Daniel J. Berrigan, Jesuit priest, poet and anti-war activist passed away April 30, 2016 in New York City. He was 94. (New York Times)
Berrigan was a longtime friend and supporter of James Humphrey. Humphrey included Berrigan’s poem below in his book, Naked.
CONSOLATION
Listen
if now and then
you hear the dead
muttering like ashes
creaking like empty
rockers on porches
filling you in filling you in
like winds in empty
branches like stars
in wintry trees
so far
so good
you’ve mastered
finally
one foreign tongue
DANIEL BERRIGAN, S.J.
daniel-berrigan
poet
James-humphrey
EIGHT FOR EIGHT
For Michael Weintraub, MD
Age 42
Norma and I
visiting a friend,
University of
Iowa.
Scheduled game
between Writer’s Workshop
and an amateur
team.
Workshop short a
player.
Volunteered.
At bat eight
times,
smacked seven
homers.
One inning to go,
eighth time at plate,
pitcher hollers
in:
THIS IS THE LAST BALL
—PLEASE KEEP IT INSIDE THE
PARK!
I call out to
right fielder:
WHERE DO YOU WANT IT HIT?
Tosses cap to about six feet
in front of the
wall, yells back:
FIVE BUCKS SAYS YOU CAN’T
HIT MY CAP!
I did;
turned it into a
stand-up triple,
laughing and
laughing
James Humphrey, 1998, Yonkers, NY
© James Humphrey Trust
In final vision
before leaving this
lifetime,
had just lobbed
my old glove
to that magic
edge where grass meets
wooden center
field fence;
always a good
sign the ball gods
will favor you.
Joyfully fell to
belly,
burying nose in
the flawless green heaven,
sweet dirt.
Rolled onto back;
all senses filled
with the park’s smells!
Went wonderfully
deaf from its sounds!
It was a game again!
Other players?
Fans?
Eleven men older
than me in earthly years,
each perfect in
his prime now,
wildly gestured
and hollered from first base side
top dugout stair,
cheering me
towards them.
Wasn’t
astonished. Wasn’t surprised.
Knew it would
be this way.
Human destiny was to be the greatest
baseball player
of my time
–build the first
ranch for young survivors
who had also been
sadistically abused
when babies—into
puberty.
All box seats,
grandstands and bleachers were
empty
except for an
attractive, light brown-haired woman
perfect in her
prime,
radiant in a
black sheath, matching picture hat,
sitting in center
of grandstand, halfway
between home and
third.
When she smiled
at me,
I sensed she was
happy.
I sensed the
woman was Norma.
I sensed we were
meeting
who each other
truly was
for the first
time.
Without breaking
stride,
and with my right
forefinger and thumb,
touched the brim
of my cap,
nodding slightly.
In the always
dry, pleasing breezes of
permanent spring,
I had accomplished the
final lesson of
the perfect rainbow arc:
I was about to
become an eternally active player
on a prestigious
baseball club.
Each player had,
when earthbound,
a lifetime
batting average higher than 320
Now each man in
his own special way
of introducing
himself, was bringing me home
at last:
ED DELAHANTLY TRIS SPEAKER
TY COBB PAUL WANER
BABE RUTH BILL TERRY
LOU GEHRIG ROGERS HORNSBY
JIMMIE FOXX HONUS WAGNER
SHOELESS JOE JACKSON
If you went to the ballpark
when it was
America’s pastime,
and the Sultan
of Swat was present,
you either
knew—or soon learned,
he most surely
would have the final word!
Why should this
special occasion of all
to me,
be any different?
But it was!
And his words
both astonished and surprised me!
Where yuh been, Rookie—we been
waitin’ on yuh!
James Humphrey, 2000, Yonkers, NY
©James Humphrey Trust
The James Humphrey website has been relaunched with a new design with more functionality, more writing (including unpublished work) and an expanded archive, including a section on teaching creative writing. You will also find links to recordings of Humphrey reading and a collection of sound collages, which Humphrey used as a teaching tool.