going for the gold

exotic convergence under an eastern precipice
weighted by centuries and customs…
breeding expectation beneath
a subliminal sun
where a fractured finish glazes
as midnight spills across the surface…

curious spectators
watch an unfamiliar drama unfold
as worthy opponents combat across a net…
measuring distance in meters,
in repetitive mirrored strokes…
as a ball hits the strings…

back and forth
within painted lines
four men rush corner to corner
impaling with brisk strokes
and severe angles…
daring each other to rush the net…

harmony and heroics propel the Swiss forward,
puppet strings pulling one ahead,
one back in sync with the timing of the delivery…
as they glide and touch, moving in perfect rhythm…

understanding, sensing and adjusting
to the bend, twists and turns
of the Swedes taunting them,
desiring to impede their quest for gold…

in the artificial glow
refracted through moist air,
the exquisite Swiss spins the ball
high, following its path above his head…
waiting, then smashing it at its apex…

it skims the net and skids away
from the tall Swede who blinks and nods…
prompting the Swiss duo to
dance and embrace…
collapsing to the floor of the court…

victorious,
they mime the heat of the contest
in a ritual of sharing fire,
passion in the denouement…
the seizing of the gold…

Olympics 2008...jaa

Welcome to My World

I created the first tennis poem after Roger Federer lost in that epic final to Rafael Nadal. I was so upset by his loss that writing the poem Wimbledon 2008 was the only way I could deal with my emotions...and the second poem nobody does it better... i dedicated to Roger Federer after he won the U.S. Open, although I really wrote it for his birthday on August 8th!

I published Wimbledon 2008 first on Roger Federer's Website where it went almost unnoticed although a few people did comment on it. Later I published it in his forum and then on TennisPlanet...as I did nobody does it better...

My latest entry I have been working on since the Beijing Olympics. It celebrates the doubles victory of Roger Federer and Stan Wawrinka! What a marvelous victory! I call it going for the gold.

I now publish articles about tennis and other sports on Bleacher Reports. But that is not a venue for the more personal and private poetry. There really is no place for my poetry in this world that I have discovered.

Periodically I will add to the poetry about tennis. I have moved my poetry that does not deal with tennis to another blog located at http://www.tennispoet2.blogspot.com/. I will add other tennis poets who wish to be included to this blog. That way, you can get your fill of poetry about those poetic movers on the court. I take requests, too, but primarily I write about Roger.
JA Allen

nobody does it better...

a faint smile of amusement brushes his lips,
humor settling serenely as he waits…
his opponent’s racket a pile of rubble…smashed mercilessly
against the synthetic surface…

he tucks a vagrant curl behind his headband…
biting at his lower lip, he tosses the ball up following its
path, his eyes focused, his body taut, knees bending;

he springs, crushing the ball at its peak
just before it begins its descent…it grazes the center line
and skids past his opponent once again—

ah—the zone is his today
…another racket flies…
the crowd roars its approval,
applauding the champion as he wins another game…

he bows on the baseline, twirling his racquet, awaiting
his opponent’s serve…
his eyes following the server’s motion;
intent, he leans slightly to his right as the server
makes contact—abruptly flicking the ball back deep into
the corner for another winner…

he moves quickly, decisively…poised on the balls of his feet,
always balanced, graceful, skirting the surface—
tall and athletic, anticipating what others cannot…

his classic lines silhouetted
in the fading light as victory nears;
soon, another point, another game, another match…
arm stretched to the heavens in celebration…he wins
day after day…year after year…

ladies and gentlemen…roger is in his house—
measuring 78 feet long and 36 feet wide…
it is a glorious mansion custom-made just for him,
tailored and elegant and designed to
suit his style of play…

he has covered every inch
with painstaking accuracy and legendary strokes;
it will be his house as long as he chooses…

when he leaves this place he will
take a quarter of a million hearts with him…
god willing—he will not move out
before we are ready…

5 time US Open Champ 2008

by ja allen

wimbledon 2008

wimbledon 2008

enduring in dull, fading light as the sun finally sinks away…
pain flickers…
surfacing momentarily in shimmering eyes,
in a steely-set jaw
trying to smile,

regret trumps satisfaction after an epic struggle;
victory was close enough that
he feels its phantom embrace
and longs to draw it inside
where it belongs…

the distant dance mocks his sorrow
as he follows the familiar rhythm of triumph
so long his leading lady…now in the arms of another;
the vision haunts…as sorrow rips a corner
of his soul and the shudder of loss is almost overwhelming…

in the fading glow, he bows to his opponent
praising his ability and his will,
stepping aside, bending his light, as the roar of the crowd
honors the winner…

millions watch his nobility with wretched understanding….
familiar with devastation and defeat,
sensing the invisible scars and the silent tears
of the inestimable champion…

as we weep for him, we cry for ourselves;
for all of us who suffer defeat
daily in lethal doses,
we, who will never soar nor embrace perfection…

for he has carried us all in his graceful dance along baselines;
where we dig, dip, chip and slice,
creating implausible angles and breathtaking shots
with agility, dignity and spell-binding ability…

we who lead paltry lives devoid of fame and glory
cling to this champion,
shamelessly sharing his glory and fortifying our self-worth
as he lifts each trophy and gently kisses it…

if the noble spaniard who
bludgeoned his way onto center court
purloined the trophy, he will never capture our hearts
for he does not elevate or skirt the surface of lawns…
he grinds and pounds and bullies until there is nothing left
but red dust and the death of an artist….

ja allen