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...::On the First Tee with Charles Wright::...
My tee shot is a paltry thing, a low slow dribbler — 80 yards
but almost straight, and almost in the fairway. Charles nods
and shrugs — he's seen worse, and being from the South
is too polite to say what David says: "Hey, Loomis —
have your husband hit it for you." Charles takes a practice swing;
smooth and easy, no big deal. "What are those?" he asks, frowning
down the hill. "Catalpas?" We don't know, hadn't noticed them,
had not until this moment smelled the pine-sap or the leaf-rot,
hadn't thought too much about the light, and how this time
of year it rises from the tall red grass beside the highway
like redemption — hell, we haven't even read Cathay. Charles hits
his drive a mile but veering left, toward a pond, and then — I swear
this much is true — it turns in mid-air, bounces off an alder tree,
rolls an easy pitch from the green. "Look at that," he says.
"I must be living right." And as we walk to our second shots
the clouds above him part, a shaft of violet light descends
and draws him up, still toting his clubs in their canvas bag,
still considering the trees, and he's gone — the sky closed gasket tight
and rippling, a sudden wedge of starlings overhead. "I'm not
surprised," says David, bumping up his lie in the short rough.
"Not after a shot like that." But even I can see that golf
is just the metaphor — it could be anything. A parking place.
Steamed crabs and beer. My ex-wife, combing her long black hair.
------ -------- --------- -------- --------
Jon Loomis
The Pleasure Principle
My tee shot is a paltry thing, a low slow dribbler — 80 yards
but almost straight, and almost in the fairway. Charles nods
and shrugs — he's seen worse, and being from the South
is too polite to say what David says: "Hey, Loomis —
have your husband hit it for you." Charles takes a practice swing;
smooth and easy, no big deal. "What are those?" he asks, frowning
down the hill. "Catalpas?" We don't know, hadn't noticed them,
had not until this moment smelled the pine-sap or the leaf-rot,
hadn't thought too much about the light, and how this time
of year it rises from the tall red grass beside the highway
like redemption — hell, we haven't even read Cathay. Charles hits
his drive a mile but veering left, toward a pond, and then — I swear
this much is true — it turns in mid-air, bounces off an alder tree,
rolls an easy pitch from the green. "Look at that," he says.
"I must be living right." And as we walk to our second shots
the clouds above him part, a shaft of violet light descends
and draws him up, still toting his clubs in their canvas bag,
still considering the trees, and he's gone — the sky closed gasket tight
and rippling, a sudden wedge of starlings overhead. "I'm not
surprised," says David, bumping up his lie in the short rough.
"Not after a shot like that." But even I can see that golf
is just the metaphor — it could be anything. A parking place.
Steamed crabs and beer. My ex-wife, combing her long black hair.
------ -------- --------- -------- --------
Jon Loomis
The Pleasure Principle
These poem of the day things really dont look to be very popular!
...::On the First Tee with Charles Wright::...
My tee shot is a paltry thing, a low slow dribbler — 80 yards
but almost straight, and almost in the fairway. Charles nods
and shrugs — he's seen worse, and being from the South
is too polite to say what David says: "Hey, Loomis —
have your husband hit it for you." Charles takes a practice swing;
smooth and easy, no big deal. "What are those?" he asks, frowning
down the hill. "Catalpas?" We don't know, hadn't noticed them,
had not until this moment smelled the pine-sap or the leaf-rot,
hadn't thought too much about the light, and how this time
of year it rises from the tall red grass beside the highway
like redemption — hell, we haven't even read Cathay. Charles hits
his drive a mile but veering left, toward a pond, and then — I swear
this much is true — it turns in mid-air, bounces off an alder tree,
rolls an easy pitch from the green. "Look at that," he says.
"I must be living right." And as we walk to our second shots
the clouds above him part, a shaft of violet light descends
and draws him up, still toting his clubs in their canvas bag,
still considering the trees, and he's gone — the sky closed gasket tight
and rippling, a sudden wedge of starlings overhead. "I'm not
surprised," says David, bumping up his lie in the short rough.
"Not after a shot like that." But even I can see that golf
is just the metaphor — it could be anything. A parking place.
Steamed crabs and beer. My ex-wife, combing her long black hair.
------ -------- --------- -------- --------
Jon Loomis
The Pleasure Principle
My tee shot is a paltry thing, a low slow dribbler — 80 yards
but almost straight, and almost in the fairway. Charles nods
and shrugs — he's seen worse, and being from the South
is too polite to say what David says: "Hey, Loomis —
have your husband hit it for you." Charles takes a practice swing;
smooth and easy, no big deal. "What are those?" he asks, frowning
down the hill. "Catalpas?" We don't know, hadn't noticed them,
had not until this moment smelled the pine-sap or the leaf-rot,
hadn't thought too much about the light, and how this time
of year it rises from the tall red grass beside the highway
like redemption — hell, we haven't even read Cathay. Charles hits
his drive a mile but veering left, toward a pond, and then — I swear
this much is true — it turns in mid-air, bounces off an alder tree,
rolls an easy pitch from the green. "Look at that," he says.
"I must be living right." And as we walk to our second shots
the clouds above him part, a shaft of violet light descends
and draws him up, still toting his clubs in their canvas bag,
still considering the trees, and he's gone — the sky closed gasket tight
and rippling, a sudden wedge of starlings overhead. "I'm not
surprised," says David, bumping up his lie in the short rough.
"Not after a shot like that." But even I can see that golf
is just the metaphor — it could be anything. A parking place.
Steamed crabs and beer. My ex-wife, combing her long black hair.
------ -------- --------- -------- --------
Jon Loomis
The Pleasure Principle