!90718230 Howdy. I've got a few chores to do here at work this morning and I have to write a story on Devin Britton for the magazine (I'll soon write a post about him here as well). Since the ATP and WTA events going on this week are hardly critical, except to those involved in them, I also want to take a last look back at the US Open, which I'll do later today if I have time - or tomorrow.
Meanwhile, TennisWorld's poet laureate, Madame Highpockets, reports that she struggled with her muse this time around, but still managed to limp to the finish line with yet another paen to a Grand Slam. So here's her ode to the 2009 US Open, and if anybody can figure out what she means with those last two lines, please write. My own reaction to those last two lines is, This must be great poetry because I don't understand it! Isn't that how it works these days?
Okay, I'm being a little coy here, but one of the reasons I'm fond of Robinson Jeffers (Roan Stallion, Hurt Hawks, etc.) is because I understand what I'm reading and just. . . read it. Carefully, perhaps. Even savoring the sound of the words, maybe. But there's no head-scratching, no halting at an intellectual red light to try figure out what the hail the guy or lady is talking about.
Of course, our poet laureate's verse is almost unfailingly vivid and clear as a bell, so enjoy!
This is a Your Call post.