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Jim_Kennedy

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Re: yos not very bright ars ya phil da arthur
« Reply #25 on: February 16, 2003, 08:42:38 PM »
Phil,
The quote(below) didn't sound tongue-in-cheek when I read it, it sounded more like a knock on Billy Collins. I take your word that it wasn't.
Quote
The point of my question was that the Poet Laureate of the U.S. is unaware of ANY golf poetry. To me that is a glaring weakness in his qualifications to serve as such, especially since he claims to be an extremely avid fan of the game.
« Last Edit: December 31, 1969, 07:00:00 PM by 1056376800 »
"I never beat a well man in my life" - Harry Vardon

Forrest Richardson

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Re: The poetry of golf
« Reply #26 on: February 16, 2003, 08:51:10 PM »
« Last Edit: December 31, 1969, 07:00:00 PM by 1056376800 »
— Forrest Richardson, Golf Course Architect/ASGCA
    www.golfgroupltd.com
    www.golframes.com

Matthew Essig

  • Karma: +0/-0
Re: The poetry of golf
« Reply #27 on: April 08, 2014, 09:12:53 PM »
AMEN CORNER

Prayers rise to the sky.
Hopes sink in Rae's Creek.
The murmurs of birds, and sighs
Knees tremble and grow weak.
Guts twist into knots.
Teeth and grips get tighter.
The swirling of his Thoughts
And breeze make his head lighter.
But the buzz, and burden, burst
Roars echo throughout the trees
Moments of past and present are dispersed
Across the hill to all the greens and tees.
Filled with cheers, or "Oh Brother!"
The Aura is "Unlike Any Other."
             -Matthew Essig
« Last Edit: April 08, 2014, 10:58:48 PM by Matthew Essig »
"Good GCA should offer an interesting golfing challenge to the golfer not a difficult golfing challenge." Jon Wiggett

Ian Andrew

  • Karma: +0/-0
Re: The poetry of golf
« Reply #28 on: April 08, 2014, 09:36:23 PM »
This count ...

Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the site
Not a poster was stirring, they’d called it a night.
The computers were off by the desk and the chair,
In hopes that the Flynn book soon would be there.

The lurkers were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of Sand Hills danced in their heads.
And Tommy is his ‘ascot”, and Ben in his cap,
Had just settled in for a long winter’s nap.

When out on the site there arose such a clatter,
I sprang to my computer to see what was the matter.
Away to the screen I made a quick dash,
To see the discussion and I was on like a flash.

This brand new discussion had started to grow
giving new lustre to the old threads below.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a some very bold thoughts, and opinion so clear.

With a little more insight, so quick as he can
I knew in a moment it must be St Ran.
More rapid than eagles the posters they came
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name!

"Now Tom Paul! now, Cirba! now, Mucci and Disher!
On, Morrison! On, MacWood! on, on Childs and Dewer!
To the top of the site! to the top of the threads!
Now wake up! Wake up! And out of your beds!"


ah nevermind ....  ;D
With every golf development bubble, the end was unexpected and brutal....

Peter Pallotta

Re: The poetry of golf
« Reply #29 on: April 08, 2014, 09:57:22 PM »
 :)

Missed this the first time around. Very nice. I'm just gonna start with what I had and piece it together slowly, revising and adding as I go.

and from a long way off, it called

the earth at rest: sound and secure in herself, at peace
with her rhythm breathing slow and deep in millennials
the valleys, the fields, the outcrops of rock, the dark
damp and hidden birthplaces, and the sand and the ocean.
in the fast fading light there is just this: the one earth,
this one field of play, calling to us while we were still far off.    

there is a full patterned rightness here: the fossilized layers
like warm woven blankets, the dark desert places renewed
over a millennium of renewals, and in the dim pale light a home,
a house, up high on a hill welcomes us as warmly as an
ever-returning spring, renewing yet again as if eternally
the spirit of our prodigal game.    

here is the way to rest, and to restoration. the patterns of
this sure place: eating together, laughter, the singular joys
of making and of doing and of finishing well, shared  
somehow in this one single moment, solitary and communal.  
and here too the silence of endless wheat coloured grass,
and the deep dark ocean under an endless sky of mottled grey.

the insular, singular joys of play-making, and of the game:
of irons and wood, and the leather a warm blanket wrap
for tools and our tired sodden feet treading lightly still across
silent fields and valleys and the outcrops of rock: here there
is restoration and some blessed rest, breathing slow and deep,
secure for now in ourselves alone. One might even say: at home.

the rhythm of this singular game, at this one quiet place: a richly
patterned rightness here, slow as in the millennial, our dark places
renewed on this earth-bound field of play, one shot at a time, rarely
good but sometimes good enough, and with a house on a hill waiting
to warmly welcome us in the fading light of yet another spring,
the solitaries, the singulars, all praying like prodigals to finish well.


Been tinkering now all evening. I still think I'm writing about Bandon, but I can't be sure since I've never been there!!
Peter
« Last Edit: April 09, 2014, 01:06:11 AM by PPallotta »

Colin Macqueen

  • Karma: +0/-0
Re: The poetry of golf
« Reply #30 on: April 09, 2014, 02:05:10 AM »
Gentlemen,
Very good verse!
Now Peter Pallotta's prose is too hard an act to follow but at least I can say I penned in his poems penumbra!


The Boomerang and Kubla Kahn

In Tassie did The Boomerang
A stately pleasure trip decree:
Where many a sacred river ran
Through dunes and hills not made by man
Down to a sparkling sea.

So twice with miles of fertile ground
With swales and bunkers scattered round:
And here were greens alright with serious thrills
Where blossomed many an incensed putting spree;
And here were fairways nascent in the hills,
Awaiting honeyed shots from off the tee.

And so!...that sweet earth once potato-planted
Sown and green will now reward a certain duffer!
A special space! as holy and enchanted
As any near the old grey toon was vaunted
By Trojan whaling at his golfball’s cover.

The golfer freed to roam at leisure
Toted mid-round his par saves:
Fore's the word, unmingled pleasure.
No score mounting this he craves.
It was empirical this rare device
One sweet-struck treasured drive behaves, no slice!

Two architects with Rick Sattler
In a vision this they saw:
It was a fine Elysian glade,
And on this field golf could be played,
Thanks to Doak, Coore and no flaw.
Did they connive in places windy
Where fast and firm belong,
Did such to keep delight within thee
And golden age ideas prolong,
And did gild this home of prayer,
This pleasure dome! with holes of spice!
Barnbougle Dunes and Lost Farm there
Each golfer cries Be fair!  Be fair!
His slashing drive, his pitching flair!
Leave no putt short at any price,
Now close your eyes in his step tread,
For he on honey-dew hath fed
And drunk the milk of Paradise.

Thank you and goodnight!

Cheers Colin
"Golf, thou art a gentle sprite, I owe thee much"
The Hielander

Quinn Thompson

  • Karma: +0/-0
Re: The poetry of golf
« Reply #31 on: April 09, 2014, 07:11:02 AM »
...there was a good article on said topic in this Sunday's New York Times Sport's section...titled:" O Caddie ! My Caddie ! " , pretty much about the history of Golf Poetry and the man who is trying to assemble, and publish, what it is he can find ....you'd have to google it, or, support the Newspaper industry...Q.

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