Sports poems, at times, may give us a glimpse of insight into sportsman spirit. Whatever, they are always good to read at least once!
Sports poems by author-names starting with A
Andrew Barton Paterson:
Poem on Sports titled The Wreck of the Golfer:
It was the Bondi golfing man Drove off from the golf house tee, And he had taken his little daughter To bear him company. "Oh, Father, why do you swing the club And flourish it such a lot?" "You watch it fly o'er the fences high!" And he tried with a brassey shot.
"Oh, Father, why did you hit the fence Just there where the brambles twine?" And the father he answered never a word, But he got on the green in nine.
"Oh, Father, hark from behind those trees, What dismal yells arrive!" "'Tis a man I ween on the second green, And I've landed him with my drive."
"Oh, Father, why does the poor Chinee Fall down on his knees and cry?" "He taketh me for his Excellency, And he thinks once hit twice shy."
So on they fared to the waterhole, And he drove with a lot of dash, But his balls full soon in the dread lagoon Fell down with a woeful splash.
"Oh, Father, why do you beat the sand Till it flies like the carded wool?" And the father he answered never a word, For his heart was much too full.
"Oh, Father, why are they shouting 'fore' And screaming so lustily?" But the father he answered never a word, A pallid corpse was he.
For a well-swung drive on the back of his head Had landed and laid him low. Lord save us all from a fate like this When next to the links we go.
Sports poems by author-names starting with E
Sports poems by Ellis Parker Butler:
Sports poem titled The Golf Walk:
Behold, my child, this touching scene, The golfer on the golfing-green; Pray mark his legs’ uncanny swing, The golf-walk is a gruesome thing!
See how his arms and shoulders ride Above his legs in haughty pride, While over bunker, hill and lawn His feet, relentless, drag him on.
And does the man walk always so? Nay! nay I my child, and eke, oh! no! It is a gait he only knows When he has on his golfing clothes.
Blame not the man for that strange stride He could not help it if he tried; It is his timid feet that try From his obstreperous clothes to fly.
Sports poems by author-names starting with H
Sports poems by Harold Pinter:
Sports poem titled American Football:
Hallelujah! It works. We blew the shit out of them.
We blew the shit right back up their own ass And out their fucking ears.
It works. We blew the shit out of them. They suffocated in their own shit!
Hallelujah. Praise the Lord for all good things.
We blew them into fucking shit. They are eating it.
Praise the Lord for all good things.
We blew their balls into shards of dust, Into shards of fucking dust.
We did it.
Now I want you to come over here and kiss me on the mouth.
Sports poems by author-names starting with J
Sports poems by John Betjeman:
Sports poem titled Seaside Golf:
How straight it flew, how long it flew, It clear'd the rutty track And soaring, disappeared from view Beyond the bunker's back - A glorious, sailing, bounding drive That made me glad I was alive.
And down the fairway, far along It glowed a lonely white; I played an iron sure and strong And clipp'd it out of sight, And spite of grassy banks between I knew I'd find it on the green.
And so I did. It lay content Two paces from the pin; A steady putt and then it went Oh, most surely in. The very turf rejoiced to see That quite unprecedented three.
Ah! Seaweed smells from sandy caves And thyme and mist in whiffs, In-coming tide, Atlantic waves Slapping the sunny cliffs, Lark song and sea sounds in the air And splendour, splendour everywhere.
Sports poems by author-names starting with M
Sports poems by Marianne Moore:
Sports poem titled 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.
Sports poems by author-names starting with R
Sports poems by Robert William Service:
Sports poem titled Wrestling Match:
What guts he had, the Dago lad Who fought that Frenchman grim with guile; For nigh an hour they milled like mad, And mauled the mat in rare old style. Then up and launched like catapults, And tangled, twisted, clinched and clung, Then tossed in savage somersaults, And hacked and hammered, ducked and swung; And groaned and grunted, sighed and cried, Now knotted tight, now springing free; To bend each other's bones they tried, Their faces crisped in agony. . . .
Then as a rage rose, with tiger-bound, They clashed and smashed, and flailed and flung, And tripped and slipped, with hammer-pound, And streamin sweat and straining lung, The mighty mob roared out their joy, And wild I heard a wench near-by Shriek to the Frenchman: "Atta Boy! Go to it, Jo-jo - kill the guy."
The boy from Rome was straight and slim, And swift and springy as a bow; The man from Metz was gaunt and grim, But all the tricks he seemed to know. 'Twixt knee and calf with scissors-lock, He gripped the lad's arm like a vice; The prisoned hand went white as chalk, And limp as death and cold as ice. And then he tried to break the wrist, And kidney-pounded with his knee, But with a cry and lightning twist The Roman youth had wrested free. . . .
Then like mad bulls they hooked and mauled, And blindly butted, bone on bone; Spread-eagled on the mat they sprawled, And writhed and rocked with bitter moan. Then faltered to their feet and hung Upon the ropes with eyes of woe; And then the Frenchman stooped and flung The wop among the mob below, Who helped to hoist him back again, With cheers and jeers and course cat-calls, To where the Gaul with might and main Hung poised to kick his genitals And drop him senseless in the ring. . . . And then an old man cried: "My son!" The maddened mob began to fling Their chairs about - the fight was done.
Soft silver sandals tapped the sea; Palms listened to the lack of sound; The lucioles were lilting free, The peace was precious and profound. Oh had it been an evil dream? . . . A chapel of the Saints I sought, And thee before the alter gleam I clasped my hands and thought and thought. . . .
These are the sports poems that appealed me quite a bit - in a way; they are my personal choice from amongst a host of them.
I'll keep adding more to them as and when I come across the ones that touch me deep.
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