win


you’re too shy to howl
at fluorescents in the locker room,
and besides, don’t have the breath

just inch jeans up sticky legs, towel hair,
watch the rest of the fight card with one eye –
the other focused inside the skin
of your adrenalin, surveying change

poem about boxing


a poem about boxing
must be lean
as a welterweight,
but punch above

watch for the opening,
know every throw
drains strength

hit swift and hard –
startle

* * *

hey andie, what do you mean "could have been a kick-boxer?" Never too late! Where are you? (And where the mystical basement filled with gloves and heavy bags?)

only


forget to tuck chin
from uppercut’s eye

forget to keep arms buttoned
to ribs, knuckle flush
with cheekbone

let elbows wing out
exposing torso every throw,
slow the recoil of fist

lock breath in chest,
feet to canvas

only if you know
the precise length of your arm,
that hers is one inch shy

turn


you didn’t wish the heavy bag
was a thick, swaying chest,
or imagine revenge
as you dented it deep

haven’t been tempted
to slip a fist between hand pads
into a soft, dazed face

never wanted to hit,
never been hit

but the thought of a bout,
just one ramble around the ring
gets you hard in the belly –
an ache that last days,
won’t let you sleep

____

having some issues here -- fighting (har har) with tense, the third stanza, etc. -- but too tired to take it any further tonight. Insight welcome!

first time


shy first time in the ring
coach has you throw
at her shoulder –
clutch of bared muscle
less intimate than face, belly

hesitant, your jab sticks on air,
taps like you’re asking a question

fists don’t want to hit –
every second punch falls short
even when she hardly moves

she tags your arms, ribs,
shows how to be hit –
the concept, shock of it
even in gloves and headgear

tears tense, ready,
you shrug like huddling
through a storm,
playing dead
until she sniffs air, moves on

she snaps jab
on your forehead –
light, but enough to wake
your fists from fear,
launch them hard and true

playground


you began training
on the playground –
miss mary mack, mack, mack
clapped fast, fast, faster
to the recess bell,
automatic hip-flick, hand-sting
like flat leather slap
glove on hand pad
partner chants one-two
until your fists blur,
whip-sharp, hard

bounced ball off brick –
now your partner’s gut,
catch leather boulder
in your belly,
cave, shove back

tripped over pink, plastic
double-dutch ropes,
little girls’ nonsense songs
drowned by heavy metal
bass gangsta beat
you slice arcs
in air, cut deep,
feet flicker,
rope licks floor fast
as ticks of stopwatch

punch


gloves pop
off leather:
heavy bag, hand pads,
snap back to cheek
not even missed

but fists sink into face, belly,
flesh grabs and holds,
sucks strength,
harder to reel in hands
with every slowing throw

replay

you were serene
as you commanded fists
to explode in her face –
fast and bright as firecrackers
that she stood and watched

tall and steady, you led
her around the ring,
watching from above
as she tiptoed up to reach

you intercepted every punch
to the gut, slipped nimbly,
heard her glove break the air
beside one ear,
then the other

but you cringe now,
watching your stiff lope
on the screen,
anxious, lanky arms
throwing at faces in the crowd,
and all the punches you inhaled
through nose and chest
that left you gasping

trainer

you watch him
measure each fighter
with his fists,
calculate how far to push
past confines drawn
by muscle, mind

calibrate his own power
one notch higher,
make each believe
he’s within reach

the heavyweight
whose energy is slowly pared away
in hard, tight scoops
to the belly

the bantam who crumbles
under soft pawing

but at your turn in the ring
you can’t see him
yielding to your gear,
can’t tell he’s pulling punches
when each one comes
so heavy and hard


* * *
Only day 2 and already I'm struggling. Yeesh! I'll try to catch up with comments later in the weekend.

preamble, poem

Once again May tip toes in, then startles me. Likewise, May Day. Here we are; year 4 for me.

While I never like to commit to posting 31 poems, I've been able to do it twice in the three years I've taken part in May Day. I hope it'll happen again this year, but I know how mentally draining it is, and how much -- by the end -- I resent the obligation, even though it's just one made to myself, by myself. But, it's been worthwhile and my most productive time of year for writing.

No real plan this month, but lately I've been working on a series of poems about boxing, so I expect that will find it's way here (as it does today). Every year my goal is to not write about the weather. I have yet to achieve it. I live in Winnipeg.




gloved


punch deep, hook fingers
into dark, dead-end of glove
braced in your coach’s belly –
soft, slow dig to the gut
as she cinches laces
around forearms

tied and taped, you can’t pat
sweat from your face,
sweep hair from eyes

gloves turn hands dumb,
useless except for hammering
nose flush with cheekbone
testing for hollow
behind ribs

between rounds you beg
to have water
poured into your mouth,
tip your head back
and swallow