The ball went through the trees into
a puddle. Thwack and the galaxies
aligned again. In open season, in
the greatest game ever played by
Francis Ouimet, the amateur golfer.
Myself, I’m not so much into golf.
As for poetry it must be a haunting.
In the abyss of amateurs, the thrill’s
in the seeking. For the love of, we lift
a veil into the unknown, shine a lamp.
In the play we reveal who we are.
There is no sabotage, no estrangement.
What sort of homage this is but to the self.
Live then inscribe, theorize about the game.
Baffled, huddling in a tent of ghosts.
Prompt: Hello guys, we’re in August and the journal’s winding down its game. Well, the deadline for submission is 28 August, by the way. The theme we’re exploring is self, or Song of Myself. Anyway I’ve just watched a biographical sports movie called The Greatest Game Ever Played, about America’s golf champion, Francis Ouimet. He was the first amateur golfer to win the US Open in 1913. I enjoyed it even though I’m not much into golf. Nail-biting stuff. As an amateur, he didn’t win any money. So that made me think about my own practice of poetry, which doesn’t profit one’s pockets. Would you do something if it doesn’t bring you any money? Well, I am doing it and it profits me creatively and that is a kind of spiritual abundance. So I’ll just pretend I’m Francis’s competitor, British golf pro, Harry Vardon, who managed to swing the ball out of the puddle. Hurrah to a great game!
I almost forgot. The prompt’s to write a biographically inspired story.