1

Shall we go? Shall we not?
If so I'll bring this mitt
I've dug out of a dusty trunk,
Though its fingers will likely break off
If I use it. In truth it's junk.

What say you, Yesenin?
I mean to go. You in?

2

Did this train depart its terminal,
Smearing its gray smoke across the leaden skies?
I think I heard the whistle, subliminal,
Offering to me its restless lies
That plunge through my chest from back to front,
And are twisted quickly before the shrill shriek
Of copper's tootler, and his his steel-toed blunt
Kick, send happy brawlers sprawling. Speak,
My best old pal Yevgeny.
Zhenya: Thoughts. Have you any?

3

When you split my sleep with this query,
And broke the day over my head
Like an egg into a pan,
I stilled my leaping heart by plunging it into the cold water in this teapot.

I rose, already old and weary,
Barely able to flee my bed,
Thinking: This is Turkmenistan,
Where Russian hearts are served, cold but beating, while, in the blazing sun, the bodies rot.

It's no joke, Sasha, I am leery.
I can be forced; I can't be led.
I'll sit on this Ottoman,
And drink this bitter broth. It is a taste my tongue has known. Osip! To flow, or clot?

4

Mudlarks. Tadpoles and croakers.
Flat-bottomed boats with broken poles,
Steering by a star.

We'll sit before a screamer,
Maybe behind the foul pole,
Like at Babi Yar.

Umpires call out foul or fair;
I too decide: I'll flip a coin.
Heads: Game. Tails: A bar.

Anna Andreyevna! Are you there?
Please to call it while it's in the air.

5

We head downtown, all of us,
Down the black streets, while a moaning voice torments us:
Tickets!
But I warn you, that while you all warm yourselves
Against the flat cold of the evening with your pocket flasks,
And sing your drinking songs, and give the raspberry to bullpen yokels,
I, who am sitting here, watching, noting, listening,
Shall keep this record,
Etched with pain,
Scored by tears,
Wrapped in the careful crinkling glassine,
Long past your day,
And as you slowly turn to dust, somewhere,
This will attest: You were here, right here, once.

Wednesday, June 26, 2012: oddly enough, both the Mayan Calendar and New York Yankee promotions designate this as Sunscreen Day. In honor of the impending end of the world, I will be attending this sporting event; perhaps other Empire State denizens or visitors would enjoy this festive outing? It is a 1:05 start, with pitchers and lineups yet to be determined, save for the fact that the Yankees will pencil in a sub-par shortstop.

Hespera envelopes the sun’s harsh rays in her gauzy cloak,
And assumes her short watch over the clouded affairs of men.
Her calamitous sister, Eris, hears the stroke
Of ships sliding across the silver Aerian.
Her time has come again. Her fierce cry
Is echoed by horn-mad hoplites.
Old men’s memories, like scorpions crawling high
Upon their cringing necks, sting with ancient furies. 
Eris assumes an attacker’s form.“Those who don’t find your graves,”
She shrieks across the parapets, “shall become spear-taken slaves!”

The elders of Ilitchion assemble,
Ashen-faced. “How have you, Leylandeus,
Forgotten all that which makes us tremble
With fears of its recurrence? Pray, pay us
Heed! Twice have laurels, surely ours, by thieves
Sent by bull-headed Minopaul, been lost.
You have inhaled wisps of enchanted leaves,
Certainly Demeter’s doing. Star-crossed
Men of Cleave now land on Ilitchion’s quay!
How can you keep Tall Verlander from the fray?”

And now does Hespera retire from sight,
And gives way to dark Nyx, who rules the night.
The clash of arms, aspis blunting dory;
Maximus Scherzus stares down Cleave’s assaults,
His two-hued hawk’s eyes hunting his quarry.
Suddenly, Astyanax Ajax vaults
Forward. He whips his long unerring spear
And pierces Tomalon’s unsullied shield.
Next, Aphileus and Peraltus steer
Home their throws. Tomalon falls. Cleave must yield.

The second day, Huphaestus fails. Phister
Bests him with ease, and Ilitchion breathes
Again. On the third day, Eris, sister
Of Hespera, mother of Pain, unsheathes
All her weapons. Eubaldus is hacked down,
And Porcellus, bloodied, staggers away.
Cleave grasps once more toward the golden crown,
With Phucydome the Bold’s swift display, 
But Ajax’s javelin descends with white heat.
Cleave’s last hope crumbles at Aphileus’s feet.

An eagle soars into view and circles the arena twice.
Leylandeus watches the bird depart. “Know, by this device,
Oh! Ilitchion, the Gods signal their pleasure.
Don't overturn and burn your chariots just yet!
We have, it’s true, taken Cleave’s measure.
But clinching first, before fires are set."
The eagle’s course, seen by winged spies,
Was to the Tower of Terminus,
Where, shackled, the twin-headed Xaponettum lies;
Beside the writhing figure: Equus Asinus.
The twin-headed Xaponettum stole Zeus’s fire in the springtime,
A grave offense. Now has come the moment to pay for this crime.

Daily does the sharp beak rip, by Zeus's dictum,
Ox-strong Hafules, swift Cyzimus, or Chyppnus,
From the belly of its bound and screaming victim,
Replaced by night with such as bumbling Balbuenus,
Haedalus Ex, Aezekios the Less-than-wise.
The Columbian chorae, behind shielded eyes,
Loudly laments.“How can one land be so distressed?
That Poseidon and Zeus both be unwelcome guest!”

The hopes of Cleave itself dissolve into motes,
Which Aeolian winds scatter into the white capped waves of the Aerian Sea.

Sauce-spattered Caesar the Small, within his high box,
Surveys the two armies in the field.
The twin-headed Xaponettum, in pleated docks,
Arrays his men with lance, sword and shield.

“Who dare challenge me?” cries Ilitchion’s new giant, Phister.
“I shall!,” cries Justinian the Great. “Lest fatigue or blister,
Which both plague you, strike first, let us take up arms now!”
With this, the battle does commence; sweat flies from brow,
Swords clash, arrows fly. Suddenly, Chyppnus,
Son of Marchus, logograph of Mavros,
Whose fall has been both burden and spur to glory,
Lashes a blow, merely the latest in his story:
Giant Phister reels, and from his watery depths, Poseidon
Rouses. Trident raised over wind-swept locks, his blue eyes widen.

"If men of Cleave laugh, then I shall weep," says the ruler of the murky deep.
"Phister, it is clear, is no Phipher. Let some other God save his life, or
Justinian, poised to win this bout, shall be drowned within this water-spout!”
And the ace of Cleave is forced to fly to the clubhouse, trading wet for dry.

The battle resumes under Nyx’s reign, but she, apprised
Of the water god’s encroach, calls Narcolepsia to dance.
Her charmed gyrations cause all to be hypnotized
Who would otherwise have wielded club, bow or lance.
Then, to Actamemnon, Apate comes,
Nyx’s sly daughter. “To beat these doldrums,
Offer Donalophon, of your Utylites,
To Zeus. You must sacrifice Demeter’s soiled son,
For only earth can counter Zeus’s brother, the God of Seas.
Believe me, it is only thus that this contest shall be won.”

All is deception: Brantium flails. Death’s grin gleams from the dust,
As Actamemnon retrieves his felled Utylite. “He dies,
Slain, Apate, by your words, neither right nor just!”
Swift Demeter, as winged horse, swoops in and pries
Free the corpse, to inter in olive groves
On Mount Helicon, but, vengeful, she first
Replaces Ilitchion’s feed with poppy loaves;
Leylandeus’s men, bewitched, are by this cursed;
Their spears fly wide. Ox-strong Hafules, of the dozen labors,
And Phuchydome, the bold, become winner’s circle neighbors.

Two days more do armies clash. Chyppnus the destroyer earns fame;
Then Erratum and Babbippius, playful twins, do Cleave tame.
Nothing yet resolved, yet all resolute:
Nothing ends until they solve this dispute.

The foes part, to bind their wounds and deliver to Thanatos his due.
Their battle, shifting to Ilitchion, to be taken up anew.

Prologue.

Let anger be your song, the anger of the basement dweller,
Cohabitant of moss, mildew and Logitech G19;
Dwell upon the bitter loss of Bobby Feller,
And crowded losses in Texas and Town of Bean.

Who brought on this central dispute? What God
Scorned Rules of Law and left ope a window,
In manner much more calculating than slipshod,
When the frozen winds of April did rage and blow;
And brought the vivid flush of hot blood to those once cold and lean?
What caused this yoked team to buy, that had once been a seller?
Will this prove magnanimous, or mean?
Will we blame the tale, or the teller?

Those Gods now deeply sleep, as Gods will do once dark pot’s been stirred.
Those hatchlings of dark plots now ride to the wharf, their saddles burred.
By those docks assemble the stout men of the Strait,
All cherished and guarded by Anne, of David’s line;
She, long enmeshed in her city’s fate,
Has been charged by Zeus himself to choose nine
Among them to people Leylandeus’s ship.
There stands trim Austyanax Ajax at ship’s prow;
Boeschius the Lesser, with auburn fringe on a pouty lip;
Rayburnum the Middling; Maggliomedes with furrowed brow.

Standing at starboard, with vacant gaze:
Peraltus of Short. Victoram prays.

Alongside, a separate ship is stocked for tall Verlander,
And another set aside for the brave Miggus Cabrerum.
(Their contracts decree their road quarters, in candor,
Shall be all their own, for they might bring a harem.)
Following all of these fortified floats:
Vessels commanded by Caesar the Small,
And on board are all manner of fish, fowl and goats,
The stuff needed to feed these stout men who play ball.

The fleet leaves the Windsor channel, into the Aerian Sea,
Pushed by the winds of Aeolus, son of Poseidon; ‘tis he,
Poseidon, who harbors hate, or more,
For men who, on Aerie’s southern shore,

Once caused the orange waves of the river of Cleave to erupt
Into golden, leaping flames, inimical to his design.
From then onward, his wrath has caused him to corrupt
All Cleave’s hopes, where his will and his might may align:
Phipps’s flings found fins five times, it is said;
Unwise Counsell and Renterius led
Poseidon’s spear-faced Marlin to leap from the dead
And claim a crown that should balance on Wahoo’s head.

Atop a bluff, staring out to sea, Actamemnon waits, silver fedora flashing in the slashing sun.

I Like Your Hat

You're sweet and smart, with a dimpled smile.
You've won my heart with your flash and style.
I hope you win every single game,
I'll glory in your well-earned fame.
Are you single? (I'm afraid to know!)
Have some kringle. Now go crush your foe.

—Margaret Gilhooley, Kamm's Corners

Congratulations to a Deserving Soul

This blue, blue sky, without a cloud,
The yellow sun, without a shroud.
Your wide, wide smile shows pearly teeth;
We drape you with a laurel wreath.
You've won again! We'll dance and sing!
And crown you truly, Champs of Spring!

—Mitch Whaley, Brook Park

You Made My Dreams Come True

I dreamed of prancing unicorns,
And jeweled maidens picking daisies,
And corn-fed angels tooting horns,
And in the bleachers, drunken crazies;
Policemen simply laugh and cheer,
And click their heels to celebrate.
There'll be no need for riot gear,
These happiest days since '48!

—Antoinette Victoria Gryzbowska, North Olmstead

My Death Cannot Come Too Soon

The empty, frozen dugout is cluttered with waste,
Wasted youth, spent hopes, shuttered dreams—

Hey, Nickie, how's it going! Do you like your cubicle? Can I get you some coffee? Hey, I see you've started already! Can I see it?

Vell, uh, Teem, I uh, yess, I'm goot. I haf leetle poem, not rilly ready yet...

Oh, just a peek! I know it'll be great!

Um, vell, I tell you, let me read some to you.

Great!!

Um, vell, okeh: "De leetle birts are flyink high, De sunshine sparkle on der vings... De wholesome lads elicit sighs from pretty lasses perched on svings..."

Ooh, sounds good! Can't wait for the rest! Well, keep the faith, baby!

Yah, see yuh. ... Neetveet. Sigh. Okeh, ver vass I?

I spit. I cannot get this bitter taste
Of bile from my mouth, nor can reams
Of florid words salvage this death-march...
My uncle warned us huddled by his death bed,
Whose bellies growl, whose throats are parched:
"Do not trust anyone in hats of red!"

—Nikolai Rubtsov, Vologda

This is really a FanShot, but since the link is to a PDF file, it's easier to copy it into a FanPost. I hope Mr. Van Loon doesn't mind.

ABOUT A BASE BALL PLAYER'S CAREER.

The Once-Famous Ball Tosser, Now a Noted Bugologist, Discourses of the Effects of Ball Playing as a Profession.

BY E. C. VAN LOON.

San Francisco, Cal, October 12.

A few weeks ago the Friday Morning Club was entertained by a tall, sunburned young man, who discoursed on the subject of butterflies, illustrating his lecture with thirty cases of winged beauties. If any one had told the women of the Friday Morning Club that the interesting young man had once been one of the greatest ball players of his time they would have had to change their views of the professional base ball player. I have known Ervin Harvey, boy and man, for nearly twenty years. When in the Los Angeles High School Harvey divided his time between butterflies and base ball. When he was not chasing over the hills with his butterfly net he was practicing new curves, for he was the star pitcher of the high school aggregation. It was not unusual for him to fan 18 men in a game, and when he was 16 years of age his work was the main topic of local base ball circles.