Once, long ago, in a pretty town named Storrs where I was young and a student, I attended a basketball game and watched my team do this:
But now, tonight, many weeks after I had given up on another team fielded by my Alma Mater when they emerged from Big East Conference play with a 9-9 record, I am forced to my knees to beg their forgiveness, for I watched these young men and their ancient coach (though he is not as ancient as I) perform an absolutely incredible run of wins to become, first, Maui Invitational Tournament Champions, then Big East Tournament Champions, and at last National Champions, not having lost a single game, all season long, to any team outside the Big East! I’m glad I lived long enough to witness this feat and to deliver to the Huskies
A BELATED APOLOGY
Upon the Occasion of UConn’s Winning its Third National NCAA Basketball Men’s Championship
on April 5th, 2011.
There once was a coach named Calhoun
Who pricked an enormous balloon
When he turned poor old Butler
Back into a scuttler
And returned the team to its cocoon.
In fact, now that I think about it, I dedicate my original poem to the Butler basketball team who tonight managed to shoot the lowest percentage of baskets since 1950 when I was still a high school student in Meriden, Connecticut.
the 10th of July, 2001 I sent a letter to Dana Gioia in Santa Rosa,
California, that said in part, “I write very little these days. My last poem
you probably saw in The Formalist,
‘The Gathering of the Elders.’ My last except for this, which I wrote for my
[then five-year-old] granddaughter, Jessima, when we passed a sign in Augusta
[Maine] that read, “Piggery Road” --
Piggery Diggery Dog,
We’re supping high off the
fatback and bacon
all else forsaken,
Piggery Diggery Dog.
Today [yesterday], Thursday, 24
June 2010, I ran across that letter and the stanza that I’d never done anything
with. Because Jessima, now a teen-ager, and her little sister Phoebe, six, are
staying with my wife Jean and me while their folks are attending a conference in
Washington, DC, I wrote the rest of this nursery rhyme for the two of them (but
mostly for Phoebe, of course — Jessie is ‘way too sophisticated now):
birthday, old timer. And I can still out-pun you.
you can, but can you write better iambic puntameter?
can truly enjamb,
lion lie down with the lamb,
in coaxing pentameter,
Richards, no amateur,
him, "Iamb what Iamb."
that make you an iambateur?
Tad Richards believes he
So well that it’s simply
vie with a jerk
Lewie the Turk —
He’d rather be quite
I love your
selected epitaphs...some of them are very close to being clerihews, which I
like, too, and sometimes send to folks for their B'days — which reminds me
(even tho' it's belated) here's one for you:
The Virginia Quarterly Review "The Mutable Past," a memoir collected in FANTASEERS, A BOOK OF MEMORIES by Lewis Turco of growing up in the 1950s in Meriden, Connecticut, (Scotsdale AZ: Star Cloud Press, 2005).
The Tower Journal Two short stories, "The Demon in the Tree" and "The Substitute Wife," in the spring 2009 issue of Tower Journal.
The Tower Journal Memoir, “Pookah, The Greatest Cat in the History of the World,” Spring-Summer 2010.
The Michigan Quarterly Review This is the first terzanelle ever published, in "The Michigan Quarterly Review" in 1965. It has been gathered in THE COLLECTED LYRICS OF LEWIS TURCO/WESLI COURT, 1953-2004 (www.StarCloudPress.com).
The Gawain Poet An essay on the putative medieval author of "Gawain and the Green Knight" in the summer 2010 issue of Per Contra.