A poet is born
December 2, 2003
A few weeks back, I stumbled across Red Sox Haiku (via a link from Mark Bernstein). I forwarded the link on to my old friend Mike Myers, a lifelong-suffering Sox fan, who was then still stewing in the wake of the latest Sox-Yankees ALCS debacle. Mike seized the opportunity to compose his own cathartic little verse:
It doesn't really matter.
Someone will fuck up.
Well, we both forgot all about it until a few days ago, when I found myself sitting on a plane flipping through the Nov. 24th issue of the New Yorker. So imagine my surprise to find, there at the bottom of page 55, Mike's haiku (anonymously) included in Roger Angell's annual baseball round-up.
Coming on the heels of Mike's decision to leave his corporate job to pursue a PhD in English Lit, I would have to say this counts as rather a good omen. I wonder how many poets see their first published verse - lowbrow or no - appear in the pages of the house that Ross built?
File under: Personal
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