#33: The Swiss

I love watching tennis. It's a pure test of wills, strategy and technique. There is no coach to give you advice during the match and no timeouts. Its just one on one. With the U.S. Open about to begin, I thought I'd share a poem about tennis. 

My favorite player, and probably the greatest tennis player ever is Roger Federer. He has won more majors then any other mens player but what I enjoy about Federer is the artistry of his shots. Its difficult to describe, but when watching him, you can tell that he sees the game in a wholly unique way and can dream up shots that no one else has ever dreamed of. Other players hit harder and run faster, but Federer makes the game look so easy and natural. 

Federer dominated tennis for about five years, but during that time, a rival came up named Rafa Nadal. Rafa is more of a pure athlete, he hustles, he runs down balls with effort. He was Federer's kryptonite. Maybe it's because Nadal is left handed, or because he hits with so much spin that the ball is harder to pin down, but Federer almost always lost to Nadal.

Eventually, Nadal overtook Federer to become the top player. Then came Novak Djokovic who is a great baseline player. For some reason, Djokovic was Nadal's kryptonite and he soon supplanted Nadal as the top player. All three players have been hugely successful and many people say tennis is in a golden age because of these three players and their success.

Below is a poem about these three players and how they dominated tennis over the past 10 years.

I also included a link to the greatest tennis article ever written. It's about Roger Federer back in 2006 when he was at his peak. It's by David Foster Wallace titled Federer as Religious Experience. 

http://www.nytimes.com/2006/08/20/sports/playmagazine/20federer.html?pagewanted=all&_r=0

Across the court he glides with ease

Hitting shots so smooth so clean

Always consistent, his ethereal play

On grass, on hard courts, even on clay

He wins grand slams, a staggering amount

You need your hands and feet to count

The Swiss, the Swiss, he does not miss

Until he met the man from Spain

Who came along to end his reign

That lefty with that major spin

He paints the lines between out and in

No matter the surface, grass or clay

Even on hard courts, he wins the day

He runs down each ball perfectly placed

Returns the shots that should be an ace

He frustrates with his relentless guile

His effort goes beyond that extra mile

His style makes him the best in the game

Until he met that bloke with the Serbian name

#32: Perception and Paranoia

Detail from Vincent Van Gogh, 'Self Portrait with Bandaged Ear', 1889
London, Courtauld Institute Gallery
© Photo: Bridgeman Art Library, London 

Walking in the city

I feel judgmental eyes

My perception is misleading

My belief is in the lies

The world has gone insane

Or maybe it’s just my mind

I can’t seem to move on

To leave this thing behind

I step in to the market

I sense an unknown gaze

The mystery strikes a nerve

Each aisle becomes a maze

I think I need a moment

A chance to get away

A reprieve from this anxious feeling

To get me through the day

I quickly find the food I need

Looking no one in the eye

A nervous wreck for no reason

I go to the check out line

The checker flashes a smile

I force a smile back

I conceal my unease

My head’s under attack

I give the man my money

I quickly leave the store

My food still on the check stand

As I exit through the door

Tonight I will go hungry

Because my mind could not go free

I’m stuck in this temporary madness

Is this all I’ll ever be?

Some days, its hard for me to go out in to the world. It feels like everyone is watching me and no one wants me around. I don't know why that happens, I know its not true, but it can make some days much harder then others. Luckily, I get to go to work to a place where I enjoy the work and the people at my job. Those anxious feelings do not tend to come about when working. 

I'm also thankful that I've never felt as intense an experience as in the above poem. I've had moments at the market place, or the barber, or other stores where I am just itching to get away, but never so bad where I leave the stuff I just bought and run out the door.

For Vincent Van Gogh, it wasn't as easy. He sliced off his own ear during a psychotic episode likely brought on by paranoia towards fellow painter Gauguin. You can see his bandaged ear in his above self portrait.

#31: Last Train

To build up your hopes and dreams

For the sweetest and finest of things

All the stuff that you've accrued

Will not mean much when life’s subdued

We all succumb, with one final breath

One final ride, that last express

To a place that you've never known

But you must leave the things you've owned

This next trip is luggage free

No carry-on, no cellphone, where you’ll next be

http://digital-art-gallery.com/photo/big/1516

Do you know where you'll be going when you die? Do you know what you get to take with you?

#30: Trolley and the Fat Man

If you studied philosophy in college, then surely you know of the Trolley Problem. It goes like this.

There are five people tied to a track and a train is going to run them over. However, you are standing next to a lever that when pulled would divert the train to an alternate track. Unfortunately, there is one man bound on that other track. Would you pull the switch and thus kill the one man? Would you sacrifice the one to save the five?

Most people would say it is right to divert the track based on utilitarian principles. However, if we change the variant slightly, most people change their answer.

Here is the variant. There are five people tied to a track and a train is going to run them over. You are standing on a bridge over the track next to a fat man. If you push the fat man over the bridge, he will stop the train before it reaches the five. Would you push the fat man? Would you sacrifice the one to save the five?

Below is a poem that delves in to the Trolley Problem although it twists some of the principles around at the end to ask a different philosophical question.

The New York Times; Illustration by Frank O’Connell

Heading to the station

A quarter after three

I hear the bustle and commotion

A horrific thing I see

Down the way are five men

Stuck between the rails

They’re screaming out for help

I faintly hear their wails

Up the way I spy a trolley

Barreling along

The conductor does not know

Something terrible will go wrong

A fat man walks up next to me

He says “Is there anything we can do?

I look up perplexedly

Until my mind thinks up a clue

“Look man, I’m sorry,

We all are ill prepared

And it’s nothing personal

In fact, I’m pretty scared

I've done the math inside my head

You surely have the girth

Their lives should be spared

They represent a greater worth

The tragedy is one life

If you are on the track

But you must act now

There is no going back

It’s not that you’re not valued

It’s just that five is more than one

And there isn't any time

Or something else that can be done.”

The fat man looks at me and says,

“Surely you wouldn't dare?”

His mind racing fast

He looks at me and glares

“Their fate is on that track

Mine is safe and sound

I am not moving an inch

Right here I’ll stand my ground

Besides, look at you

You weigh as much as I

I think it best then

That you be the one to die.”

#29: AABA

I wrote these lines while riding the bus back home from classes when I was in college. I remember it vividly for some reason. It was a sunny day but I took the bus to campus instead of riding my bike. It took about 25 min to get to and from campus so from time to time I would write poems while riding the bus.

Those were simpler times. The only portable electronic device I had was a portable CD player. No cellphone, no laptop to lug around. Ipads and Ipods didn't exist yet, maybe Ipods did, but I didn't have one at the time. I didn't have a car yet, just a bike. The internet was there, but no Facebook or other social media type distractions. That's not to say there weren't distractions, it was just a bit different at the beginning of the new millennium. 

AABA style poems fit the state my mind was in at the time. I was grasping at simple truths and these are what came out of my head at the time while on that bus. They aren't meant to create a full narrative, just six seperate AABA poems that have similar thematic elements. The beauty though is in their simplicity

Foundation for sins

From pride it begins

Leading to death

And the enemy wins

Sin is bait

Evil is hate

Deceiving my mind

Until it’s too late

Sink or swim

Alone I can’t win

My only hope

Is trusting in him

I've missed the mark

My soul needs a spark

To light my path

And see through the dark

Please restore my soul

Burn my lips with coal

My body is broken

The beatings take their toll

To no longer abide

And think suicide

When life is a gift

Is it yours to decide?