Some outlets steadfastly refused to call it a poem, instead referencing the work as “A Letter.” Some didn’t know what to do about this literary/sports oddity. I suspect they just couldn’t fathom poetry as a vehicle of communication within sports, especially in the new hyper-produced, hyper-opinionated, hyper-cynical-mallet-to-your-head LOUD LOUD LOUD world of sports media.
Bleacher Report went “Open Letter.” Reuters called it an essay (OK…) NPR went poem and form-of-a-poem. (Cynical in that the new sports media implies the audience can in no way digest subtlety or perspective) Andy North and Mike Furman of Fox Sports called the poem “sickening” and soft,” interestingly. I had a job once where all I did all day was watch a train tanker unload.
She wears brown with black, he’s in inappropriate aged Converse low tops and they both sort of lean into each other, like touching all the time, which is a metaphor of how they are one and sort of touching or it pisses you off. Her breasts are ringing hammers on anvils, I’m sorry to be so crass. * VENTI UNSWEETENED GREEN TEA: Mom in metallic sunglasses and Lycra over-laugher keeps saying “We’re going driving in a little bit! She’s wearing gray socks that go up to her knees, not sure why.
Beauty does not go out of style, so it’s irrelevant what she is wearing. ” to the someone nearby and then she laughs and laughs and laughs.
As a six-year-old boy Deeply in love with you I never saw the end of the tunnel. And now the poem–like most all poems by anyone who hasn’t dedicated a serious life to this arduous art–turns very, very lame. The abstractions of love overwhelm, mind, spirit (and etc.), the repetition of love (ah, love), the cliche of the tunnel, a keen interest in the “I.” And also the “I.” The poem seems to drop pretty much every interest in poetry at this point. Example: This line: “She is a preacher now, or an artist, I can’t remember which.” Character not as emphasized.