The Greatest Poetess of All Time
On this day 25 years ago, poet Marianne Moore died at the age of 84. Among the things discovered in her small Brooklyn apartment after her passing was a baseball signed by Mickey Mantle. Moore was a renowned sports fan, baseball in particular. She threw out the first pitch at Yankee Stadium's Opening Day in 1968, and wrote a famous poem called "Baseball and Writing" which begins
Fanaticism? No. Writing is exciting
and baseball is like writing
and goes on to elaborate on that comparison while enumerating the virtues of a parade of Yankees, including Elston Howard, Mantle, and her favorite, Yogi Berra ("Assign Yogi Berra to Cape Canaveral; he could handle any missile.")
George Plimpton, as of course he would have to, formed a relationship with Marianne Moore in her dotage that began when he took her to Yankee Stadium for the second game of the 1963 World Series. Robert Lowell tagged along. It was that kind of afternoon. What I wouldn't pay to go back in time and make it a foursome. Eight innings of shutout ball from Johnny Podres and some fine conversation to boot.
My favorite Plimpton story about Marianne Moore concerns his arranging for her to have tea with Ali at Toots Shor's (yet another showdown I would trade a kidney for a time-travel-ticket to). It was four o'clock in the afternoon, and no one was at the place except for the principals and Toots himself, who kept his distance ("He did not approve of Ali then, or perhaps ever," Plimpton wrote, "and he sat at the opposite end of the room, studiously ignoring us.")
After some predictable Ali clowning and Marianne Moore deadpanning, the two set about writing a poem together. I'll let Plimp himself set that scene:
Ali announced that if she was the greatest poetess in the country, the two of them should produce something together - "I am a poet too," he said - a joint-effort sonnet, it was to be, with each of them doing alternate lines. Miss Moore nodded vaguely. Ali was much more the decisive of the pair, picking not only the form but also the topic: "Mrs. Moore and I are going to write a sonnet about my upcoming fight in Houston with Ernie Terrell," he proclaimed to the table. "Mrs. Moore and I will show the world with this great poem who is who and what is what and who is going to win."
"We will call it 'A Poem on the Annihilation of Ernie Terrell'," Miss Moore announced. "Let us be serious but not grim."
"She's cute," Ali commented.
The poem they came up with is below. According to Plimpton, the whole composition took about a minute's time. See if you can guess who wrote what. I'll give you a clue - don't overthink it:
After we defeat Ernie Terrell
He will get nothing, nothing but hell,
Terrell was big and ugly and tall
But when he fights me he is sure to fall.
If he criticize this poem by me and Miss Moore
To prove he is not the champ she will stop him in four,
He is claiming to be the real heavyweight champ
But when the fight starts he will look like a tramp
He has been talking so much about me and making me sore
After I am through with him he will not be able to challenge Miss Moore.
and baseball is like writing
and goes on to elaborate on that comparison while enumerating the virtues of a parade of Yankees, including Elston Howard, Mantle, and her favorite, Yogi Berra ("Assign Yogi Berra to Cape Canaveral; he could handle any missile.")
George Plimpton, as of course he would have to, formed a relationship with Marianne Moore in her dotage that began when he took her to Yankee Stadium for the second game of the 1963 World Series. Robert Lowell tagged along. It was that kind of afternoon. What I wouldn't pay to go back in time and make it a foursome. Eight innings of shutout ball from Johnny Podres and some fine conversation to boot.
My favorite Plimpton story about Marianne Moore concerns his arranging for her to have tea with Ali at Toots Shor's (yet another showdown I would trade a kidney for a time-travel-ticket to). It was four o'clock in the afternoon, and no one was at the place except for the principals and Toots himself, who kept his distance ("He did not approve of Ali then, or perhaps ever," Plimpton wrote, "and he sat at the opposite end of the room, studiously ignoring us.")
After some predictable Ali clowning and Marianne Moore deadpanning, the two set about writing a poem together. I'll let Plimp himself set that scene:
Ali announced that if she was the greatest poetess in the country, the two of them should produce something together - "I am a poet too," he said - a joint-effort sonnet, it was to be, with each of them doing alternate lines. Miss Moore nodded vaguely. Ali was much more the decisive of the pair, picking not only the form but also the topic: "Mrs. Moore and I are going to write a sonnet about my upcoming fight in Houston with Ernie Terrell," he proclaimed to the table. "Mrs. Moore and I will show the world with this great poem who is who and what is what and who is going to win."
"We will call it 'A Poem on the Annihilation of Ernie Terrell'," Miss Moore announced. "Let us be serious but not grim."
"She's cute," Ali commented.
The poem they came up with is below. According to Plimpton, the whole composition took about a minute's time. See if you can guess who wrote what. I'll give you a clue - don't overthink it:
After we defeat Ernie Terrell
He will get nothing, nothing but hell,
Terrell was big and ugly and tall
But when he fights me he is sure to fall.
If he criticize this poem by me and Miss Moore
To prove he is not the champ she will stop him in four,
He is claiming to be the real heavyweight champ
But when the fight starts he will look like a tramp
He has been talking so much about me and making me sore
After I am through with him he will not be able to challenge Miss Moore.
3 Comments:
Oh there they go. There they go, every time I start talkin 'bout poetesses, a large man got to pull Marianne Moore out they ass. That's they one, that's they one. Marianne Moore. Marianne Moore. Let me tell you something once and for all. Marianne Moore was good, but compared to Louise Bogan, Marianne Moore ain't shit.
Dude Louise Bogan couldn't handle fucking Sharon Olds, let alone Marianne Moore, heavyweight champ of poetesses.
She kicked Joe Louis's ass...
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