text:
The poems in this collection are on wrestling—the collegiate and amateur styles—but also how we wrestle with life, where we find wrestling in our lives, plus our gods, prophets and heroes past, those who have wrestled the classic bouts. It is modern and boundary-busting, and at the same time about tradition, a duality significant to both the poetry and wrestling communities. It is not about professional wrestling. Although that would make a wonderful project on its own, there is not enough poetry about amateur wrestling, the collegiate, Olympic, and folk styles.
The rest of this intro will be of interest to you if you would like to use any of the artwork or poetry yourself, and if you are interested in why such a collection came together—maybe for the first time. If not, then scan down to below Catherine Edmunds' 2009 drawing called "Greek wrestlers," and begin reading. If you are looking for a particular poet's work, or to see if it is included, simply click "Ctrl-F" on your keyboard. Here is a list of the living contributing poets you will find:
Rane Arroyo
John D. Berry
Rus Bowden
Kimberly Dark
Susie DeFord
Lori Desrosiers
Susan Kelly-DeWitt
David Hernandez
Drax Ireland
Jayson Iwen
John Jeffire
Andy Jones
Jeff Kass
Steve Meador
Muhammad Afzal Mirza
Steve Parker
Gilbert Pye
Don Schaeffer
Muhammad Amir Sheikh
Michael D. Snediker
G.C. Smith
Judy Swann
John Timpane
Pamela Uschuk
In lieu of bios, links to the contributors' web sites are provided from their names. If you would like to reach them, most of the time you will find contact information there. If not, e-mail me (firstname.lastname@example.com), and I will try to connect you.
The works in this collection fall under Creative Commons—Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 Unported. This way, as you share these poems, the poets' names remains attached, so that they continue to get credit for their work as it is passed around. In the spirit of this, each piece of artwork used below has just beneath it, as part of the image, an attribution that includes what the work is, who made it, and when. This Creative Commons agreement also protects the artists and poets from someone else making money from their works, while cutting them out. You'll need permission for such a commercial venture. It allows, however, for you to feel free to share the works, to keep the poems handy and pass them around, and speak them at events. If you have sought these poems out for noncommercial use, wonderful!, please write the poet a thank you, but the answer is already yes.
A few years back, when I was blogging daily at Bud Bloom, November arrived, and the poetry posting necessarily slowed down, as wrestling season was about to begin. My son Dan was wrestling in college at the time, and I was a moderating contributor at MassWrestling.com, working on a comprehensive directory of all collegiate wrestlers from Massachusetts, in order that wrestlers, their family, and friends, could see how their high school wrestlers were faring in college, even if they were still active. Part of this, was to create a comprehensive list of wrestling colleges around the country, which was shared with other wrestling forums in other states. I made a brief post on the poetry blog called Wrestling With Poetry in November. I wanted to include wrestling poetry in that blog, and found some in a translation of Homer's Iliad, but had difficulty finding it elsewhere. Since creating that blog post, I then noticed that many others who go online in search for "wrestling poetry", come up with my post. And I always felt that that post was not allowing the searchers to find the jackpot they were looking for. Thus, there is demand, but short supply. This blog post is a wrestling poetry jackpot.
Back in July, I made a call for submissions of new and recent wrestling poems, by posting at over 20 wrestling forums, over 20 poetry forums, and to over 2500 members of Facebook. The response has been remarkable, as you can read for yourself below. And a high percentage of these gifted poets, have been or still are wrestlers or members of the wrestling community themselves. With these poems by living poets, I have merged classics. Included also are fresh translations of classic poems, and renditions of scriptural texts.
My thanks go to all the contributors listed above. Each have been a pleasure to work with. My thanks also to those who have guided this project with ideas, such as Joyce Nower, who turned me onto Emily Dickinson's many wrestling poems, and Dennis Greene, who reminded me of the classic wrestling scene in Longfellow's "Song of Hiawatha." Thanks also to you for finding these poems, for shaking hands with them, and taking the time to read them, even to grapple with them when you hear the metaphoric whistle. It's your match now, your time to enter the ring.
by Jeff Kass
White Plains High and Yale University wrestler, 1980-85
WPHS coach, 1988-90
All wrestlers practice failing
We need to know what to do
when we're getting cranked.
Inevitably, we will be on our backs.
Somebody will be tougher, somebody will be quicker, somebody
will be strong enough to knock us flat. It's called looking at the lights
as if when we're horizontal and helpless, we're also gazing at paradise.
All I know is it's hot down there. It stinks. The friction of your head rubbing
against the mat could start a bonfire. The guy who's decking you is breathing
in your ear, a rush of panting grunts. His sweat drips in your hair and your
girlfriend is watching from the bleachers as his muscles glisten and you are
buried. Your teammates are groaning and urging you to keep fighting
but secretly they doubt you won't surrender and the referee is cutting
the air at smaller and flatter angles to signal the shrinking breadth
between the mat and your shoulders and he poises to slap, he poises
to slap and that is why every day in practice we must drill and rehearse
for failure.
It's called bridging. Make your neck a great spoon stirring the soup
of your head. Stir it left. Stir it right. Hold it. Hold it. He will be a ten-
ton slab trying to break you flat—you must resist, your neck must insist
no, with your neck no, with your neck no, you must train your neck
to insist NO.
Previously published in Anderbo
by Terreson
Antaeus's Son to His Father's Killer
Here we are, my mercenary Greek,
back at the same crossroads
where you bested my father.
The ground when you pinned him down
is what defeated you in
hold after hold or until
you found the way to filet his strength,
the way a fisherman's instinct
cleans flesh from the bone of earth.
That's when you bettered him, pressing him, his feet loose,
to your chest, enjoying his death.
But I am not like him whose daughters
are my mother (earth, air, fire, and water).
I am the inbred, an avatar
thread through elements, and whose
original sin is my source of strength.
Come to me please, Herakles.
I wish to press you to my chest
and see your eyes bulge out when you meet
my father's face in each hero's moment
defining his one hero's defeat.
Revenge is such a useless emotion.
I don't want your death; just your lost look
in the echo of my father's eyes on the mat.
by Emily Dickinson (1830-86)
Artists wrestled here!
Lo, a tint Cashmere!
Lo, a Rose!
Student of the Year!
For the easel here
Say Repose!
by Gilbert Pye
The Ballad of Rukhana
Many people challenged Muhammad at wrestling
(they didn't realise he was divine;
they thought he was an ordinary bloke).
He pummelled skull, scapula and spine,
ripped ligament from bone, loved pestling
puny wrong-believing bodies until they broke.
One day Rukhana, hideous, colossal, hairy,
strongest of the Arabs, challenges Muhammad to a bout.
Muhammad accepts. Bets are placed.
The outcome is never in doubt
(insh'allah); at first both men are wary,
looking each other over, tense, the taste
of raw testosterone on their lips;
then, exponent of the sacred art,
Muhammad makes his move, nostrils aglow
with the smell of Rukhana's skin and heart:
charge, grapple, throw,
and the infidel describes a glorious ellipse
through the air and falls to earth like a kite
when the wind ceases suddenly as if by decree.
Muhammad prostrates himself before Allah, Allah
nods at Muhammad evasively;
Rukhana and his corner exhibit that pallor
you see on the face of the better man having lost a fight.
The crowd go wild, beating their chests, cheering,
ululating, howling, miming the winning move, bearing
the victor aloft, cavorting through the souk
in a tumult of piety and teeth, secretly tearing
up their betting slips. Look!
Allah winks and fades. He's disappearing!
Because I could not stop for Death—
He kindly stopped for me—
The Carriage held but just Ourselves—
And Immortality.
We slowly drove—He knew no haste
And I had put away
My labor and my leisure too,
For His Civility—
We passed the School, where Children strove
At Recess—in the Ring—
We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain—
We passed the Setting Sun—
Or rather—He passed Us—
The Dews drew quivering and chill—
For only Gossamer, my Gown—
My Tippet—only Tulle—
We paused before a House that seemed
A Swelling of the Ground—
The Roof was scarcely visible—
The Cornice—in the Ground—
Since then—'tis Centuries—and yet
Feels shorter than the Day
I first surmised the Horses' Heads
Were toward Eternity—
by John Timpane
a translation of Rainer Maria Rilke's "Der Schauende"
I tell the storm is coming on:
My anxious windows bear the beat
Of branches after tedious days.
I hear the distant things say truths
That without friend I do not bear
And without sister cannot love.
There goes the all-reshaper storm,
Through the forest, through all time
And everything is ageless now:
The landscape, like a verse from Psalms
Is purpose, heft, eternity.
Since what we wrestle with is small
And what contends against us great,
Let the great storm subdue us, more
As all things in the world do; then
We would be distant, never named.
Our victory is in the small,
And when we win, the smaller we.
The Endless, the Superlative
Does not consent to bend to us.
The Angel of the Testament
Came to the wrestlers. Metal match:
When their contending tendons stretched
It felt beneath his fingers like
The strings of deepening melody.
The man this Angel overcame
(He often won without a fight)
Retired upright and energized,
Made great by that hard hand, which shaped
Him new, as if to recreate.
The vanquished finds a victory
Not tempting. How he grows is to
Be pinned by ever-greater gods.
by Rainer Maria Rilke (1875-1926)
Der Schauende
Ich sehe den Bäumen die Stürme an,
die aus laugewordenen Tagen
an meine ängstlichen Fenster schlagen,
und höre die Fernen Dinge sagen,
die ich nicht ohne Freund ertragen,
nicht ohne Schwester lieben kann.
Da geht der Sturm, ein Umgestalter,
geht durch den Wald und durch die Zeit,
und alles ist wie ohne Alter:
die Landschaft, wie ein Vers im Psalter,
ist Ernst und Wucht und Ewigkeit.
Wie ist das klein, womit wir ringen,
was mit uns ringt, wie ist das groß;
ließen wir, ähnlicher den Dingen,
uns so vom großen Sturm bezwingen,—
wir würden weit und namenlos.
Was wir besiegen, ist das Kleine,
und der Erfolg selbst macht uns klein.
Das Ewige und Ungemeine
will nicht von uns gebogen sein.
Das ist der Engel, der den Ringern
des Alten Testaments erschien:
wenn seiner Widersacher Sehnen
im Kampfe sich metallen dehnen,
fühlt er sie unter seinen Fingern
wie Saiten tiefer Melodien.
Wen dieser Engel überwand,
welcher so oft auf Kampf verzichtet,
der geht gerecht und aufgerichtet
und groß aus jener harten Hand,
die sich, wie formend, an ihn schmiegte.
Die Siege laden ihn nicht ein.
Sein Wachstum ist: der Tiefbesiegte
von immer Größerem zu sein.
for the people of Whitefish, Montana
Black Ice
How easy it is to slip.
Slowing for a switchback's glazed curve, I
catch the radio's news:
a school bus carrying wrestlers
from Browning to Whitefish
over this same unrelenting glare
has slammed into a tanker
jacknifed across both lanes. Then flames
killing nine in the quick cold.
Along the polished carbon dip
and swell of the Blackfoot River, I drive
over ice so darkly transparent
the pavement is a well
whose varnished shaft pulls me sliding,
an awkward creature
away from home.
What needs our sorrow?
Or passed between the stunned drivers
when the bus brakes locked
in that short skid?
During the first thoughtless seconds, boys
becoming men
dragged friends from the sudden fire, then
watched, helpless as rocks dislodged by current,
those they couldn't reach, their screams lost to
wind biting across the dreaming world.
To drive far in this weather—
the afternoon half-blasted by wind gray as old wood—
invites hypnotic dreams.
I recall checking
the rearview mirror to see
your farewell shiver, then shrink in silver light. Love,
how often we're forced apart.
Nothing is so visible as this ice,
black-humored, a stoic beyond desire.
There is nothing I can offer
those boys as healing as their daring, their hearts.
Tomorrow, I teach poetry in a high school
not far away. I slow
cursing these roads hunched spinal
with no shoulders for escape.
Listening to the tick of studden tires on ice,
I know how fragile the traction
holding us, what suffering
edges induce.
In the furrowed rush of black water
Frost-grained waves
grind back into themselves,
intent on motion to avoid the final freeze across.
Smoothing rocks, crisp hulls of caddis,
stone flies, last summer's storm-rendered windfall,
the river carves its deeper trough
widening its embrace.
Like a snow bank bursting, snow buntings startle
from my tires, threading
the river's rough hem.
I envy the birds' close escape
as they ascend—
moth fluttery, sudden confetti
folding black on white
above the snow-flocked highway—
safe to the wild shore.
Below the indifferent grade
the current endures. In dim light
its dark arms turn from themselves, deceptive
as the familiar lover.
I can almost hear water's porcelain stampede
against an iced log above rocks
that bump gratefully inside the swirl
or hold their own.
Only the small ceremonies
of comfort and soaring can cure.
Unable to build roads for safety, I will
each speeding log truck, each
oil tanker back-skidding
to stay in its narrow lane,
to grip what can't be held.
I wonder what job is worth
these long winter drives, clinging to slick surfaces
unpredictable as the metereology of the heart.
Even though my eyes burn
tired of the constant play of gray light
across black ice, there is no time to rest.
I drive through
this wilderness against the curve of pavement
following the river and its restless strain.
Previously published in Poetry Magazine and by Wings Press in her book Scattered Risks
by John Jeffire
1995 NAIA national collegiate coach of the year
Coach Talks to the Wrestling Team the Day
Before the Eastside Match
Wrestling room air thick
as an amazonian afternoon
stinkheavy with years
of sweat that not even buckets of
uncut bleach can defeat.
I was still three pounds over
my weight class before practice
and I'm grateful
for more sprints back and forth
from padded wall to padded wall
wading through 90 degree fog
in two t-shirts and three sweatshirts
and two pairs of longjohns
under my sweatpants
sweating, sweating, ounce by ounce
closer to weight, but coach
calls us in and orders us
to take a knee.
His right ear a piece
of popcorn flesh glued
to the side of his head
his eyebrows rubbed off from
years of skullgrinding
his nose crooked as
a broken arm of lightning
his knees crisscrossed
by crazed scartissue worms
he walks like
a wheelchair is days away
but somehow he wrestles us like
a landmine eating handgrenades
exploding our bodies
across the mildewed mats.
We love him
like a father
especially those of us
who have no fathers.
He speaks.
We listen.
The coach from State, he begins,
is gonna be at the match tomorrow.
He's recruiting Hendry from Eastside,
none a you dumbasses, but he's
an old pal a mine.
I look over at LaDuke who
looks at Brophy who looks
at Washington the heavyweight . . .
we hate Hendry
defending state champ who stole
Kraznicki's girlfriend last summer
at our town's Dairy Queen
none of us could ever beat him
but we can take Eastside as a team.
Now, any a you jokers
ever think about college?
Sweat drips down my nose
onto the rubber mat.
I look over at LaDuke who
looks at Brophy who looks
at Washington the heavyweight . . .
none of us has thought of college.
LaDuke, who has failed Freshman English
twice and lives in the metal shop, though,
says, Yeah, I thought about it,
and even coach knows he's lying.
Yeah? Coach says. So what exactly
you want to study, LaDuke?
Sweat drips down his nose.
He thinks.
He answers,
I dunno, maybe buildin' stuff.
Something like a smile
creases Coach's scarred mouth.
We smile, waiting for the verdict.
Building stuff, huh? asks Coach
then he shows us that ragged row
of chipped crocodile teeth.
We laugh on cue
not really sure what is so funny.
Cut the crap, says Coach
and the mice and roaches in this decayed
corner of the school take cover.
What about you, Camel Jockey?
I am Camel Jockey.
I was still three pounds over
before practice and somewhere
in the frozen air above our town
21 pounds of me has been stolen
since season began in November.
I am sick of cutting weight
but I'm so close now
and tomorrow we can take Eastside.
You got some A's, didn't you? Coach asks.
True, I got some A's but
my parents own a bar where
I cook Italian sausage sandwiches
and butter garlic bread in front
of a 700 degree oven after practice
still dressed in sweat clothes
trying to drain off those last few ounces
wishing I could just lick the grease
off the prep counter or sneak a few
slices of Genoa salami and not be overweight
but I'm ranked in the district
at 112 pounds and the team
needs the points
if we're gonna take leagues in two weeks.
You're smart enough, Camel, and you could be
tough enough with a few more ass whuppins,
says Coach, so whattaya think?
I can talk to the coach at State,
see what he thinks a you tomorrow.
I look over at LaDuke who
looks at Brophy who looks
at Washington the heavyweight . . .
sweat drips down my nose
and my mouth is coated in cotton
and if I'm lucky, really lucky
I only have another pound to lose
and maybe if we stop all this talk
about college and start running again
I can eat half an orange
and drink a cup of milk after work tonight
before drifting off to sleep.
In pairs, they fall together again and again,
shoulder to shoulder, neck to neck,
heads close, they take on each others weight
with pleasure.
It looks like pleasure, an intimate pleasure,
an embrace—until the feet dig in and
the choreographed tussle begins.
It looks like pleasure
and so it must be
for what would hold them,
hour after hour,
in these forms of embrace,
bodily pressure, contact—
if not pleasure.
The environment is daunting, after all.
The grunts and shuffling feet,
yells of coaches create a noise
that even in its power
cannot rise above the hot stench
of bodies, struggling.
A steamy-loud-funk escapes the room
and they are all writhing in the midst of it—
creating a steamy hot punk funk
109-summer-degrees outside
and inside, the steam rises from their bodies.
This is how young men must touch each other—
hug, hold one another's bodies—
without provoking disdain
without fear of abuse
without loss, loss, loss,
loss of everything
Summer wrestling camp,
the south gym at Fresno State University
is a giant room with hardwood floors
big blue mats hauled in two days ago
to cushion prancing feet and falls,
to guard the flesh and bones of boy's tumbles,
shield knees from harm.
The door between the sunny day
and the stench of wrestlers
seems an easily passable
portal between worlds.
The gym is dark and slightly cooler
than the noon-time brightness
and yet within each wrestler,
a sun glows
drenching his clothes and skin
with sweat.
At the call of the coaches they
"BREAK! Give me 5 sit-ups!"
Then they're back at it again
falling together, shoulder to shoulder,
enacting the forms of contact
common to the sport—
the rituals of contact within
the tightly controlled container
of combat and propriety.
Intimate propriety; their suns shine
making the paint want to peel
in the stench.
They fall together again and again
constrained by the form as they
make vital, human contact.
martial artist, Berkeley CA
Before beginning,
Focus narrows,
To target,
Sounds diminish,
Without silence.
The movie runs,
In your head,
Which moves,
Counter moves,
How victory,
Will come.
No thought,
No mind,
The referee's signal,
It begins.
by Emily Dickinson (1830-86)
The Drop, that wrestles in the Sea—
Forgets her own locality—
As I—toward Thee—
She knows herself an incense small—
Yet small—she sighs—if All—is All—
How larger—be?
The Ocean—smiles—at her Conceit—
But she, forgetting Amphitrite—
by Alfred Noyes (1880-1958)
In the Black Country, from a little window,
Before I slept, across the haggard wastes
Of dust and ashes, I saw Titanic shafts
Like shadowy columns of wan-hope arise
To waste, on the blear sky, their slow sad wreaths
Of smoke, their infinitely sad slow prayers.
Then, as night deepened, the blast-furnaces,
Red smears upon the sulphurous blackness, turned
All that sad region to a City of Dis,
Where naked, sweating giants all night long
Bowed their strong necks, melted flesh, blood and bone,
To brim the dry ducts of the gods of gloom
With terrible rivers, branches of living gold.
O, like some tragic gesture of great souls
In agony, those awful columns towered
Against the clouds, that city of ash and slag
Assumed the grandeur of some direr Thebes
Arising to the death-chant of those gods,
A dreadful Order climbing from the dark
Of Chaos and Corruption, threatening to take
Heaven with its vast slow storm.
I slept, and dreamed.
And like the slow beats of some Titan heart
Buried beneath immeasurable woes,
The forging-hammers thudded through the dream:
Huge on a fallen tree,
Lost in the darkness of primeval woods,
Enceladus, earth-born Enceladus,
The naked giant, brooded all alone.
Born of the lower earth, he knew not how,
Born of the mire and clay, he knew not when,
Brought forth in darkness, and he knew not why!
Thus, like a wind, went by a thousand years.
Anhungered, yet no comrade of the wolf,
And cold, but with no power upon the sun,
A master of this world that mastered him!
Thus, like a cloud, went by a thousand years.
Who chained this other giant in his heart
That heaved and burned like Etna? Heavily
He bent his brows and wondered and was dumb.
And, like one wave, a thousand years went by.
He raised his matted head and scanned the stars.
He stood erect! He lifted his uncouth arms!
With inarticulate sounds his uncouth lips
Wrestled and strove—I am full-fed, and yet
I hunger!
Who set this fiercer famine in my maw?
Can I eat moons, gorge on the Milky Way,
Swill sunsets down, or sup the wash of the dawn
Out of the rolling swine-troughs of the sea?
Can I drink oceans, lie beneath the mountains,
And nuzzle their heavy boulders like a cub
Sucking the dark teats of the tigress? Who,
Who set this deeper hunger in my heart?
And the dark forest echoed—Who? Ah, who?
"I hunger!"
And the night-wind answered him,
"Hunt, then, for food."
"I hunger!"
And the sleek gorged lioness
Drew nigh him, dripping freshly from the kill,
Redder her lolling tongue, whiter her fangs,
And gazed with ignorant eyes of golden flame.
"I hunger!"
Like a breaking sea his cry
Swept through the night. Against his swarthy knees
She rubbed the red wet velvet of her ears
With mellow thunders of unweeting bliss,
Purring—Ah, seek, and you shall find.
Ah, seek, and you shall slaughter, gorge, ah seek,
Seek, seek, you shall feed full, ah seek, ah seek.
Enceladus, earth-born Enceladus,
Bewildered like a desert-pilgrim, saw
A rosy City, opening in the clouds,
The hunger-born mirage of his own heart,
Far, far above the world, a home of gods,
Where One, a goddess, veiled in the sleek waves
Of her deep hair, yet glimmering golden through,
Lifted, with radiant arms, ambrosial food
For hunger such as this! Up the dark hills,
He rushed, a thunder-cloud,
Urged by the famine of his heart. He stood
High on the topmost crags, he hailed the gods
In thunder, and the clouds re-echoed it!
He hailed the gods!
And like a sea of thunder round their thrones
Washing, a midnight sea, his earth-born voice
Besieged the halls of heaven! He hailed the gods!
They laughed, he heard them laugh!
With echo and re-echo, far and wide,
A golden sea of mockery, they laughed!
Enceladus, earth-born Enceladus,
Laid hold upon the rosy Gates of Heaven,
And shook them with gigantic sooty hands,
Asking he knew not what, but not for alms;
And the Gates, opened as in jest;
And, like a sooty jest, he stumbled in.
Round him the gods, the young and scornful gods,
Clustered and laughed to mark the ravaged face,
The brutal brows, the deep and dog-like eyes,
The blunt black nails, and back with burdens bowed.
And, when they laughed, he snarled with uncouth lips
And made them laugh again.
"Whence comest thou?"
He could not speak!
How should he speak whose heart within him heaved
And burned like Etna? Through his mouth there came
A sound of ice-bergs in a frozen sea
Of tears, a sullen region of black ice
Rending and breaking, very far away.
They laughed!
He stared at them, bewildered, and they laughed
Again, "Whence comest thou?"
He could not speak!
But through his mouth a moan of midnight woods,
Where wild beasts lay in wait to slaughter and gorge,
A moan of forest-caverns where the wolf
Brought forth her litter, a moan of the wild earth
In travail with strange shapes of mire and clay,
Creatures of clay, clay images of the gods,
That hungered like the gods, the most high gods,
But found no food, and perished like the beasts.
And the gods laughed,—
Art thou, then, such a god? And, like a leaf
Unfolding in dark woods, in his deep brain
A sudden memory woke; and like an ape
He nodded, and all heaven with laughter rocked,
While Artemis cried out with scornful lips,—
Perchance He is the Maker of you all!
Then, piteously outstretching calloused hands,
He sank upon his knees, his huge gnarled knees,
And echoed, falteringly, with slow harsh tongue,—
Perchance, perchance, the Maker of you all.
They wept with laughter! And Aphrodite, she,
With keener mockery than white Artemis
Who smiled aloof, drew nigh him unabashed
In all her blinding beauty. Carelessly,
As o'er the brute brows of a stallèd ox
Across that sooty muzzle and brawny breast,
Contemptuously, she swept her golden hair
In one deep wave, a many-millioned scourge
Intolerable and beautiful as fire;
Then turned and left him, reeling, gasping, dumb,
While heaven re-echoed and re-echoed, See,
Perchance, perchance, the Maker of us all!
Enceladus, earth-born Enceladus,
Rose to his feet, and with one terrible cry
"I hunger," rushed upon the scornful gods
And strove to seize and hold them with his hands,
And still the laughter deepened as they rolled
Their clouds around them, baffling him. But once,
Once with a shout, in his gigantic arms
He crushed a slippery splendour on his breast
And felt on his harsh skin the cool smooth peaks
Of Aphrodite's bosom. One black hand
Slid down the naked snow of her long side
And bruised it where he held her. Then, like snow
Vanishing in a furnace, out of his arms
The splendour suddenly melted, and a roll
Of thunder split the dream, and headlong down
He fell, from heaven to earth; while, overhead
The young and scornful gods—he heard them laugh!—
Toppled the crags down after him. He lay
Supine. They plucked up Etna by the roots
And buried him beneath it. His broad breast
Heaved, like that other giant in his heart,
And through the crater burst his fiery breath,
But could not burst his bonds. And so he lay
Breathing in agony thrice a thousand years.
Then came a Voice, he knew not whence, "Arise,
Enceladus!" And from his heart a crag
Fell, and one arm was free, and one thought free,
And suddenly he awoke, and stood upright,
Shaking the mountains from him like a dream;
And the tremendous light and awful truth
Smote, like the dawn, upon his blinded eyes,
That out of his first wonder at the world,
Out of his own heart's deep humility,
And simple worship, he had fashioned gods
Of cloud, and heaven out of a hollow shell.
And groping now no more in the empty space
Outward, but inward in his own deep heart,
He suddenly felt the secret gates of heaven
Open, and from the infinite heavens of hope
Inward, a voice, from the innermost courts of Love,
Rang—Thou shall have none other gods but Me.
Enceladus, the foul Enceladus,
When the clear light out of that inward heaven
Whose gates are only inward in the soul,
Showed him that one true Kingdom, said,
"I will stretch
My hands out once again. And, as the God
That made me is the Heart within my heart,
So shall my heart be to this dust and earth
A god and a creator. I will strive
With mountains, fires and seas, wrestle and strive,
Fashion and make, and that which I have made
In anguish I shall love as God loves me."
In the Black Country, from a little window,
Waking at dawn, I saw those giant Shafts
—O great dark word out of our elder speech,
Long since the poor man's kingly heritage—
The Shapings, the dim Sceptres of Creation,
The Shafts like columns of wan-hope arise
To waste, on the blear sky, their slow sad wreaths
Of smoke, their infinitely sad slow prayers.
Then, as the dawn crimsoned, the sordid clouds,
The puddling furnaces, the mounds of slag,
The cinders, and the sand-beds and the rows
Of wretched roofs, assumed a majesty
Beyond all majesties of earth or air;
Beauty beyond all beauty, as of a child
In rags, upraised thro' the still gold of heaven,
With wasted arms and hungering eyes, to bring
The armoured seraphim down upon their knees
And teach eternal God humility;
The solemn beauty of the unfulfilled
Moving towards fulfilment on a height
Beyond all heights; the dreadful beauty of hope;
The naked wrestler struggling from the rock
Under the sculptor's chisel; the rough mass
Of clay more glorious for the poor blind face
And bosom that half emerge into the light,
More glorious and august, even in defeat,
Than that too cold dominion God foreswore
To bear this passionate universal load,
This Calvary of Creation, with mankind.
by Andy Jones
First Dance
Your new wife and her relatives,
now your in-laws,
had never seen you dance before the big day,
and wondered how,
with all this bulky, residual muscle,
you knew how to move so well, so expressively.
As your coach and mentor,
I had been invited to help welcome you to adulthood,
And I knew.
First you and your partner start in a neutral position,
facing each other,
sizing each other up,
neither one yet in control.
Soon, if it's a slow song,
you may take a head and shoulder lead,
so that you start ear to ear,
and her head may drop to your chest,
but ironically she has the advantage here,
for this is her arena,
so she is in command.
When the music changes,
when the pace quickens,
and adrenaline can be called upon,
there is a reversal.
You feel uplifted, and centered, and calm.
Now the hips come into play,
and your hips are well-trained.
you start hips down so as to create an angle,
and then spin her so as to drive strong across her hips,
and before she knows it,
you have impressed her with a hip lock,
followed by a hip heist and hip pop.
Such dexterity and vigor!
When the time is right,
you pull her near,
inside to your arms like a lock
so that all of her is adjacent to all of you,
and your staggered stance realigns her rhythm to yours.
Now you dictate the action,
and she circles to your trail leg.
You are feeling it now, sensing satisfaction and victory.
You step and slide,
and then one step back, and then circle.
Your every move had been practiced, horizontally,
as I stood over you with a whistle.
Your new bride, she loves it!
She is walking her fingers forward!
You are a flanker!
You are a double top stretcher!
Inspired, she kicks up her heel to her butt
and eliminates all the daylight between the two of you.
She hopes to keep up with your energy,
sees you as so graceful and authoritative here,
just as you always hoped to be on the mat.
And you realize, as you try to keep your hip on top,
that this moment here,
a moment when you are so strong, flexible, and smooth,
without a referee ever to stop you,
this might be your absolute last moment of control.
a traditional ballad
A Gest of Robyn Hode
The Second Fytte (verses 134-143)
He bare a launsgay in his honde,
And a man ledde his male,
And reden with a lyght songe
Unto Bernysdale.
But as he went at a brydge ther was a wrastelyng,
And there taryed was he,
And there was all the best yemen
Of all the west countree.
A full fayre game there was up set,
A whyte bulle up i-pyght,
A grete courser, with sadle and brydil,
With golde burnyssht full bryght.
A payre of gloves, a rede golde rynge,
A pype of wyne, in fay;
What man that bereth hym best i-wys
The pryce shall bere away.
There was a yoman in that place,
And best worthy was he,
And for he was ferre and frembde bested,
Slayne he shulde have be.
The knight had ruthe of this yoman,
In placë where that he stode;
He sayde that yoman shulde have no harme,
For love of Robyn Hode.
The knyght presed in to the place,
An hundreth folowed hym free,
With bowes bent and arowes sharpe,
For to shende that companye.
They shulderd all and made hym rome,
To wete what he wolde say;
He took the yeman bi the hande,
And gave hym al the play.
He gave hym five marke for his wyne,
There it lay on the molde,
And bad it shulde be set a broche,
Drynkë who so wolde.
Thus longe taried this gentyll knyght,
Tyll that play was done;
So long abode Robyn fastinge
Thre hourës after the none.
by Jean Starr Untermeyer (1886-1970)
Growing Pains
From the bloodless battle,
From wrestling with memories—those athletic ghosts,
From an aching reach for Beauty,
Speech has burst forth.
Not for Art's sake,
But to rid me of an ancient sorrow—
Not mine alone and yet so wholly mine.
I have left no songs for an idle lute,
No pretty tunes of coddled ills,
But the bare chart of my growing pains.
by Emily Dickinson (1830-86)
How dare the robins sing,
When men and women hear
Who since they went to their account
Have settled with the year!—
Paid all that life had earned
In one consummate bill,
And now, what life or death can do
Is immaterial.
Insulting is the sun
To him whose mortal light
Beguiled of immortality
Bequeaths him to the night.
Extinct be every hum
In deference to him
Whose garden wrestles with the dew,
At daybreak overcome!
by Emily Dickinson (1830-86)
I think the Hemlock likes to stand
Upon a Marge of Snow—
It suits his own Austerity—
And satisfies an awe
That men, must slake in Wilderness—
And in the Desert—cloy—
An instinct for the Hoar, the Bald—
The Hemlock's nature thrives—on cold—
The Gnash of Northern winds
Is sweetest nutriment—to him—
His best Norwegian Wines—
To satin Races—he is nought—
But Children on the Don,
Beneath his Tabernacles, play,
And Dnieper Wrestlers, run.
from a hospital bed
to Robert Thomas Hamilton Bruce
by William Ernest Henley (1849-1903)
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.
by Rus Bowden
a Dracut High School and Bridgewater State College wrestling dad
Jacob the Leg Puller
It was late. With the tribute to his brother
being herded on its way,
Jacob, exhausted, decided to stay at camp.
Unable to sleep, a bit later he rose, took his
two wives, two maids, eleven children
and all that he owned, and escorted them
across the shallow of the rivulet that rises
and flows: the Jaboc River.
With family and belongings well on ahead,
Jacob returned to camp to be by himself.
This man appeared and they
wrestled all night until the twilight of morning.
When the man realized that he could not win,
he wrenched Jacob's hip
at the socket, popping it out of joint.
The match continued.
The man said: "Let go, morning is here."
Jacob replied: "I won't let you go unless
"you give me the award."
His opponent said: "What is your name?"
"Jacob," came the reply. The man spoke:
"Your name is no longer Jacob the leg puller,
but Israel the god wrestler.
You have wrestled divinity as well as humanity
"and you are the winner."
Jacob asked him, "What is your name?"
He said, "Never mind my name," and bowed and left.
Jacob christened that place "Peni-el" saying,
"Face the divine and live."
He limped out of Penuel. The sun was rising.
by John S. Taylor in 1841
Jacob Wrestling with the Angel
Now, by that touch, Mysterious man! I know
Thy nature's more than human!—Let thee go!
Not till thou bless me. If, through all the night,
My daring, struggling limbs increas'd in might;
If thou thy strength attempered e'en to mine,
If thus resisting I o'ermastered thine;
Then wilt thou too, my daring speech approve,
For all thy wrestling was but tender love!
My name is Jacob—thou hast made me bold,
Thine arms that have repell'd me, must enfold!
Thou shalt, Oh Wondrous Stranger! e'er we part—
Stamp thine eternal blessing on my heart!
Thy name no more is Jacob! Thou hast seen
By faith's keen vision, what thy trials mean!
Thy name is Israel! Knighted Prince of God!
For thou with him the wrestling ring hast trod!
Nay–cease! Ask not for my peculiar name,
Enough to know 'twill put thy foes to shame:
Take this white stone—'tis deeply graven there,
With thine, a token of prevailing prayer!
Forth to thy work—thy darkest dangers brave,
My name goes with thee, and 'tis strong to save!
Previously published in Jacob wrestling with the angel [sermons]
by Sir Walter Scott (1771-1832)
The Lady of the Lake
Canto Fifth (The Combat)
Now, clear the ring! for, hand to hand,
The manly wrestlers take their stand.
Two o'er the rest superior rose,
And proud demanded mightier foes,—
Nor called in vain, for Douglas came.—
For life is Hugh of Larbert lame;
Scarce better John of Alloa's fare,
Whom senseless home his comrades bare.
Prize of the wrestling match, the King
To Douglas gave a golden ring,
While coldly glanced his eye of blue,
As frozen drop of wintry dew.
Douglas would speak, but in his breast
His struggling soul his words suppressed;
Indignant then he turned him where
Their arms the brawny yeomen bare,
To hurl the massive bar in air.
When each his utmost strength had shown,
The Douglas rent an earth-fast stone
From its deep bed, then heaved it high,
And sent the fragment through the sky
A rood beyond the farthest mark;
And still in Stirling's royal park,
The gray-haired sires, who know the past,
To strangers point the Douglas cast,
And moralize on the decay
Of Scottish strength in modern day.
by Steve Parker
martial artist and sometime wrestler
Lights fall from the Old Man of the Sea
we hold until I am exhausted
he is a trickling thing of sand
a scintilla that drains back into the beach
a shock of trees
released by strong winds
he is a fish, a slither
an eel that flits away
then has me pinned
he is all around me
he clenches, shoves my face
towards his
buried down there
beneath our grinding feet
iron-eyed our faces
stare it out underground
through lock and tremor
we are two seismic prayers
to a god divided
he is a lion he is my mother he is the flicker of songbirds falling
as black snow in early evening my fingers are wings are poems
within his smoke we fold back to embrace
count five sudden things of magic
stamp and hold tight
lion mother phantom
my lost brother
whistles hard in the waves
old father in the fallen leaves offshore
we walk into the sea
each carrying the other
light as children who cannot return
rise only as the tide
sends up her drowned lanterns
each with his heart of red sand
catching, holding
our breath beyond reach
by G.C. Smith
At two hundred and twenty today
this unHogan Hulk knew another time
way back in the way back when
he wrestled at a paltry ninety-eight
Tough monkey that he was at fourteen
he practiced hard each and every day
and once a week eliminated all comers
except that damn hardened skinny senior
He never made it to interschool competition
the skinny bastard senior saw to that
but, still, he got a lot from trying
before he switched off to other things
Looking back some fifty seven years
it's nigh impossible to recollect
that wiry freckled fourteen year old
taking on all comers at a lightweight ninety-eight
by Emily Dickinson (1830-86)
A little East of Jordan,
Evangelists record,
A Gymnast and an Angel
Did wrestle long and hard—
Till morning touching mountain—
And Jacob, waxing strong,
The Angel begged permission
To Breakfast—to return—
Not so, said cunning Jacob!
"I will not let thee go
Except thou bless me"—Stranger!
The which acceded to—
Light swung the silver fleeces
"Peniel" Hills beyond,
And the bewildered Gymnast
Found he had worsted God!
by Emily Dickinson (1830-86)
Longing is like the Seed
That wrestles in the Ground,
Believing if it intercede
It shall at length be found.
The Hour, and the Clime—
Each Circumstance unknown,
What Constancy must be achieved
Before it see the Sun!
by Emily Dickinson (1830-86)
Musicians wrestle everywhere—
All day—among the crowded air
I hear the silver strife—
And—walking—long before the morn—
Such transport breaks upon the town
I think it that "New Life"!
If is not Bird—it has no nest—
Nor "Band"—in brass and scarlet—drest—
Nor Tamborin—nor Man—
It is not Hymn from pulpit read—
The "Morning Stars" the Treble led
On Time's first Afternoon!
Some—say—it is "the Spheres"—at play!
Some say that bright Majority
Of vanished Dames—and Men!
Some—think it service in the place
Where we—with late—celestial face—
Please God—shall Ascertain!
by Steve Meador
Defiance OH High School and Defiance College wrestler, 1969-1974
The prairie meets the mountains at a place
where the journey ends for the meek or weak.
Here, cougar cunning versus buffalo strength
versus diamondback lightning, and survival
is measured in the ability to circle and strike,
grip and twist, lunge and sprawl, stand or fall.
It's a lonely place where a man crawls inward,
communes with a creature that will lead or carry
him to the peak. The only sounds are a chinook
gathering strength as it blows from the fringes,
sink it Sink it Sink It Sink IT SINK IT!
On your toes. Drive Drive DRIVEDRIVEDRIVE!
and a clap of thunder that slaps against the hardpan.
by Rane Arroyo
My Wrestler
My ex-lover was a wrestler,
liked the strain of power against
the rumors: two men. There was
a gain in him showing me the basic
positions and me only pinning him
once. Maybe he let me. The girls
wanted him, wanted to haunt him,
but he'd kiss me in the gym and
no one dared to mess with him,
the message clear: in America,
we have free will. I think of
Whitman's brief reference to
shirtless wrestlers, but closer
to home, my lover would go
to his opponent and there was
an art to his rage. And I felt like
the lover in The Great White Hope:
all sidelines, unsure how this became
my life, that I was courageous too,
in my own way, as I screamed,
flip him now! Nothing like having
to fail in front of your boyfriend when
the world hated us. The future will
not understand how important that
he and I wrestled angels with moral
messages because we made each
other pure. He'd kissed me to piss off
people and I kissed him back because
he was sweaty, tired, and proud of
me for being proud of him. He had
never lost a match, but then he lost me.
Passion Fruits
While others
built with wood
I was making toys of cardboard tubes
and paper clips,
blonde shickza
taking me to her bedroom
and making me late
for fourth period math class,
and teacher thinking I went
to the devil,
wrestling match adventure,
the best experiences
were in the games.
When the others were
risking everything,
close to death
in the throws of passion,
I didn't dare
go after
the sweetest fruits.
Previously seen at Don Schaeffer's Poems
by Judy Swann
an Ithaca High School wrestling mom
I am fourteen years old
muscles held together with skin and grit
goaty, an ephebe, tufty hair above my lip
for one eighth of one inch the red slow twitch
of blood pricks my lats in a thousand points
and I my body, its dozen senses, am my body
upright levator scapulae
sucking the muscles of my tongue
and measuring you
I am hundreds of muscles.
My eyes are muscles that see
you shoot before your breath burns
across my lynx ears.
I am on you, nociceptor, know me.
Lacrimae, lacrimae I press you back.
I am all muscle and you
are finished.
Ref slaps the mat.
by Judy Swann
an Ithaca High School wrestling mom
Its medal is the oldest trophy
awarded in Western athletics.
Its communion attracts few females.
Still it's not like joining the Marines,
not like the feuds of pushtunwali
where a man seals clan triumph
by drinking the guy's blood.
But it does man you up
and despite its claim to being a team
sport, it is not.
The ferrety mass of your opponent
the slug of his sweat on your throat
that last inch
is you losing, not your yelling coach or
the guy next weight up, it's all you
when you lose.
for Eva
by Susie DeFord
Powerboat Pit Bull
Cartoon paws spread web-wide, wiggle
a little two-step upon arrival. A brindle-
brown wild tigress, snakeskin sheen,
slithering along the walls of Brooklyn
buildings. Nosing my knees, knocking
legs out beneath or hammerhead sharking
shins shiny amethyst wine. Street thugs
saunter and say, "Hey, nice Pit." Tail
between legs, Cowardly Lion, eyes wide,
ears perked, city construction sounds
and strangers scary. You powerboat-pull
me, pavement water-skier, into Lucy's lair.
She's your best girl, block buddy, partner
in grime. You rocket launch upstairs amidst
laughing doorman Rudolpho's stares, drag
me tripping upwards along. Release the beast,
Lucy's out, it's on! Attempts to extinguish
exuberance, but you're gone. You pounce,
pitching paws, and prancing like a boxer.
I'm the gong, match marker, stopper, clocker.
Lucy flings into the ring with a facebuster,
your muscles bulge a moonsault. Pause
downward dog, then in again Banana Split
and Peekout scouting your next move. Gong
song, Luchadoras leap into the elevator,
endorphins emanating, meek from misbehaving,
both sit solemnly, silly silent grins, bout breathless.
by Emily Dickinson (1830-86)
The pretty Rain from those sweet Eaves
Her unintending Eyes—
Took her own Heart, including ours,
By innocent Surprise—
The wrestle in her simple Throat
To hold the feeling down
That vanquished her—defeated Feat—
Was Fervor's sudden Crown—
by Drax Ireland
from the Funeral Games in Honour of Patroclus, after Homer, The Iliad, Book XXIII
The Prizegiving
'Noëmon friend of Antilochos
lead the mare away'
as Menelaus himself took the glittering cauldron.
Fourth, as driven, Meriones carried off the two talents' weight of gold.
Only the two handed jar was left.
Achilles carried it through the Argives to Nestor,
standing there he spoke;—
'Elder, in memory of Patrokulus, a treasure for you to lay away,
He is gone from the Argives for evermore
this prize mine to give for the giving
for you will not fight with fists or wrestle with limbs
nor stand with the spear throwers
nor race fleet footed
as age claims her due'
Speaking thus he placed it in Nestor's hands
who answered with joy
'Yes youth you speak truth
my limbs betray me as do my feet
my friend
my arms swing ponderous
I wish for youth and strength within me
as it was with Amaryngkeus and the Epeians at Bouprasion,
the sons kings' funeral games
I was alone among the Epeians
and the Pylians and the brave Aitolians
Klytomedes, the son of Enops fell to my fists
Angkaios of Pleuron I wrestled to the floor
I outran the fast Iphiklos
Polydoros and Phyleus watched my spear fly away
only the chariot of the sons of Aktor defeated me
crowd crossing champions chasing the prize
the twins of Aktor, as one held the reins loose the other lashed the horses
But this all in the past . . .
An Elder must make way for youth
I embrace my aging, an old hero among the young
Enough of me, more to the contest in honour of your friend
I take this prize with joy and a happy heart
to be remembered, a kindness,
I am not forgotten the honour due to me among the Achaians
for this may the gods grant you great happiness.'
for Adam
Once he wrestled a bear, he said,
in a bar off-campus with eyes
glossy from lager, he wrestled
a bear. Claws and all, black fur
and the salmon of its muscles
leaping under the black fur.
Wrestled and won, he said,
the bear pinned and snorting,
pinned and one hundred pounds
heavier, with claws, with claws
and teeth, the electric blue current
of animal instinct. I was gullible
once, under kindergarten lights
with glitter and paste, building
a galaxy. A boy stole my stars
once, a bigger boy I wrestled
under the night of blackboard.
Wrestled and lost, pinned
and weeping with my back
to the carpet, with the fireflies
of glitter dazzling on my skin.
To the man who said he wrestled
a bear, wrestled and won, I said,
You're full of bear shit. But
a scar is proof and so began
the slow striptease of a pant leg
rolled to his knee. There, he said.
And his story sparkled on his flesh.
Previously published in Gulf Coast, Summer/Fall 2006
by Muhammad Afzal Mirza and Muhammad Amir Sheikh
from the biographies of Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him
Rakana vs. Prophet Muhammad
While preaching in Mecca,
Prophet Muhammad encountered
Rakana, a famous wrestler there.
A discussion started
and the wrestler challenged him saying,
"If you defeat me in a wrestling match,
I will accept Islam."
They wrestled and the Prophet defeated him.
Being a good wrestler, Rakana could not
accept this defeat and challenged
for another match, losing a second time.
Rakana requested a third match.
After this defeat, he honored
his word and accepted Islam.
Real Wrestling
Weighed in, lots drawn,
smelling of puke and sweat,
chewing on black mouth guards,
the one in the yellow shorts
vs. the one in the blue shorts.
Referee in black socks
and black plimsolls
blows his whistle.
Men fall together, splat!
Tangle of legs, arms,
swish of dripping sweat,
meat against mat,
a mass of bone and tendons,
faces contorted in pain.
The mat chairman amasses points
judge verifies the fall, the touche.
The referee calls it:
Yellow shorts, black and blue,
the victor by nine points.
by Jeff Kass
White Plains High and Yale University wrestler, 1980-85
WPHS coach, 1988-90
You can't execute a successful Granby Roll
if you can't believe you can be a wrecking ball
and bounce
Pop your hips toward the sky
make your body an A-frame
post your weight on your left hand
Ready yourself for your quake
hop your left foot in front
of your right, now blow
your house from its moorings,
duck your head and make your
break violent
The Granby Roll will not work
if you don't have faith in your
own momentum, you cannot quit
halfway, your naked shoulders
exposed to the mat's cold mercy
You must believe you can ravage
your own symmetry and survive
Now try it from standing up
you are human, tall on two legs
and you can dive and spin
from upright too
It's hop, hop, go
Don't let your fear of falling
failure, falling, failure, don't
let fear of falling fail you,
failure fall you, dive,
dive—trust your dive,
and roll.
Previously published in The Ann Arbor Chronicle
by Jane M'Lean (no bio)
Don't prate about what is your right,
But bare your fists and show your might;
Life is another man to fight
Catch as catch can.
Don't talk of Life as scurvy Fate,
Who gave you favors just too late,
Or Luck who threw you smiles for bait
Before he ran.
Don't whine and wish that you were dead,
But wrestle for your daily bread,
And afterward let it be said
"He was a man."
found in the book It Can Be Done: Poems of Inspiration collected by Joseph Morris and St. Clair Adams
by Emily Dickinson (1830-86)
Some we see no more, Tenements of Wonder
Occupy to us though perhaps to them
Simpler are the Days than the Supposition
Leave us to presume
That oblique Belief which we call Conjecture
Grapples with a Theme stubborn as Sublime
Able as the Dust to equip its feature
Adequate as Drums
To enlist the Tomb.
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882)
The Song of Hiawatha
Chapter 5, Hiawatha's Fasting
You shall hear how Hiawatha
Prayed and fasted in the forest,
Not for greater skill in hunting,
Not for greater craft in fishing,
Not for triumphs in the battle,
And renown among the warriors,
But for profit of the people,
For advantage of the nations.
First he built a lodge for fasting,
Built a wigwam in the forest,
By the shining Big-Sea-Water,
In the blithe and pleasant Spring-time,
In the Moon of Leaves he built it,
And, with dreams and visions many,
Seven whole days and nights he fasted.
On the first day of his fasting
Through the leafy woods he wandered;
Saw the deer start from the thicket,
Saw the rabbit in his burrow,
Heard the pheasant, Bena, drumming,
Heard the squirrel, Adjidaumo,
Rattling in his hoard of acorns,
Saw the pigeon, the Omeme,
Building nests among the pinetrees,
And in flocks the wild-goose, Wawa,
Flying to the fen-lands northward,
Whirring, wailing far above him.
"Master of Life!" he cried, desponding,
"Must our lives depend on these things?"
On the next day of his fasting
By the river's brink he wandered,
Through the Muskoday, the meadow,
Saw the wild rice, Mahnomonee,
Saw the blueberry, Meenahga,
And the strawberry, Odahmin,
And the gooseberry, Shahbomin,
And the grape-vine, the Bemahgut,
Trailing o'er the alder-branches,
Filling all the air with fragrance!
"Master of Life!" he cried, desponding,
"Must our lives depend on these things?"
On the third day of his fasting
By the lake he sat and pondered,
By the still, transparent water;
Saw the sturgeon, Nahma, leaping,
Scattering drops like beads of wampum,
Saw the yellow perch, the Sahwa,
Like a sunbeam in the water,
Saw the pike, the Maskenozha,
And the herring, Okahahwis,
And the Shawgashee, the crawfish!
"Master of Life!" he cried, desponding,
"Must our lives depend on these things?"
On the fourth day of his fasting
In his lodge he lay exhausted;
From his couch of leaves and branches
Gazing with half-open eyelids,
Full of shadowy dreams and visions,
On the dizzy, swimming landscape,
On the gleaming of the water,
On the splendor of the sunset.
And he saw a youth approaching,
Dressed in garments green and yellow,
Coming through the purple twilight,
Through the splendor of the sunset;
Plumes of green bent o'er his forehead,
And his hair was soft and golden.
Standing at the open doorway,
Long he looked at Hiawatha,
Looked with pity and compassion
On his wasted form and features,
And, in accents like the sighing
Of the South-Wind in the tree-tops,
Said he, "O my Hiawatha!
All your prayers are heard in heaven,
For you pray not like the others;
Not for greater skill in hunting,
Not for greater craft in fishing,
Not for triumph in the battle,
Nor renown among the warriors,
But for profit of the people,
For advantage of the nations.
"From the Master of Life descending,
I, the friend of man, Mondamin,
Come to warn you and instruct you,
How by struggle and by labor
You shall gain what you have prayed for.
Rise up from your bed of branches,
Rise, O youth, and wrestle with me!"
Faint with famine, Hiawatha
Started from his bed of branches,
From the twilight of his wigwam
Forth into the flush of sunset
Came, and wrestled with Mondamin;
At his touch he felt new courage
Throbbing in his brain and bosom,
Felt new life and hope and vigor
Run through every nerve and fibre.
So they wrestled there together
In the glory of the sunset,
And the more they strove and struggled,
Stronger still grew Hiawatha;
Till the darkness fell around them,
And the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah,
From her nest among the pine-trees,
Gave a cry of lamentation,
Gave a scream of pain and famine.
"'T is enough!" then said Mondamin,
Smiling upon Hiawatha,
"But tomorrow, when the sun sets,
I will come again to try you."
And he vanished, and was seen not;
Whether sinking as the rain sinks,
Whether rising as the mists rise,
Hiawatha saw not, knew not,
Only saw that he had vanished,
Leaving him alone and fainting,
With the misty lake below him,
And the reeling stars above him.
On the morrow and the next day,
When the sun through heaven descending,
Like a red and burning cinder
From the hearth of the Great Spirit,
Fell into the western waters,
Came Mondamin for the trial,
For the strife with Hiawatha;
Came as silent as the dew comes,
From the empty air appearing,
Into empty air returning,
Taking shape when earth it touches,
But invisible to all men
In its coming and its going.
Thrice they wrestled there together
In the glory of the sunset,
Till the darkness fell around them,
Till the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah,
From her nest among the pine-trees,
Uttered her loud cry of famine,
And Mondamin paused to listen.
Tall and beautiful he stood there,
In his garments green and yellow;
To and fro his plumes above him,
Waved and nodded with his breathing,
And the sweat of the encounter
Stood like drops of dew upon him.
And he cried, "O Hiawatha!
Bravely have you wrestled with me,
Thrice have wrestled stoutly with me,
And the Master of Life, who sees us,
He will give to you the triumph!"
Then he smiled, and said: "To-morrow
Is the last day of your conflict,
Is the last day of your fasting.
You will conquer and o'ercome me;
Make a bed for me to lie in,
Where the rain may fall upon me,
Where the sun may come and warm me;
Strip these garments, green and yellow,
Strip this nodding plumage from me,
Lay me in the earth, and make it
Soft and loose and light above me.
"Let no hand disturb my slumber,
Let no weed nor worm molest me,
Let not Kahgahgee, the raven,
Come to haunt me and molest me,
Only come yourself to watch me,
Till I wake, and start, and quicken,
Till I leap into the sunshine"
And thus saying, he departed;
Peacefully slept Hiawatha,
But he heard the Wawonaissa,
Heard the whippoorwill complaining,
Perched upon his lonely wigwam;
Heard the rushing Sebowisha,
Heard the rivulet rippling near him,
Talking to the darksome forest;
Heard the sighing of the branches,
As they lifted and subsided
At the passing of the night-wind,
Heard them, as one hears in slumber
Far-off murmurs, dreamy whispers:
Peacefully slept Hiawatha.
On the morrow came Nokomis,
On the seventh day of his fasting,
Came with food for Hiawatha,
Came imploring and bewailing,
Lest his hunger should o'ercome him,
Lest his fasting should be fatal.
But he tasted not, and touched not,
Only said to her, "Nokomis,
Wait until the sun is setting,
Till the darkness falls around us,
Till the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah,
Crying from the desolate marshes,
Tells us that the day is ended."
Homeward weeping went Nokomis,
Sorrowing for her Hiawatha,
Fearing lest his strength should fail him,
Lest his fasting should be fatal.
He meanwhile sat weary waiting
For the coming of Mondamin,
Till the shadows, pointing eastward,
Lengthened over field and forest,
Till the sun dropped from the heaven,
Floating on the waters westward,
As a red leaf in the Autumn
Falls and floats upon the water,
Falls and sinks into its bosom.
And behold! the young Mondamin,
With his soft and shining tresses,
With his garments green and yellow,
With his long and glossy plumage,
Stood and beckoned at the doorway.
And as one in slumber walking,
Pale and haggard, but undaunted,
From the wigwam Hiawatha
Came and wrestled with Mondamin.
Round about him spun the landscape,
Sky and forest reeled together,
And his strong heart leaped within him,
As the sturgeon leaps and struggles
In a net to break its meshes.
Like a ring of fire around him
Blazed and flared the red horizon,
And a hundred suns seemed looking
At the combat of the wrestlers.
Suddenly upon the greensward
All alone stood Hiawatha,
Panting with his wild exertion,
Palpitating with the struggle;
And before him breathless, lifeless,
Lay the youth, with hair dishevelled,
Plumage torn, and garments tattered,
Dead he lay there in the sunset.
And victorious Hiawatha
Made the grave as he commanded,
Stripped the garments from Mondamin,
Stripped his tattered plumage from him,
Laid him in the earth, and made it
Soft and loose and light above him;
And the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah,
From the melancholy moorlands,
Gave a cry of lamentation,
Gave a cry of pain and anguish!
Homeward then went Hiawatha
To the lodge of old Nokomis,
And the seven days of his fasting
Were accomplished and completed.
But the place was not forgotten
Where he wrestled with Mondamin;
Nor forgotten nor neglected
Was the grave where lay Mondamin,
Sleeping in the rain and sunshine,
Where his scattered plumes and garments
Faded in the rain and sunshine.
Day by day did Hiawatha
Go to wait and watch beside it;
Kept the dark mould soft above it,
Kept it clean from weeds and insects,
Drove away, with scoffs and shoutings,
Kahgahgee, the king of ravens.
Till at length a small green feather
From the earth shot slowly upward,
Then another and another,
And before the Summer ended
Stood the maize in all its beauty,
With its shining robes about it,
And its long, soft, yellow tresses;
And in rapture Hiawatha
Cried aloud, "It is Mondamin!
Yes, the friend of man, Mondamin!"
Then he called to old Nokomis
And Iagoo, the great boaster,
Showed them where the maize was growing,
Told them of his wondrous vision,
Of his wrestling and his triumph,
Of this new gift to the nations,
Which should be their food forever.
And still later, when the Autumn
Changed the long, green leaves to yellow,
And the soft and juicy kernels
Grew like wampum hard and yellow,
Then the ripened ears he gathered,
Stripped the withered husks from off them,
As he once had stripped the wrestler,
Gave the first Feast of Mondamin,
And made known unto the people
This new gift of the Great Spirit.
by Emily Dickinson (1830-86)
Still own thee—still thou art
What surgeons call alive—
Though slipping—slipping I perceive
To thy reportless Grave—
Which question shall I clutch—
What answer wrest from thee
Before thou dost exude away
In the recallless sea?
Five crabs apiece, dinner after,
then the obligatory zzzzzzzzz's.
Fat chance blubber
can work itself off with this
routine. They squat on the dohyo
inside "the snake's eye"
the Shinto priest has blessed:
550 pounds of meat. Tough
disciplined blimps
with hearts like venous seeds.
The gods themselves may touch
down among them tonight.
by Jeff Kass
White Plains High and Yale University wrestler, 1980-85
WPHS coach, 1988-90
When you step to the mat
you will face an opponent
the same weight
You will hurt him
or he will hurt you
At the referee's whistle
you will fight from neutral
Shuffle step, shuffle step, circle, circle, feint
Let your legs be lampposts with panther feet
You are a surfer on soil
solid and liquid and solid
again and in between teetering a clean
green line on a carpenter's level
Circle, shuffle, circle, shuffle
Knees bent, get low, lower, head up
you are rolling shoulder grunt
and crackling bolt from skull
to toe, you cannot be thrown,
but you will throw
This is how you take a wrestler down
you circle and feint, shuffle and feint
grip and twist, the rhythm of your body
a sacred hiss and you must dizzy his
You must live for the split-second
bulwark crack—you are one
juggernaut knife and you will
not be denied, you will penetrate
low and drive
you are a merciless thief
and you will steal
his ground
by Emily Dickinson (1830-86)
'Tis so appalling—it exhilarates—
So over Horror, it half Captivates—
The Soul stares after it, secure—
A Sepulchre, fears frost, no more—
To scan a Ghost, is faint—
But grappling, conquers it—
How easy, Torment, now—
Suspense kept sawing so—
The Truth, is Bald, and Cold—
But that will hold—
If any are not sure—
We show them—prayer—
But we, who know,
Stop hoping, now—
Looking at Death, is Dying—
Just let go the Breath—
And not the pillow at your Cheek
So Slumbereth—
Others, Can wrestle—
Yours, is done—
And so of Woe, bleak dreaded—come,
It sets the Fright at liberty—
And Terror's free—
Gay, Ghastly, Holiday!
by Edmund Waller (1606-87)
To Zelinda
Fairest piece of well-form'd earth!
Urge not thus your haughty birth;
The power which you have o'er us lies
Not in your race, but in your eyes.
'None but a prince!'—Alas! that voice
Confines you to a narrow choice.
Should you no honey vow to taste,
But what the master-bees have placed
In compass of their cells, how small
A portion to your share would fall!
Nor all appear, among those few,
Worthy the stock from whence they grew.
The sap which at the root is bred
In trees, through all the boughs is spread;
But virtues which in parents shine,
Make not like progress through the line.
'Tis not from whom, but where, we live;
The place does oft those graces give.
Great Julius, on the mountains bred,
A flock perhaps, or herd, had led.
He that the world subdued, had been
But the best wrestler on the green.
'Tis art and knowledge which draw forth
The hidden seeds of native worth;
They blow those sparks, and make them rise
Into such flames as touch the skies.
To the old heroes hence was given
A pedigree which reached to heaven;
Of mortal seed they were not held,
Which other mortals so excell'd.
And beauty, too, in such excess
As yours, Zelinda! claims no less.
Smile but on me, and you shall scorn,
Henceforth, to be of princes born.
I can describe, the shady grove
Where your loved mother slept with Jove;
And yet excuse the faultless dame,
Caught with her spouse's shape and name.
Thy matchless form will credit bring
To all the wonders I shall sing.
by Emily Dickinson (1830-86)
'Twas Crisis—All the length had passed—
That dull—benumbing time
There is in Fever or Event—
And now the Chance had come—
The instant holding in its claw
The privilege to live
Or warrant to report the Soul
The other side the Grave.
The Muscles grappled as with leads
That would not let the Will—
The Spirit shook the Adamant—
But could not make it feel.
The Second poised—debated—shot—
Another had begun—
And simultaneously, a Soul
Escaped the House unseen—
by Emily Dickinson (1830-86)
Two swimmers wrestled on the spar—
Until the morning sun—
When One—turned smiling to the land—
Oh God! the Other One!
The stray ships—passing—
Spied a face—
Upon the waters borne—
With eyes in death—still begging raised—
And hands—beseeching—thrown!
by Charles Wesley (1707-1788)
Wrestling Jacob
Come, O, thou Traveller unknown,
Whom still I hold, but cannot see!
My company before is gone,
And I am left alone with thee:
With thee all night I mean to stay,
And wrestle till the break of day.
I need not tell thee who I am,
My sin and misery declare:
Thyself hast call'd me by my name;
Look on thy hands and read it there;
But who, I ask thee, who art thou?
Tell me thy name, and tell me now.
In vain thou strugglest to get free,
I never will unloose my hold:
Art thou the Man that died for me?
The secret of thy love unfold:
Wrestling, I will not let thee go,
Till I thy name, thy nature know.
Wilt thou not yet to me reveal
thy new, unutterable name?
Tell me, I still beseech thee, tell;
To know it now resolv'd I am:
Wrestling I will not let thee go,
Till I thy name, thy nature know.
What though my shrinking flesh complain,
And murmur to contend so long?
I rise superior to my pain;
When I am weak then am I strong:
And when my all of strength shall fail,
I shall with the God-man prevail.
Yield to me now for I am weak;
But confident in self-despair!
Speak to my heart, in blessings speak;
Be conquer'd by my instant prayer;
Speak, or thou never hence shalt move,
And tell me if thy name be Love.
'Tis Love! 'tis Love! Thou died'st for me;
I hear thy whisper in my heart;
The morning breaks, the shadows flee,
Pure, universal Love thou art:
To me, to all, thy bowels move,
Thy nature and thy name is Love.
My prayer hath power with God; the grace
Unspeakable I now receive;
Through faith I see thee face to face;
I see thee face to face, and live:
In vain I have not wept and strove;
Thy nature and thy name is Love.
I know thee, Saviour, who thou art,
Jesus, the feeble sinner's friend,
Nor wilt thou with the night depart,
But stay and love me to the end:
Thy mercies never shall remove;
Thy nature and thy name is Love.
The Sun of Righteousness on me
Hath rose, with healing in his wings;
Wither'd my nature's strength; from thee
My soul its life and succour brings;
My help is all laid up above;
Thy nature and thy name is Love.
Contented now upon my thigh
I halt till life's short journey end;
All helplessness, all weakness, I
On thee alone for strength depend;
Nor have I power from thee to move;
thy nature and thy name is Love.
Lame as I am, I take the prey;
Hell, earth, and sin with ease o'ercome;
I leap for joy, pursue my way,
And, as a bounding hart fly home,
Through all eternity to prove
Thy nature and thy name is Love.
Wrestling Song
Our spandex clung like denouement
to limbs as fast as lariats,
lassoed and whipped Kabuki acts
from bodies cool and pale as Noh.
You wooed me into a dragon-screw,
then suplexed hard against the mat;
pescadoed putti bullied and booed,
your belly locked into my back.
The putti flocked, and tried to track
which body clung to this or that,
which unitarded shoulders shrugged
trapezii from singlet-straps,
which hamstring sprung, and elbow blocked
and ankle pressed a signet's wax—
velocity spun our flanks so fast
we blurred before we'd yet begun.
A fan in the corner turned its head,
and in its croon, remembered air;
while we, in swandives flung, forgot,
and firebirds of bruises bloomed.
by Jayson Iwen
Wrestling with Gods
from Six Trips in Two Directions
I'm in a walled garden full of ornamental trees
A man steps into the blue moonlight from a bluer shadow
I've been waiting for you a long time
It begins to snow
Who are you running from
I listen for my pursuer
It's silent but for my own breathing
What's in the briefcase
I don't know what to say
Shall we take a look
I hand him the briefcase, and he opens it
Ah, my manuscript
Thank you
I beg your pardon, I blurt
I'm sitting at a desk, in a motel right now, copying this dialogue word for word from the manuscript you just gave me
And this is what I say next
You see, I made you come here alone
I made you hand it over
I even made it snow
And you
He points at me
Made it all possible
Without even knowing it
Though, of course, you had your suspicions
And that's why you got the job
I even know what you're thinking now
He crouches down and plucks a pebble from the grass, then steps forward and holds it before my eyes
Here's your stone, a stone so heavy it breaks my heart at the thought of it, a stone so heavy the whole of creation rises from the depression it has made in time, a stone so heavy with sickness I cannot lift it one moment more or I shall perish
He tosses it over the garden wall
'Abdu Manaf was the strongest man among the Quraysh, and one day he met the apostle in one of the passes of Mecca alone: "Rukana," said he, "why won't you fear God and accept my preaching?"'
That simple
But here's the real kicker
There's an infinite chain of sets of god
Each self-conscious set containing the previous set within it
And each emergently conscious one becoming aware of the next larger set
Becoming it
For example, one is thinking both of us right now as our story rolls through its mind
And as long as it holds us, whether we are conscious of it or not, we are part of its infinity
As the heart of all layers is the utmost layer
'"If I knew that what you say is true I would follow you," he said'
You see, common consciousness now is realizing you're a character in other people's dreams
But you're going a step further
Listen carefully to who it is you talk to when you're alone
The schizophrenic may be the human to the limit
Will we find who we are talking to one day and see that there is no longer a future, perhaps when we are all together, at the beginning and end of time
Will we decide to begin again
'The apostle then asked him if he would recognize that he spoke the truth if he threw him, and when he said Yes they began to wrestle, and when the apostle got a firm grip of him he threw him to the ground, he being unable to offer any effective resistance'
When the whole speaks to the individual
When I speak to You
And now you ask
You want me to worship you
No, I couldn't love someone who didn't consider me their equal
Besides, I contain only one more than you
Now that I'm aware of you, what am I supposed to do
'"Do it again, Muhammad," he said, and he did it again'
Wrestle me
Wrestle you
That's ridiculous
Every threshold is
'"This is extraordinary," he said, "can you really throw me"'
What are you doing
He kneels down, turtling himself before me, and I hear his whisper in my ear
You must make me submit
But you've just submitted
I'm different than preceding gods that charged like mad bulls
'With their elbows against their elbows, dealt they, knees against knees, head against head, and chest against chest, one another their blows'
I'm a bit more subtle than that
As long as I breathe you will breathe my air
'That same night he sent his two wives, his two maids, and his eleven children, across the ford of the Jabbok'
I'll just walk away
You can't
I turn to the wall, but it's risen to the stars
It glorifies the next greater god to grapple with you
By contrasting itself with you, it reminds itself what it is
The cold and night make a silver bouquet of my sigh
'Jacob was left alone, and a man wrestled with him until daybreak'
The voices of my teachers return to me
You must close the distance between yourself and your opponent so he cannot strike you
Don't leave gaps so he can slip an arm or leg in
If one is flexible enough to do so, one can break holds that strength alone cannot
Hold him closer than a lover
'When the man saw that he did not prevail against Jacob, he struck him on the hip socket, and Jacob's hip was put out of joint as he wrestled with him'
With your right hand grab his collar and with your left hand his belt
And lift
Creating just enough space to slide your right foot between his armpit and his thigh
We're enlightened through such struggle with the other
For example, 'jihad' is properly defined as an all-encompassing engagement of one's self with one's world
Between one and one's limitations
'Then the man said, "Let me go, for the day is breaking"'
What you call yourself is this conversation between 'You' and 'I'
Just between you and I
Move so you are standing on his thighs with both feet
Through the narrative generated by such struggle is vision most viscerally achieved
And through the physicality of figuration most effectively transmitted
'But Jacob said, "I will not let you go, unless you bless me"'
Now use both hands to hoist up on his collar, while thrusting your feet between his legs to the ground, assuming the 'back mount' position
When I enter a classroom, I don't see Protestants, Catholics, Sunnis, Shias, Hindus, Buddhists, Maronites, Druze, Agnostics, or Atheists
I see gods sitting in the desks, filling the room with anxious radiance
Lay your right arm over his right shoulder and under his chin, with the inside of your arm touching the tender of his neck
'So he said to him, "What is your name?" and he said, "Jacob"'
What can I say to keep this uneasy host from tearing the world apart
I am mortal, and have but this short day of mine with which to grapple
Grab your left bicep with your right hand and place the back of your left hand behind his head with the palm facing you
'Then the man said, "You shall no longer be called Jacob, but Israel, for you have striven with God and with humans, and have prevailed"'
And make a fist
Each grapples with me in turn and only through flexibility do I survive their superhuman embrace
Once the fist is made, do the following things to create pressure on the arteries at the sides of his neck
Bend your left palm away from you
Flex your biceps
Squeeze your right forearm toward your right shoulder
And hold it
Though the Earth may tremble
Take these snowflakes, each as similar and as different as the memory of your first kiss recalled at different moments in your life
I catch one on my tongue and it melts from staggering diversity of design into the unity of water, and diffuses into my bloodstream across the membrane of my parched throat
It is no longer the blood of a single man
It is the blood of the universe
When reading, you think you are merely having a conversation with a writer from elsewhere in spacetime, unpresent and undead
We drink it endlessly
As we drink in the sight of our lovers with our eyes
But you and the text have become part of a greater consciousness, speaking to itself, working something out in its mind
The sky dripping with what has ever evaporated
With what has ever condensed from confusion to exhaustion
What has ever left a stain behind
As the unconscious ancients were right to assume the voice of conscience they heard was the voice of a god
What we in the privileged present call consciousness
You drink the blood of all life
Of the exhalation we inhabit
Of earth and stars and endless space
As knowable as time alone allows
Wrestling with a god was wrestling with a new form of consciousness that was overcoming you—a new level emerging—and if you lost, you remained in that god's service—and if you won, you looked down at your feared, beloved, defeated god, lying, panting, on the ground, and for the first time you spoke to yourself—in shock you asked
What now
And the voice that answered from then on was your own
He lies on the torn grass breathing laboriously
So I've defeated you, I say
I was once in your place
Now we must both move on
Now you must do what I did then
First close your eyes
Now listen carefully to my voice
Sol sinks below the Earth
I'm in perfect darkness
I realize everything I've seen has been summoned by voices
And a new one is articulating a darkness about me
I touch my eyes
They're closed
I open them
I'm standing alone on an empty plain, beneath a single burning star
I raise my hand to my lips
They're moving
Previously published by Emergency Press
Wrestling with the Poem
We pose opposite one another
like Hercules and the Cretan Bull,
but the mad beast gets away from me again,
terrorizing the lands beyond my desk,
here in Massachusetts, not in Greece.
Some days I try to sneak up on him, guerilla style,
but he dances away,
snorting at my inadequacies.
Despite my study of poetics,
my piece of paper on the wall,
the innocuous M.F.A.,
a two year's journey into conversation,
followed by workshops with the best of poets,
a foray into teaching is inspiring,
a few good sparks, perhaps a flame,
the match continues.
We fall together.
When I find a hold,
the poem slithers out, that oily boy.
So, I look for a new move,
try a poem a day, a practice,
in thirty days a few good possibilities.
Now there are thirty new bulls
wrestling me to the ground.


text:
What happens when I talk on vent
I coordinate the Sunday 10 man ICC runs. Last Sunday, we had a bit of a shakey start, but once we were off, we were off. Despite only having half of our normal group (and one of those who were helping us out claimed that he'd never been in ICC before), we were rocking the place.
Things were going great, but we noticed some strange things… At one point, Stinky dropped aggro on the tank and charged our mage.
Raid: Watch your aggro!
Mage: I was nowhere on the aggro list!
Tank: He wasn't near me at all on the aggro list, this doesn't make sense.
Me: Mages just have a secret taunt button.
Raid: You know, a real mage would have iceblocked.
We shrugged it off as a freak event, and moved on. Then Rotface did something similar, gobbling down our enhancement shammy and our poor mage in the process.
Rotface Tank: I somehow lost aggro, I don't get it. It doesn't make any sense.
Great, we thought, a bugged instance. We ended up calling a wipe and trying again.
Sure enough, it happened again. Our mage had learned his lesson by then and iceblocked, so only on the shaman was sacrificed.
It was then that our Rotface tank figured out the problem. "It's like I'm bopped, she said, I can't attack or anything!"
In our guild language, "bop" is the word for Hand of Protection. Quickly, I look for a pally to blame.
No other pallies in the raid.
I check my bop.
Sure enough, on cooldown, the timing coinciding exactly with the aggro reset. I was shocked. I must have hit the wrong button. But it didn't make sense. I've had the same key binding for years and I've never hit it by accident.
Then it dawned on me: my key binding for bop is ctrl + right mouse button.
Ctrl = vent press-to-talk
Right mouse button = Holy Light
Speaking on vent and trying to heal causes me to bop the tank.
It had never been in a problem in the past because I don't usually speak on vent. That night was different because I was leading and, due to some earlier events that evening, was feeling more outspoken than usual. Plus, I usually tank while I'm leading, so I don't typically find myself casting Holy Light.
In my past guild, the first time I spoke on vent, we wiped. It was just coincidence, but I gained a reputation for wiping the raid when I speak. I guess it's sort of a curse. Years later, I am still wiping the raid when I speak.
Anyway, for our final (and successful) Rotface attempt, I put bop on cooldown before the pull, then halfway through the fight, just to be safe. I did cast it by accident on a tank later on that night, but thankfully there was no wipe involved.
But I guess it's time I start revamping my spell bindings.Explore posts in the same categories: Guild actions
Tags: 10 man raids, hand of protection, ICC, raid leading, silly, stupid mistakes, sunday night raidBoth comments and pings are currently closed.
33 Comments on "What happens when I talk on vent"
March 9, 2010 at 12:48 pm
/rofl 😀
March 9, 2010 at 1:02 pm
Haha, I've done that before too…damn Vent buttons. I have mine keybound to the minus key on the number pad, so I never press it accidentally, and I can press it with my thumb while still using my mouse with the rest of my hand. A little awkward, but best I've found so far.
March 9, 2010 at 1:10 pm
I have my Vent keybound to the pause/break button because I definitely know it's not used for -anything- else.
Your story is pretty funny though. As annoying as it is it's funny stuff like that that makes things fun (and keeps things interesting..)
March 9, 2010 at 1:19 pm
Just remembered a funny story. This priest in my guild who is known for her bad sense of direction and falling off ledges (SSC was always hilarious with her) originally keybound her Vent to the same button she used for autorun…
March 9, 2010 at 1:39 pm
In TBC I transferred server to join a guild with my paladin. For some reason, I redid my keybinds before my first raid with them and ended up BoPing our tank on Morogrim. Luckily he noticed and removed it before the raid wiped but not before the GM's rogue got squished. Ever since then I've been paranoid about BoP.
Oh and surprisingly enough I passed my trial. Although it does still get brought up now and then.
March 9, 2010 at 4:17 pm
You are the second blogger in a row today to make me laugh so hard I spilled my drink!
My DI is no longer keybound. Enough said. : )
March 9, 2010 at 4:20 pm
If there's anything that I miss about Raiding, it's these kinds of silly mishaps. The kinds of things that might irritate the group at first, but you laugh about them later.
Someone falling off of a stairway in Kara, or getting too close and pulling Heigan while showing us where the safe zones would be…
When I get nostalgic about my Raiding days, it's that kind of thing that I remember most. It's almost as if those incidents help bring everyone closer together somehow.
March 9, 2010 at 5:36 pm
Vent hasn't caused me any mishaps but my other keybinds have. I use shift as a modifier for my Clique bindings. I also use my mouse wheel to zoom in and out a lot. I used to always press them both at once and end up switching my actions bars. I finally unbound that particular binding.
I recently changed a couple of my Clique bindings. It's made me do silly things like Innervate people instead of decurse them.
March 9, 2010 at 6:53 pm
Thanks ophelie, I feel (slightly) less nub knowing you do it too 😉
Actually talking about keybindings I recently redid mine (and there will be a blog post about this once I manage to drag putricide out of my head and into pixels)
The spreadsheet is made of win, but lacking in pally icons. I have cut and pasted all the useful pally ones into a new spreadsheet. I can send it to you if you like?
March 9, 2010 at 7:47 pm
I had recently read that Shield of Righteousness is a 100% proc on Judgement of Wisdom and that since it is an instant cast and fairly low mana is a good idea to add into your melee rotation for regenning mana while healing. That seemed like a great idea until I accidentally used Hand of Reckoning on Onyxia in phase 3 (whoops!) because I had all of my tank-type spells on the same bar and hit the wrong one. I have since moved things around. It was kind of funny to see myself as second on aggro for the rest of the fight even with a bubble and a salv though. 🙂

subset: commoncrawl


text:
Mitchell's laws: The more budgets are cut and taxes inceased, the weaker an economy becomes. To survive long term, a monetarily non-sovereign government must have a positive balance of payments. Austerity = poverty and leads to civil disorder. Those, who do not understand the differences between Monetary Sovereignty and monetary non-sovereignty, do not understand economics.
I've almost despaired of teaching economics to adults. Too many fixed minds. Worse than fixed. Actively resistant. Those of us who try to the tell facts often meet not just with doubt, but with hatred. With name calling. Swearing. Sneering.
This isn't sincere questioning, which I would love. It's far deeper. Perhaps, it's fear — the horror some people feel at discovering they've been wrong.
The adults may be hopeless. Eyes sewn shut. Ears plastered over. Brains cemented. So I've been thinking, maybe there's hope for the young people. And with that thought, I'm going to write a few posts just for young people, whose minds still are open.
Sometimes, things that are complicated also are simple. Take the weather. Weather is complicated. It's hard to predict more than a day or two in advance. Each second, millions of individual weather events, in locations around the world, affect weather in all other locations.
Heat in Africa can affect storms in America. Wind in China can cause drought in Kansas. It's all connected.
Yet, weather also is simple. The sun warms the earth and the air. Cold air holds less moisture than warm air, so cooling air causes clouds, which lead to rain — or snow if the air is cold enough. Summer is warmer than winter, because the tilt of the earth makes seasons. And if you look up into a clear, blue sky, your picnic probably won't get rained out. Simple.
Economics too, is complicated and hard to predict. Each second, millions of world-wide transactions affect other economies, worldwide. A purchase in America can change a salary in Asia.
Yet economics is simple, and that simplicity can be understood by young people, if not by adults. So here is the first attempt.
MONETARY SOVEREIGNTY FOR YOUNG PEOPLE– Part 1.
Before August 15, 1971, the United States government was on a gold standard. This meant, the U.S. government needed to own gold before it could pay its bills.
It didn't pay its bills with gold. No, it paid with dollars. But unless it owned gold, the U.S. was not allowed to create its own dollars. That was the law. No gold, no dollars to pay bills.
And when the government didn't have enough gold to make dollars to pay its bills, it had to get dollars from someone else. Either it had to borrow dollars, or it to levy taxes.
Not being able to create dollars, whenever you want to, is called being "monetarily non-sovereign." You and I are monetarily non-sovereign. We can't just create dollars. We can't pay our bills unless we obtain dollars from someone else. Our states, counties and cities are monetarily non-sovereign. They have to obtain dollars from taxes or borrowing. They are not allowed to make dollars out of thin air. That is the law.
On August 15, 1971, President Nixon announced that the U.S. would change the law. No longer would we need to have gold. The federal government would simply create dollars without having gold. No gold. No problem. President Nixon made us MONETARILY SOVEREIGN.
And this changed everything.
Today, in America, only the federal government is Monetarily Sovereign. Only the federal government can create dollars out of thin air. The federal government is unique.
Here is how you and I pay our bills:
Personal Income (salary, investments)
+ Personal Borrowing
Personal dollars available to pay our bills
In order to pay our bills, we need to have a source of dollars. We are monetarily non-sovereign
And states, counties and cities pay their bills the same way the same way:
State Income (taxes)
+ State Borrowing
State dollars available to pay state bills
Yes, the states, counties and cities also need a source of dollars, to pay their bills. They too are monetarily non-sovereign.
That's the way it is, and that's the way it always has been. So naturally, many people think the federal government works the same way. And once it did, but now it doesn't. Not after 1971. Here's what the federal government does with any money it receives:
Federal Borrowing
+ Federal Taxing
Dollars destroyed
What??! The federal government destroys all that tax money you and your parents send it?? And the government even destroys all the money it borrows??
That's right. All dollars going to the federal government simply disappear, never to be seen again. Amazing, isn't it? All the taxes you and your parents pay, gone. Borrowed dollars, too. Gone. Useless. If taxes were $0 and borrowing was $0, the government still could pay its bills.
Of course, when you think about it, why would anyone who can create dollars, need to get dollars from someone else? If you had a "dollar-printing press" in your basement, would you ask your friends for dollars? Of course, not.
So, here's how the federal government pays its bills:
1. A vendor sends the federal government an invoice, let's say for $1,000.
2. The federal government sends instructions (not dollars) to the vendor's bank, instructing the bank to increase the number in supplier's checking account by 1,000.
If the vendor once had $5,000 listed in his checking account, that number now is $6,000. The vendor now has 1,000 more dollars than he had before. Where did that extra $1,000 come from? The vendor's bank created it out of thin air, because it had received the federal government's instructions.
And that's it. Every day, the federal government sends those kind of instructions to banks, and the banks obey those instructions. The banks don't ask whether the federal government has or doesn't have and dollars. The banks just do as they are told. That's the law. That's how the federal government creates dollars.
What do instructions look like? Sometimes they are government checks. Other times, they just are invisible wired instructions. Dollars are just numbers in a bank account. So, changing the numbers changes the amount of money in the bank account.
So why do we pay federal taxes? Before 1971, the federal government was monetarily non-sovereign, just like you and me and the states, counties and cities. It needed a source of dollars so it could pay its bills. It did not have the unlimited ability to send instructions.
Unfortunately, the politicians in Washington, DC do not yet understand that the federal government became Monetarily Sovereign in 1971. They do not understand the differences between Monetary Sovereignty and monetary non-sovereignty. So they act as though the federal government's spending still relied on taxes and borrowing, as it did when we were on a gold standard.
So, misleading themselves, they mislead you, the public. But it's not. The federal government made a law that allows it to destroy tax dollars, and to create more dollars by spending.
When the government spends more dollars than taxpayers send it, that is called a "deficit." Many people don't like the idea of a "deficit." It sounds negative. So they want to reduce the deficit.
But "deficit" merely tells how many dollars the federal government has created from thin air. To reduce the deficit, the government would have to increase taxes or spend less.
Would you or your parents like to pay more taxes? I don't think so. Paying taxes makes people poorer. And if the government spends less, we'll have less of things we like. Worse roads. Broken bridges. Less health care. Less Social Security. A weaker army. Poorer schools. The federal government uses "deficits" to pay for millions of things that benefit us.
No, reducing the deficit is the worst thing that could happen, because it takes dollars out of everyone's pockets. To make our economy grow, and to make our lives better, the government needs to cut taxes and spend more. It needs to increase the deficit.
Some people are afraid that if the deficit increases, we'll have inflation. Inflation is when everything gets more expensive. The government likes a little bit of inflation, because that makes people buy things today, rather than waiting until later. When people buy things today, rather than waiting for later, the economy grows, there are more jobs, and people lead better lives.
However, it is true that if the deficit goes up too much, we could have too much inflation, so it's important that if ever we start to have too much inflation, the deficit should stop going up. The deficit should go up enough to make the economy grow, but not enough to cause too much inflation.
Fortunately, though sometimes we have had too much inflation, this never has been caused by deficits. (Actually, inflation has been caused by oil prices.) So far, the U.S. has been free to increase the deficit by cutting taxes and increasing spending, and not cause too much inflation.
Later, we'll talk about what dollars really are — and are not. Meanwhile, just write any questions into the comments box, and I'll try to answer them.
And if you're an adult, please show this to a young person.
Rodger Malcolm Mitchell
No nation can tax itself into prosperity, nor grow without money growth. Monetary Sovereignty: Cutting federal deficits to grow the economy is like applying leeches to cure anemia. Two key equations in economics:
Federal Deficits – Net Imports = Net Private Savings
Gross Domestic Product = Federal Spending + Private Investment and Consumption + Net exports