Home » Famous Poems » Best » Yogi

Best Famous Yogi Poems

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

Search and read the best famous Yogi poems, articles about Yogi poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Yogi poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

Wild Dreams Of A New Beginning

 There's a breathless hush on the freeway tonight
Beyond the ledges of concrete
restaurants fall into dreams
with candlelight couples
Lost Alexandria still burns
in a billion lightbulbs
Lives cross lives
idling at stoplights
Beyond the cloverleaf turnoffs
'Souls eat souls in the general emptiness'
A piano concerto comes out a kitchen window
A yogi speaks at Ojai
'It's all taking pace in one mind'
On the lawn among the trees
lovers are listening
for the master to tell them they are one
with the universe
Eyes smell flowers and become them
There's a deathless hush
on the freeway tonight
as a Pacific tidal wave a mile high
sweeps in
Los Angeles breathes its last gas
and sinks into the sea like the Titanic all lights lit
Nine minutes later Willa Cather's Nebraska
sinks with it
The sea comes over in Utah
Mormon tabernacles washed away like barnacles
Coyotes are confounded & swim nowhere
An orchestra onstage in Omaha
keeps on playing Handel's Water Music
Horns fill with water
ans bass players float away on their instruments
clutching them like lovers horizontal
Chicago's Loop becomes a rollercoaster
Skyscrapers filled like water glasses
Great Lakes mixed with Buddhist brine
Great Books watered down in Evanston
Milwaukee beer topped with sea foam
Beau Fleuve of Buffalo suddenly become salt
Manhatten Island swept clean in sixteen seconds
buried masts of Amsterdam arise
as the great wave sweeps on Eastward
to wash away over-age Camembert Europe
manhatta steaming in sea-vines
the washed land awakes again to wilderness
the only sound a vast thrumming of crickets
a cry of seabirds high over
in empty eternity
as the Hudson retakes its thickets
and Indians reclaim their canoes

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 Walter Savage Landor |

Years

 They enter as animals from the outer
Space of holly where spikes
Are not thoughts I turn on, like a Yogi,
But greenness, darkness so pure
They freeze and are.


O God, I am not like you
In your vacuous black,
Stars stuck all over, bright stupid confetti.

Eternity bores me,
I never wanted it.


What I love is
The piston in motion ----
My soul dies before it.

And the hooves of the horses,
There merciless churn.


And you, great Stasis ----
What is so great in that!
Is it a tiger this year, this roar at the door?
It is a Christus,
The awful

God-bit in him
Dying to fly and be done with it?
The blood berries are themselves, they are very still.


The hooves will not have it,
In blue distance the pistons hiss.