Poetry competition CLOSED 27th December 2015 7:45pm
WINNER
calamitygin (Jennifer Michael McCurry)
calamitygin (Jennifer Michael McCurry)
Blood, sweat and tears.
Poetry Contest Description
Write about the physical pain of athletic pursuits.
From poets.org ...
"While sports fans may not be widely known for their literary passions, the relationship between literature and athletic competition can be traced as far back as ancient Greece where spectator sports often included literary events as part of the festivities, and champion athletes were known to commission poets to write their victory songs. Even our own Walt Whitman was a baseball lover. Reporting for the Brooklyn Daily Eagle in 1846, he wrote: “In our sun-down perambulations, of late, through the outer parts of Brooklyn, we have observed several parties of youngsters playing ‘base,' a certain game of ball...Let us go forth awhile, and get better air in our lungs. Let us leave our close rooms...the game of ball is glorious.”
We hope this collection not only demonstrates a variety of play and seriousness, but also frames poetry itself—the craft and game of it—as a lively and reactive art form, a pastime as great as any sport."
https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/collection/poetry-and-sports
Write a new piece, prose or poetry, on the trials and tribulations, joys and sorrows of athletic pursuits. Extra points for personal accounts. New writes only. Two weeks.
Outside judging welcomed via PM.
Salud
There is no such thing as talent. If you want to become something, work at it. - Conor McGregor
http://media3.giphy.com/media/io5M789iUGias/giphy.gif
http://49.media.tumblr.com/48b182eb8d2cbaa0dd3a36342dd9c619/tumblr_n90mn0iwLX1r6ijl6o1_250.gif
"While sports fans may not be widely known for their literary passions, the relationship between literature and athletic competition can be traced as far back as ancient Greece where spectator sports often included literary events as part of the festivities, and champion athletes were known to commission poets to write their victory songs. Even our own Walt Whitman was a baseball lover. Reporting for the Brooklyn Daily Eagle in 1846, he wrote: “In our sun-down perambulations, of late, through the outer parts of Brooklyn, we have observed several parties of youngsters playing ‘base,' a certain game of ball...Let us go forth awhile, and get better air in our lungs. Let us leave our close rooms...the game of ball is glorious.”
We hope this collection not only demonstrates a variety of play and seriousness, but also frames poetry itself—the craft and game of it—as a lively and reactive art form, a pastime as great as any sport."
https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/collection/poetry-and-sports
Write a new piece, prose or poetry, on the trials and tribulations, joys and sorrows of athletic pursuits. Extra points for personal accounts. New writes only. Two weeks.
Outside judging welcomed via PM.
Salud
There is no such thing as talent. If you want to become something, work at it. - Conor McGregor
http://media3.giphy.com/media/io5M789iUGias/giphy.gif
http://49.media.tumblr.com/48b182eb8d2cbaa0dd3a36342dd9c619/tumblr_n90mn0iwLX1r6ijl6o1_250.gif
10 seconds from my head to my Ass...
Alright Jen..
You have this..
Block out..
Hands straight up no foul..
No fuc--king foul..
Fucking foul trouble already?!
Coach is pissed!
C'mon Jen..
Or suicides till you puke tomorrow..
Stop..head on the lane..
Eyes on the ball..
Block out..
Hands..
Why the fuck does coach have me on this Amazon!?
She has 3 inches and 30 lbs on me..
She looks like she wants to eat me..
Stop..head on the lane.
Eyes on the ball...
Eat the bitch...
Block out..
Hands straight up no foul..
"No foul Jennygirl!"
Christ Dad..you know that takes my he...
Block..
Fuck! Shot..off the board!
Straight up..block out!!
Fingertips on orange..!!!
Got it!!!
Pull it in..!
Auugh!!!!
My ankle Oh God Damn...!!!
I'm on the floor. ..
Oh God my ankle..!
I can't stand up..
Oh fuck it burns..
Oh YES..I still have the fucking ball....!!
You got the ball Jen...yeah..
Alright Jen..
You have this..
Block out..
Hands straight up no foul..
No fuc--king foul..
Fucking foul trouble already?!
Coach is pissed!
C'mon Jen..
Or suicides till you puke tomorrow..
Stop..head on the lane..
Eyes on the ball..
Block out..
Hands..
Why the fuck does coach have me on this Amazon!?
She has 3 inches and 30 lbs on me..
She looks like she wants to eat me..
Stop..head on the lane.
Eyes on the ball...
Eat the bitch...
Block out..
Hands straight up no foul..
"No foul Jennygirl!"
Christ Dad..you know that takes my he...
Block..
Fuck! Shot..off the board!
Straight up..block out!!
Fingertips on orange..!!!
Got it!!!
Pull it in..!
Auugh!!!!
My ankle Oh God Damn...!!!
I'm on the floor. ..
Oh God my ankle..!
I can't stand up..
Oh fuck it burns..
Oh YES..I still have the fucking ball....!!
You got the ball Jen...yeah..
Anonymous
<< post removed >>
Anonymous
Cat Watches Tennis On TV
(As Narrated by the National Geographic)
Boing! Pong!
Boing! Pong!
Boing! Pong!
The feline watches—
intently….observing,
absorbing every move, every
stroke of MacEnroe’s racquet.
Boing! Pong!
Boing! Pong!
Boing! Pong!
See—how his head turns, left
then right, then left again. The fur
rises on his neck, meeting
the arch of his back.
Boing! Pong!
Boing! Pong!
Boing! Pong!
He waits—mouth agape, ready
to pounce; the aggressor, MacEnroe
rages at his opponent, while the feline
surveys his options. Attack or
retreat?
Boing! Pong!
Boing! Pong!
Boing! Pong!
Notice the paw, as it slowly rises to
touch the screen where the ball has
landed; no avail—the feline cannot strike.
Boing! Pong!
Boing! Pong!
Boing! Pong!
MacEnroe serves a hit—airborne; the
feline turns his head, yet again, left, right,
left, right…..following the ball. It is tiresome
the stalk and wait.
Boing! Pong!
Boing! Pong!
Boing! Pong!
The feline yawns while MacEnroe screeches
yet again. He has had enough, and pads
off to rest, his muscles tired from this game
of sport, Feline vs. MacEnroe.
Boing! Pong!
Boing! Pong!
Boing! Pong!
(As Narrated by the National Geographic)
Boing! Pong!
Boing! Pong!
Boing! Pong!
The feline watches—
intently….observing,
absorbing every move, every
stroke of MacEnroe’s racquet.
Boing! Pong!
Boing! Pong!
Boing! Pong!
See—how his head turns, left
then right, then left again. The fur
rises on his neck, meeting
the arch of his back.
Boing! Pong!
Boing! Pong!
Boing! Pong!
He waits—mouth agape, ready
to pounce; the aggressor, MacEnroe
rages at his opponent, while the feline
surveys his options. Attack or
retreat?
Boing! Pong!
Boing! Pong!
Boing! Pong!
Notice the paw, as it slowly rises to
touch the screen where the ball has
landed; no avail—the feline cannot strike.
Boing! Pong!
Boing! Pong!
Boing! Pong!
MacEnroe serves a hit—airborne; the
feline turns his head, yet again, left, right,
left, right…..following the ball. It is tiresome
the stalk and wait.
Boing! Pong!
Boing! Pong!
Boing! Pong!
The feline yawns while MacEnroe screeches
yet again. He has had enough, and pads
off to rest, his muscles tired from this game
of sport, Feline vs. MacEnroe.
Boing! Pong!
Boing! Pong!
Boing! Pong!
Anonymous
<< post removed >>
BATTER UP!
The batter steps into the box
all ears are on the call
I take the plate
size her up; Smile
then release the ball
She watches as she steps
with no swing at all
the ump cries out STRIKE ONE!
my catcher returns our ball
STRIKE TWO! was a sly, inside, low
she had swung her bat way below
Smiling I deliver the fatal
STRIKE THREE!
the mighty blow
she swung too slow
they call me the smiling assassin
You know!!
all rounder, MVP, 30 years
I've played ball from age 8
step into the box and
I'll take you at the plate.
By TinaLouise
The batter steps into the box
all ears are on the call
I take the plate
size her up; Smile
then release the ball
She watches as she steps
with no swing at all
the ump cries out STRIKE ONE!
my catcher returns our ball
STRIKE TWO! was a sly, inside, low
she had swung her bat way below
Smiling I deliver the fatal
STRIKE THREE!
the mighty blow
she swung too slow
they call me the smiling assassin
You know!!
all rounder, MVP, 30 years
I've played ball from age 8
step into the box and
I'll take you at the plate.
By TinaLouise
News Headliners
Who’s idea was it to play netball?
To organize a team from work
To play in the local fixtures?
Done over a coffee break maybe or down at the pub?
It’s was lark
A bit of fun to be had
Choosing our name
Designing our outfit
And the company paid
Bonus
We were News Headliners
Working for the Territory newspaper
Training started
We'd not played in years
Sweat pouring off us
Pain in our knees
Stitches in our sides
And this was just practice
We surprised ourselves
Did so well
Made it to the grand final
Sweat and tears two nights a week
The goals were neck and neck
We weren’t going to be beaten
Not like I was by the dickhead at home
On the court my anger and frustration
Was released in my playing
A bonus if ever there was one
Netball thought of as
The toddler’s game
On the ladder to basketball
Turned out to be so much more
Time called when we collided going for the ball
Did I loose consciousness?
I’m not sure
I know I had the wind knocked out of me
‘Contact’ screamed the umpire
‘Not my fault’ I remember thinking as I fell in a heap
The umpire agreed
We lost by one goal
Drowned our sorrows in plenty of beer
The pain we endured
So worth the drinking session following each game
Who’s idea was it to play netball?
To organize a team from work
To play in the local fixtures?
Done over a coffee break maybe or down at the pub?
It’s was lark
A bit of fun to be had
Choosing our name
Designing our outfit
And the company paid
Bonus
We were News Headliners
Working for the Territory newspaper
Training started
We'd not played in years
Sweat pouring off us
Pain in our knees
Stitches in our sides
And this was just practice
We surprised ourselves
Did so well
Made it to the grand final
Sweat and tears two nights a week
The goals were neck and neck
We weren’t going to be beaten
Not like I was by the dickhead at home
On the court my anger and frustration
Was released in my playing
A bonus if ever there was one
Netball thought of as
The toddler’s game
On the ladder to basketball
Turned out to be so much more
Time called when we collided going for the ball
Did I loose consciousness?
I’m not sure
I know I had the wind knocked out of me
‘Contact’ screamed the umpire
‘Not my fault’ I remember thinking as I fell in a heap
The umpire agreed
We lost by one goal
Drowned our sorrows in plenty of beer
The pain we endured
So worth the drinking session following each game
To Those Who Say Quit
Records have convinced everyone that it's time to hang them up.
If someone would just tell him that none of that mattered anyway.
Who are the spectators anyway?
In Mma you win or you learn.
It's you vs you everytime.
As the body drains itself of age a new approach is needed.
Where was this ache before when he was younger as a fighter?
You can only go out on your shield so many times before it becomes a permanent hazard.
Till then he will always be fighting himself.
Records have convinced everyone that it's time to hang them up.
If someone would just tell him that none of that mattered anyway.
Who are the spectators anyway?
In Mma you win or you learn.
It's you vs you everytime.
As the body drains itself of age a new approach is needed.
Where was this ache before when he was younger as a fighter?
You can only go out on your shield so many times before it becomes a permanent hazard.
Till then he will always be fighting himself.
Boy Running In The GI
Haunted by what could happen the boy continues to run.
Today will be harder then yesterday night.
Still running with no stop in mind.
Alive enough to feel a confidence heating inside.
Outside of it all he'll be able to tell this tale.
Pretending that people would ask anyway.
Sweating before class you could say he was prepared.
Maybe a bit overworked for such a young age.
Day dreaming about the win.
For that extra drive forward he places himself as the underdog .
Until he got a car he was the boy running in the gi.
Haunted by what could happen the boy continues to run.
Today will be harder then yesterday night.
Still running with no stop in mind.
Alive enough to feel a confidence heating inside.
Outside of it all he'll be able to tell this tale.
Pretending that people would ask anyway.
Sweating before class you could say he was prepared.
Maybe a bit overworked for such a young age.
Day dreaming about the win.
For that extra drive forward he places himself as the underdog .
Until he got a car he was the boy running in the gi.
The Cabot Trail is a place you'll fail
If you haven't done your training
we run in the light; we run all night;
We run if it's snowing or raining.
The Cabot Trail is a tourist destination, a jewel of Nova Scotia....
277 km snaking along cliffs, over mountains, through seaside villages,
Often treacherous and unpredictable.
Runners are such a strange breed....
Why anyone would look at this undulating road and say "let's race here!" Is anyone's guess.
But divided into 17 stages, with a team that runs around the clock,
Circumnavigating the trail is achievable.
"Join our team" they said
"We'll give you an easy leg" they said.
I arrive on scene in my amateur running gear
Trying not to wilt in the glow of Boston jackets in the crowd
Making sure I line up far behind them
So there is not even a hint of temptation to attempt their pace
In the start-line adrenaline rush.
My "easy, short" 14 km leg takes me over "gently rolling" hills
A complete misnomer, as we are in the mountains.
My pace is good
My team is encouraging
Fuelled by music and friendly cheering locals
The party atmosphere propels me with the pure joy of physicality.
For most of the way.
But it is a sunny noon
I am melting
My legs are suddenly clay
My lungs have stopped inflating
There is not enough oxygen in the entire atmosphere to satisfy me.
People have died doing this race.
I could crawl into the shade of that tree and just...stop.....
But fear of letting down my team -
These elite runners who have inexplicably invited me here -
And my own stubbornness tells me this strip of asphalt will not defeat me.
Push through pain
Exhaustion
Fear
Nausea
Suddenly I hear "go Mommy, almost there!"
Perhaps I'll survive this!
There is a blessed downhill before my finish line
And I stretch out
Relishing the feel of my short legs pretending I'm a gazelle.
I have made it.
There is nothing left.
Cheers, beers, tears.....
Next year I will do the midnight leg.
Yes! Sign me up!
If you haven't done your training
we run in the light; we run all night;
We run if it's snowing or raining.
The Cabot Trail is a tourist destination, a jewel of Nova Scotia....
277 km snaking along cliffs, over mountains, through seaside villages,
Often treacherous and unpredictable.
Runners are such a strange breed....
Why anyone would look at this undulating road and say "let's race here!" Is anyone's guess.
But divided into 17 stages, with a team that runs around the clock,
Circumnavigating the trail is achievable.
"Join our team" they said
"We'll give you an easy leg" they said.
I arrive on scene in my amateur running gear
Trying not to wilt in the glow of Boston jackets in the crowd
Making sure I line up far behind them
So there is not even a hint of temptation to attempt their pace
In the start-line adrenaline rush.
My "easy, short" 14 km leg takes me over "gently rolling" hills
A complete misnomer, as we are in the mountains.
My pace is good
My team is encouraging
Fuelled by music and friendly cheering locals
The party atmosphere propels me with the pure joy of physicality.
For most of the way.
But it is a sunny noon
I am melting
My legs are suddenly clay
My lungs have stopped inflating
There is not enough oxygen in the entire atmosphere to satisfy me.
People have died doing this race.
I could crawl into the shade of that tree and just...stop.....
But fear of letting down my team -
These elite runners who have inexplicably invited me here -
And my own stubbornness tells me this strip of asphalt will not defeat me.
Push through pain
Exhaustion
Fear
Nausea
Suddenly I hear "go Mommy, almost there!"
Perhaps I'll survive this!
There is a blessed downhill before my finish line
And I stretch out
Relishing the feel of my short legs pretending I'm a gazelle.
I have made it.
There is nothing left.
Cheers, beers, tears.....
Next year I will do the midnight leg.
Yes! Sign me up!
DIRTY BECKY R.I.P
We'd go away to play rep ball
train like 3 weeks before
the object of our game
pack the eskies and party
lol No shame!
Johnsy thinks he invented
sport on rounders!
Yeah/NAH us Softballers
were the true founders!
Alcohol and pills were so much fun
standing on the plate like
a loaded gun,
we hid the rum in our coke cans
Virgin Veronica and her outrageous plans
we followed lead, it was
the players creed
R.I.P Dirty Becky -
You were a rare breed.
We'd go away to play rep ball
train like 3 weeks before
the object of our game
pack the eskies and party
lol No shame!
Johnsy thinks he invented
sport on rounders!
Yeah/NAH us Softballers
were the true founders!
Alcohol and pills were so much fun
standing on the plate like
a loaded gun,
we hid the rum in our coke cans
Virgin Veronica and her outrageous plans
we followed lead, it was
the players creed
R.I.P Dirty Becky -
You were a rare breed.
Thanks to everyone who wrote for this ... Quite a range of experiences here.
In the end it came down to calamitygin and todski28's first entry; after reading and re-reading and re re reading ... Jen gets the nod on technical points as well as it being a damn fine piece.
As Floyd Mayweather says, "Make it do what it do."'
Salud
In the end it came down to calamitygin and todski28's first entry; after reading and re-reading and re re reading ... Jen gets the nod on technical points as well as it being a damn fine piece.
As Floyd Mayweather says, "Make it do what it do."'
Salud
