The Meadowlands
(For you who recognize it, I'll dispose of the latin and greek epigrams, and confine myself to "I. The Burial of the JEST.")
April is the cruelest month, rousing
JEST fans out of their deep funk, mixing
Memories and bold boasts, drafting
Dull clods with high picks.
Winter made us think, erasing
2017 with ease, "Leading
the NFL with zero losses."
Summer surprised us, trading over to better teams
The JETE BEST BEST BEST; we shot for first pick overall,
And couldn't tank right, into the real season,
And drank Miller, and talked for three hours.
Bin gar kein Jets Fan, ich komme aus der City, echt
Giants.*
And when we were children, watching the year of Namath,
My cousin's VHS, we won it all,
I thought I'd been there. He said, J-E-T-S,
Gang Green, hold on tight. And down we went.
In the offseason, there you feel free.
I watch that game each night, and cry in the winter.
What were we rooting for, what draft-pick grew
Out of Bowles of Rutherford? Son of Hack,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of fading images, and beat-downs,
And the Lighthouse gives no shelter, nor the cricket when you're at home,
And the dashed hopes no draft-day laughter. Only
There is shadow under this silver helmet,
(Come in under the shadow of this silver helmet),
And I will show you something different from either
The shadow of Brady striding above you
Or the shadow of Namath forever behind you;
I will show you fear - "In Bill We Trust."
Frische Reihe von Tiefen
Die Heimspiele auch
Mein Jersey kind
Wo weilest du?***
"You gave me Hackenberg first a year ago;
"They called me the Hackenberg girl."
-- Yet when he took first-team reps, in the Hackenberg section,
His arm sucked, his release poor, I could not
Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither
Hack-fan or JEST-fan, and I knew nothing,
Looking into the future's face, the silence.
Oed' und leer das JEST.***
Monsieur Mel Kiper, famous clairvoyant,
Has never been right, nonetheless,
Is known to be the wisest man on draft day,
With a wicked stack of cards. Here, said he,
Is your card, the drowned New Jersey rodent,
(That was gold that was his arm! Look!)
Here is Belichick, the Leader of the Pack,
The master of situations.
Here is the man with three strikes, and here the Bills,
And here is the myopic Maccagnan, and this card,
Which is blank, is something he'll carry on his back,
Which I am forbidden to see. I do not find
The hanged Mangold. Fear Death by slaughter.
Thank you. If you see dear Mr. Parity,
Tell him you brought this all upon yourself:
One must be so careful these days.
Unreal City,
Under the sad pall of a winter dawn,
A crowd flowed over the George Washington Bridge, so many.
The season's death had undone so many.
Cries, short and infrequent, of "Next Year,"
And each man fixed his eyes upon the draft.
Flowed over Hudson, up Washington Heights,
And somehow to the Great Wide Way where Namath kept the hours
With a dead sound, now for year forty-nine.
There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying:
"Johnson!
"You who were with me until shipped away!
"That corpse you planted in Grant Park in 16,
"Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?
"Or has the bench and rust disturbed its bed?
"Oh keep the Dog far hence, that's Maccagnan
"Or with his fails he'll dig it up again!
"You! Shipped-away Decker! Mon semblable, - mon frere!"
*"I'm not a Jets Fan, I'm from the City, really Giants."
**Fresh set of downs
The home-games too
My Jersey child
Where are you?
***Dull and empty the JEST
