"The Thing with Feathers": Revisiting Emily Dawginson


I had a hard time deciding what to do this week, which did not surprise me since we are in a rather weird place this week. We're still basking in our win over the Cocks, but that was a couple of weeks ago. We played no one last week, and we're not playing a big game this week. So I stumbled across an Emily Dickinson poem I had considered using last time but had scrapped, and decided to revisit the poet whose work I had parodied early in my writing here. Besides, I wrote those poems after our ugly 0-2 start in which we lost a big opener and were beaten by the Cocks, so I may as well revisit the scene of the crime poet after losing a big opener but beating the Cocks.

Since I can never get formatting to work on here and everything always ends up in a jumble everyone loves pics and gifs, I've spaced these poems out with lovely images for your viewing pleasure. Links to the original poems are embedded in the first lines of each; the titles of the originals all begin with a symbol or an A because I was too lazy to read through all of Dickinson's poems on Poem Hunter"A" is symbolic of the best and we are going to bring our A-game this weekend. Yeah, that's it. With apologies to Emily Dawginson:

"Hope" is the thing with feathers--

That sometimes flies your way--

And perches on your Shoulder when--

Your Season's gone astray--

But sometimes--Lady Luck's--not heard--

And Gameday's full of dread--

That little fickle hopeful Bird--

Does Crap upon your head.

I've seen it ‘tween the Hedges land--

And cause Spurrier's Visor toss--

And as the Season spans across--

‘twill be there-Win or Loss.



This sight will inspire both hope and terror in fans and foes alike.

A first Mute coming--

Of the Talking Heads--

A first Dawg blogging--

On open comment threads.

A first exchange of--

I hate [rival]--rec'd--

Go Dawgs-means more--




T.Kyle isn't the only published Dawg Sports author; Chuckdawg has written a book about the difficulties of comment thread success.

An awesome Quayvon mashed the air--

His shoulder guard exposed--

His mask-as of a cowcatcher--

Did Quayvon's face enclose.

The students cheered loud in the Stands--

And ‘lectrified the air--

They Shook their shakers--

And screamed and yelled--

For Gurley's Dreaded hair.

The scoreboard lit-Dawgs by eleven--

Ball Coach's faded eyes--

Beheld a piece of Bulldog Heaven--

And didn't roll the dice.



Pictured: One of Quayvon's ancestors wearing his cowcatcher and taking people for rides.

"Why do I love" you, Murray?


The minute you set foot on grass--

And answer--Can you run or pass?

They cannot keep your pace.

Because we know--and

Do not you--

That Ds know naught--

Enough to stop

You when you're on a roll.

When lighting up opponents' Ds--

Shredding through their secondaries--

You pass around and spread the love--

And cannot be contained--

By much--

Not sacks nor tackles nor any such.

Love's Dying Eyes--Erin--inspire me--

Because each Sunrise-that she sees--

Makes me--realize--

I love thee.

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