Golf is a mixture of heart and heartburn.
As such, it lends itself to a medium that offers both — poetry. My new book of poems, Golf Lessons: Chips, Chunks and Cheers, is a labor of love. The poems reflect my love of a game that has given me decades of challenge and enjoyment. The collection explores the lure of the game that goes hand-in-hand with its fiendish demands.
Here is an excerpt from “Tee to Green,” the opening poem.
Three feet away.
A gimme, the pros might say.
But when you’re like me, a recreational golfer…
there’s no such thing as a gimme.
And sure enough,
as I bring my putter back and stroke it true,
I watch my putt edge, edge, edge away from the cup.
Darn, I forgot to read the break.
Golf Lessons is a celebration of friendship that fosters companionship and collegiality. Here is an excerpt from “Old Golfers.”
We are not old, we say aloud to each other.
Laughing as we approach the first tee.
Our knees may ache, shoulders, too.
Our hips may sport titanium.
We are golfers through and through.
Our backswings are shorter now.
Permitting us to stripe the fairway.
Occasionally.
Around the greens, we have the knowledge,
But not the touch.
Our putter may betray us.
Long. Short. Wide.
No matter. It is not the game that matters.
It’s the chatter.
And while the clatter-popping of worn joints may slow us
We stay together.
We are not so old, we say aloud.
While the game does not always love me back, it keeps me coming back because I am drawn to its complexity and simplicity. You need to think your way around a course while keeping your head about you.
Humor is an essential part of Golf Lessons. The poem “The Shank-o-patomus” looks at the struggle players endure when their shots do not go where they aim, a common occurrence. Here is an excerpt:
Until the Shank-o-potamus is tamed,
Its ravenous appetite only grows,
Swallowing not only wedges,
But 9-irons, 8-irons and even 5-irons.
Residing anywhere and everywhere
The Shank-o-potamus waits only the right moment
To skitter balls away without mercy.
In truth,
The Shank-o-potomus dwells not
In forests, ponds and bunkers,
But rather within the five-inch space between our ears.
When I am playing the course alone, I pull out my phone and snap pictures. I thought it only fitting to include a selection of these images — fairways, greens and nature itself — flowers and fauna.
Golf Lessons is a collection of poetry that captures the spirit of the game and the sense of camaraderie it inspires. So, let me leave you with the final poem in the book, “The Golfer’s Prayer.”
Oh, Lord
Let my drives be straight and true
(And stay out of the woods, the water, and the bunker.)
Let my long iron shots rise up and stay on the fairway
(And not be fat, thin or in-between.)
Let my pitch shots arc joyfully and plop softly on the green
(And not be chunked, scorched or flown away.)
If I should end in a bunker, let my sand shot be a save to the hole
(And not require a second or third attempt, or wildly veer toward my playing partner.)
And finally, let my putts ride the break into the hole
(And not short, long, or curve waywardly.)
Now, if none of my prayer be heard,
Let me retire cheerily with my pals to the nearest bar
To raise a glass to
Next time!
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