Three running poems, recent efforts
Greetings all! Has been a while since I've checked in here. Meanwhile, my injured knee has started to calm down, so I am running again--and the poems below grow out of two experiences that I had recently.
The first was based on a workout with Bryn Mawr, described in the first stanza; not mentioned in the poem was that the first three repeats were to be run at 5k pace, the last at 3k pace. That part, well, let's just say the uphill second and fourth quarters complicated things a bit. But the sequence of the workout made me think of quatrains, and so I wanted to make it a four quatrain poem. I won't suggest you wait two minutes between stanzas. I didn't, in fact, wait a full two minutes between sets, since doing so would have me finishing too much later than everyone else.
The second is based on a long run that Bob prescribed, during which I was to run hard for descending periods of time: first 5 minutes, then 4, then 3, 2, and 1, with half the amount of time as recovery. I wanted to write a poem using that same sequence of lines; the space between the stanzas, though, was the same each time, so not quite approximating the recoveries.
The third is probably a work in progress--I wanted to give the feel of the breath of this meet--its color, its diversity of speed, the names of clubs forming a kind of roll call, a magic of sorts. It's just a beginning toward that idea. Responses/suggestions welcome for both poems..
***
Tonight’s Workout, he
announced
Four sets of four
four hundreds, easy
one hundred between
efforts. Two
minutes between sets.
And the dance begins.
Speed up for fourth one—
fight uphill.
Maybe it’s endless.
Cadence slows. The heart
beats blood through the ears,
I fear less
the being alone,
others enroute home,
than leaving pieces
of me here.
Countdown—6:00 a.m. long run
It starts in quiet, sun
barely past
trees. Roads still
empty but for shift workers,
delivery
trucks and imminent births.
Time grows
short. Bursts of light
set fire to cherry blossoms, reveal
blackbirds’ red wings.
Tulips open to
tickle of bees’ feet, pollen
gone, they receive more.
Runners inhale it all in quick
breaths carrying them through time
just once more—it is enough.
Masters Championships, Landover
In an arena full of hot
breaths, So many blasts
of color, expand and contract,
the uniforms of the quick and the also
rans, who also find
their true
colors. Spiked or non-spiked
shoes digging holes into the flesh
they wear
under Greater
Philly, SoCal, Potomic
Valley, Mass
Velocity, the names Pete
calls, tracking
trajectories, creating
trajectories, creating
maps of effort,
lighting terrain from space.
posted by DPMcManus @ 11:24 AM
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