What Is Found There

When I think of where I’ve come from
or even try to measure as any kind of
distance those places, all the various
people, and all the ways in which i re-
member them, so that even the skin I
touched or was myself fact of, inside,
could see through like a hole in the wall
or listen to, it must have been, to what
was going on in there, even if I was still
too dumb to know anything—When I think
of the miles and miles of roads, of meals,
of telephone wires even, or even of water
poured out in endless streams down streaks
of black sky or the dirt roads washed clean,
or myriad, salty tears and suddenly it’s spring
again, or it was—Even when I think again of
all those I treated so poorly, names, places,
their waiting uselessly for me in the rain and
I never came, was never really there at all,
was moving so confusedly, so fast, so driven
like a car along some empty highway passing,
passing other cars—When I try to think of
things, of what’s happened, of what a life is
and was, my life, when I wonder what it meant,
the sad days passing, the continuing, echoing deaths,
all the painful, belligerent news, and the dog still
waiting to be fed, the closeness of you sleeping, voices,
presences, of children, of our own grown children,
the shining, bright sun, the smell of the air just now,
each physical moment, passing, passing, it’s what
it always is or ever was, just then, just there.

http://goo.gl/Sv7ZE

Robert Creeley

Watching baseball
sitting in the sun
eating popcorn
Rereading Ezra Pound

and wishing Juan Marichal
would hit a hole right through
the Anglo-Saxon tradition
in the First Canto
and demolish the barbarian invaders

When the San Francisco Giants take the field
and everybody stands up to the National Anthem
with some Irish tenor's voice
piped over the loudspeakers
with all the players stuck dead in their places
and the white umpires like Irish cops
in their black suits and little black caps
presses over their hearts
standing straight and still
like some funeral of a blarney bartender
and all facing East
as if expecting some Great White Hope
or the Founding Fathers
to appear on the horizon
like 1066 or 1776 or all that

But Willie Mays appears instead
in the bottom of the first
and a roar goes up
	as he clouts the first one into the sun
		and takes off
			like a footrunner from Thebes
	The ball is lost in the sun
		and maidens wail after him
			but he keeps running
				through the Anglo-Saxon epic
And Tito Fuentes comes up
	Looking like a bullfighter
in his tight pants and small pointed shoes

		    And the rightfield bleachers go mad
			With chicanos & blacks & Brooklyn beerdrinkers
				"Sweet Tito! Sock it to heem, Sweet Tito!"
		     And Sweet Tito puts his foot in the bucket
			         and smacks one that doesn't come back at all
			and flees around the bases
		         like he's escaping from the United fruit Company
			as the Gringo dollar beats out the Pound
			       and Sweet Tito beats it out
			       like he's beating out usury
			       not to mention fascism and anti-semitism
		And Juan Marchial comes up
		    and the chicano bleachers go loco again
			as Juan belts the first fast ball
			       out of sight
				  and rounds first and keeps going
                         		and rounds second and rounds third
						and keeps going
					          and hits pay-dirt
			     to the roars of the grungy populace
		As some nut presses the backstage panic button
for the tape-recorded National anthem again
to save the situation
but he don't stop nobody this time
in their revolution round the loaded white bases
in this last of the great Anglo-Saxon epics
in the Territorio Libre of baseball

Lawrence Ferlinghetti