Best Famous Stadium Poems

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

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• All Famous Stadium Poems

Written by James Wright | Autumn Begins In Martins Ferry Ohio In the Shreve High football stadium, I think of Polacks nursing long beers in Tiltonsville, And gray faces of ******* in the blast furnace at Benwood, And the ruptured night watchman of Wheeling Steel, Dreaming of heroes. All the proud fathers are ashamed to go home. Their women cluck like starved pullets, Dying for love. Therefore, Their sons grow suicidally beautiful At the beginning of October, And gallop terribly against each other's bodies.

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 John Betjeman | Harrow-on-the-Hill When melancholy Autumn comes to Wembley And electric trains are lighted after tea The poplars near the stadium are trembly With their tap and tap and whispering to me, Like the sound of little breakers Spreading out along the surf-line When the estuary's filling With the sea. Then Harrow-on-the-Hill's a rocky island And Harrow churchyard full of sailor's graves And the constant click and kissing of the trolley buses hissing Is the level of the Wealdstone turned to waves And the rumble of the railway Is the thunder of the rollers As they gather for the plunging Into caves There's a storm cloud to the westward over Kenton, There's a line of harbour lights at Perivale, Is it rounding rough Pentire in a flood of sunset fire The little fleet of trawlers under sail? Can those boats be only roof tops As they stream along the skyline In a race for port and Padstow With the gale?

Written by Philip Levine | I Sing The Body Electric People sit numbly at the counter waiting for breakfast or service. Today it's Hartford, Connecticut more than twenty-five years after the last death of Wallace Stevens. I have come in out of the cold and wind of a Sunday morning of early March, and I seem to be crying, but I'm only freezing and unpeeled. The waitress brings me hot tea in a cracked cup, and soon it's all over my paper, and so she refills it. I read slowly in The New York Times that poems are dying in Iowa, Missoula, on the outskirts of Reno, in the shopping galleries of Houston. We should all go to the grave of the unknown poet while the rain streaks our notebooks or stand for hours in the freezing winds off the lost books of our fathers or at least until we can no longer hold our pencils. Men keep coming in and going out, and two of them recall the great dirty fights between Willy Pep and Sandy Sadler, between little white perfection and death in red plaid trunks. I want to tell them I saw the last fight, I rode out to Yankee Stadium with two deserters from the French Army of Indochina and back with a drunken priest and both ways the whole train smelled of piss and vomit, but no one would believe me. Those are the true legends better left to die. In my black rain coat I go back out into the gray morning and dare the cars on North Indemnity Boulevard to hit me, but no one wants trouble at this hour. I have crossed a continent to bring these citizens the poems of the snowy mountains, of the forges of hopelessness, of the survivors of wars they never heard of and won't believe. Nothing is alive in this tunnel of winds of the end of winter except the last raging of winter, the cats peering smugly from the homes of strangers, and the great stunned sky slowly settling like a dark cloud lined only with smaller dark clouds.