in fiber and cruciferous vegetables, Then bed by 9:00, alarm clock set Five minutes late: my one indulgence of the day.


Written by Galway Kinnell | |

After Making Love We Hear Footsteps

 For I can snore like a bullhorn 
or play loud music 
or sit up talking with any reasonably sober Irishman 
and Fergus will only sink deeper 
into his dreamless sleep, which goes by all in one flash, 
but let there be that heavy breathing 
or a stifled come-cry anywhere in the house 
and he will wrench himself awake 
and make for it on the run - as now, we lie together, 
after making love, quiet, touching along the length of our bodies, 
familiar touch of the long-married, 
and he appears - in his baseball pajamas, it happens, 
the neck opening so small 
he has to screw them on, which one day may make him wonder 
about the mental capacity of baseball players - 
and flops down between us and hugs us and snuggles himself to sleep, 
his face gleaming with satisfaction at being this very child.
In the half darkness we look at each other and smile and touch arms across his little, startling muscled body - this one whom habit of memory propels to the ground of his making, sleeper only the mortal sounds can sing awake, this blessing love gives again into our arms.


Written by David Lehman | |

A Quick One Before I Go

 There comes a time in every man's life 
when he thinks: I have never had a single 
original thought in my life 
including this one & therefore I shall 
eliminate all ideas from my poems 
which shall consist of cats, rice, rain 
baseball cards, fire escapes, hanging plants 
red brick houses where I shall give up booze 
and organized religion even if it means 
despair is a logical possibility that can't 
be disproved I shall concentrate on the five 
senses and what they half perceive and half 
create, the green street signs with white 
letters on them the body next to mine 
asleep while I think these thoughts 
that I want to eliminate like nostalgia
0 was there ever a man who felt as I do 
like a pronoun out of step with all the other 
floating signifiers no things but in words 
an orange T-shirt a lime green awning


Written by Thomas Lux | |

The Man Into Whose Yard You Should Not Hit Your Ball

 each day mowed
and mowed his lawn, his dry quarter acre,
the machine slicing a wisp
from each blade's tip.
Dust storms rose around the roar: 6:00 P.
M.
, every day, spring, summer, fall.
If he could mow the snow he would.
On one side, his neighbors the cows turned their backs to him and did what they do to the grass.
Where he worked, I don't know but it sets his jaw to: tight.
His wife a cipher, shoebox tissue, a shattered apron.
As if into her head he drove a wedge of shale.
Years later his daughter goes to jail.
Mow, mow, mow his lawn gently down a decade's summers.
On his other side lived mine and me, across a narrow pasture, often fallow; a field of fly balls, the best part of childhood and baseball, but one could not cross his line and if it did, as one did in 1956 and another in 1958, it came back coleslaw -- his lawn mower ate it up, happy to cut something, no matter what the manual said about foreign objects, stones, or sticks.


Written by Stephen Dunn | |

The Sudden Light And The Trees

 My neighbor was a biker, a pusher, a dog
and wife beater.
In bad dreams I killed him and once, in the consequential light of day, I called the Humane Society about Blue, his dog.
They took her away and I readied myself, a baseball bat inside my door.
That night I hear his wife scream and I couldn't help it, that pathetic relief; her again, not me.
It would be years before I'd understand why victims cling and forgive.
I plugged in the Sleep-Sound and it crashed like the ocean all the way to sleep.
One afternoon I found him on the stoop, a pistol in his hand, waiting, he said, for me.
A sparrow had gotten in to our common basement.
Could he have permission to shoot it? The bullets, he explained, might go through the floor.
I said I'd catch it, wait, give me a few minutes and, clear-eyed, brilliantly afraid, I trapped it with a pillow.
I remember how it felt when I got my hand, and how it burst that hand open when I took it outside, a strength that must have come out of hopelessness and the sudden light and the trees.
And I remember the way he slapped the gun against his open palm, kept slapping it, and wouldn't speak.


Written by Edward Field | |

Unwanted

 The poster with my picture on it
Is hanging on the bulletin board in the Post Office.
I stand by it hoping to be recognized Posing first full face and then profile But everybody passes by and I have to admit The photograph was taken some years ago.
I was unwanted then and I'm unwanted now Ah guess ah'll go up echo mountain and crah.
I wish someone would find my fingerprints somewhere Maybe on a corpse and say, You're it.
Description: Male, or reasonably so White, but not lily-white and usually deep-red Thirty-fivish, and looks it lately Five-feet-nine and one-hundred-thirty pounds: no physique Black hair going gray, hairline receding fast What used to be curly, now fuzzy Brown eyes starey under beetling brow Mole on chin, probably will become a wen It is perfectly obvious that he was not popular at school No good at baseball, and wet his bed.
His aliases tell his history: Dumbell, Good-for-nothing, Jewboy, Fieldinsky, Skinny, Fierce Face, Greaseball, Sissy.
Warning: This man is not dangerous, answers to any name Responds to love, don't call him or he will come.


Written by Charles Bukowski | |

True Story

 they found him walking along the freeway
all red in
front
he had taken a rusty tin can
and cut off his sexual
machinery
as if to say --
see what you've done to
me? you might as well have the
rest.
and he put part of him in one pocket and part of him in another and that's how they found him, walking along.
they gave him over to the doctors who tried to sew the parts back on but the parts were quite contented the way they were.
I think sometimes of all of the good ass turned over to the monsters of the world.
maybe it was his protest against this or his protest against everything.
a one man Freedom March that never squeezed in between the concert reviews and the baseball scores.
God, or somebody, bless him.


Written by Robert Frost | |

Birches

 When I see birches bend to left and right
Across the lines of straighter darker trees,
I like to think some boy's been swinging them.
But swinging doesn't bend them down to stay.
Ice-storms do that.
Often you must have seen them Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning After a rain.
They click upon themselves As the breeze rises, and turn many-coloured As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel.
Soon the sun's warmth makes them shed crystal shells Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away You'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen.
They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load, And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed So low for long, they never right themselves: You may see their trunks arching in the woods Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground, Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair Before them over their heads to dry in the sun.
But I was going to say when Truth broke in With all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm, I should prefer to have some boy bend them As he went out and in to fetch the cows-- Some boy too far from town to learn baseball, Whose only play was what he found himself, Summer or winter, and could play alone.
One by one he subdued his father's trees By riding them down over and over again Until he took the stiffness out of them, And not one but hung limp, not one was left For him to conquer.
He learned all there was To learn about not launching out too soon And so not carrying the tree away Clear to the ground.
He always kept his poise To the top branches, climbing carefully With the same pains you use to fill a cup Up to the brim, and even above the brim.
Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish, Kicking his way down through the air to the ground.
So was I once myself a swinger of birches.
And so I dream of going back to be.
It's when I'm weary of considerations, And life is too much like a pathless wood Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs Broken across it, and one eye is weeping From a twig's having lashed across it open.
I'd like to get away from earth awhile And then come back to it and begin over.
May no fate wilfully misunderstand me And half grant what I wish and snatch me away Not to return.
Earth's the right place for love: I don't know where it's likely to go better.
I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree~ And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more, But dipped its top and set me down again.
That would be good both going and coming back.
One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.