For Budge
February 13th, 2007 | by Craig |One of the things I disliked about being an English major was the way we were trained to dissect works 6 ways from Sunday.
As Freud famously observed, sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.
And sometimes, a poem can move you in a way you can’t exactly describe.
I always liked Richard Hugo, as he was a Montana guy and of a melancholy bent.
Here’s one of my favorites. The meaning for me has changed over the years, and that is the mark of a good poem.
The Freaks at Spurgin Road Field
The dim boy claps because the others clap.
The polite word, handicapped, is muttered in the stands.
Isn’t it wrong, the way the mind moves back.
One whole day I sit, contrite, dirt, L.A.
Union Station, ‘46, sweating through last night.
The dim boy claps because the others clap.
Score, 5 to 3. Pitcher fading badly in the heat.
Isn’t it wrong to be or not be spastic?
Isn’t it wrong, the way the mind moves back.
I’m laughing at a neighbor girl beaten to scream
by a savage father and I’m ashamed to look.
The dim boy claps because the others clap.
The score is always close, the rally always short.
I’ve left more wreckage than a quake.
Isn’t it wrong, the way the mind moves back.
The afflicted never cheer in unison.
Isn’t it wrong, the way the mind moves back
to stammering pastures where the picnic should have worked.
The dim boy claps because the others clap.
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