Ali, The Poet

Tags

1960s, boxing, muhammad ali, peyton manning, poetry, sports, the greatest, tom brady, writing

I’m not old enough to remember when Muhammad Ali was in his fighting prime, but I’ve always enjoyed watching old film clips and documentaries about him in those days. I especially love the poems he would write and share with the press before big fights. In addition to being the greatest boxer in the world, he was a genius with words and phrases. Ali coined “Rumble in the Jungle,” and “Thrilla In Manila,” the phrases we use to recall two of his most pivotal bouts. Grantland Rice would have been hard-pressed to come up with better catch-phrases than those.

Ali wrote the following poem, “I am the Greatest,” when his name was still Cassius Clay. He was 21 at the time. National Public Radio featured the original audio recording of the poem earlier this week.

Do you know any 21-year-olds who have the self-assurance to read a piece of verse they wrote to a large gathering of strangers? Do they also possess the skill to make the piece boastful, but humorous and playful at the same time? And do they have the charisma to read a poem called “I am the Greatest” without coming across as an arrogant jackass? Finally, how many 21-year-olds do you know who could back up that performance by actually being the greatest at what they do?

It has been written many times that Ali was a one-of-a-kind, and that is true for many reasons. For me, his charisma stands out as something totally unique in the dull, calculated, humorless world of sports. Can you imagine Tom Brady or Peyton Manning sharing poems they wrote before an upcoming Super Bowl?

Here’s the poem. Hope you enjoy it as much as I did:

This is the legend of Cassius Clay,
The most beautiful fighter in the world today.
He talks a great deal, and brags indeed-y,
of a muscular punch that’s incredibly speed-y.
The fistic world was dull and weary,
But with a champ like Liston, things had to be dreary.
Then someone with color and someone with dash,
Brought fight fans a-runnin’ with cash.
This brash young boxer is something to see
And the heavyweight championship is his des-tin-y.
This kid fights great; he’s got speed and endurance,
But if you sign to fight him, increase your insurance.
This kid’s got a left; this kid’s got a right,
If he hit you once, you’re asleep for the night.
And as you lie on the floor while the ref counts ten,
You’ll pray that you won’t have to fight me again.
For I am the man this poem’s about,
The next champ of the world, there isn’t a doubt.
This I predict and I know the score,
I’ll be champ of the world in ’64.
When I say three, they’ll go in the third.

So don’t bet against me, I’m a man of my word.
He is the greatest! Yes!
I am the man this poem’s about,
I’ll be champ of the world, there isn’t a doubt.
Here I predict Mr. Liston’s dismemberment,
I’ll hit him so hard; he’ll wonder where October and November went.
When I say two, there’s never a third,
Standin’ against me is completely absurd.
When Cassius says a mouse can outrun a horse,
Don’t ask how; put your money where your mouse is!
I AM THE GREATEST!”

All Hail the Class Smart Ass

Tags

1993, college, humor, industrial revolution, london, my life, poetry, verse, writing

I was going through some old papers a few nights ago and came across a little poem I wrote 21 years ago to amuse my classmates. Unlike most of my writing from that period, this piece doesn’t make me cringe when I read it. It makes me smile.

When I was studying in London for a semester in 1993, we had a profoundly boring class about social change during England’s Industrial Revolution. The professor, like us, was abroad for four months and probably not all that excited about teaching a class. Three afternoons a week, he trudged into our tiny classroom at the Royal School of Economics, wearing a rumpled tweed jacket and a hang-dog expression. He would put his hands over his face and gently massage it as fighting off the lingering effects of a day-long hangover. Then he would stare out the window at the grey London sky. Then he would fiddle with his cufflinks. Then, if it was a good day, he would utter a few words before his hands returned to his face, massaging out whatever demons lurked inside.

I don’t know if this professor was going through some personal problems or if this was his regular teaching style. I do know that I got a couple of funny poems out of it. Writing clever little stuff doesn’t get you good grades, and it doesn’t get you girls. But you can sometimes get girls to laugh at your funny writing, which is at least something. I’m sure that was my motivation when I wrote this:

Comparative Institutions

Trembling hands rub his furrowed brow
as he contemplates the Then and Now.
Through his hollowed eyes the visions explode
of Victorian England and the steam railroad.
And the Ragged Boys’ School,
and legislation for the poor,
and don’t forget the Corn Law of 1834!
As the ideas form in his tired, grey brain,
he massages his temples and he tries to explain…
“You see folks,” he begins,
and he pauses for effect.
The students clutch their pens,
not sure what to expect.
“It’s like this, folks,” he stammers,
then a smile comes to his face.
“The world is not some Pollyanna,
goody-two-shoes type of place!”
Then he stands there for a moment
with a miserable kind of smirk.
And the students start to wonder
why they signed up for this jerk?

Art Meets Poetry

Tags

art, I need art and coffee, painter, poetry, prose, romare bearden, Stephen Roth

Man, you gotta see these cats blow,
Saturday night at this joint just
beyond the railroad tracks.
Nothing more than a shack, really.
But, man, does the place hop at one-thirty
in the morning with rye whiskey flowing
and these cats playing and everyone
dressed like they’re headed
for a Sunday morning tent revival.
And, bam! The women! Hitching up and grinding
against you to that big, fat, thumping beat,
that one guy playing his alto so sweet
the ladies almost collapse in your arms,
sweaty, dazed, their crimson lips slightly
parted and willing like bulbs awaiting the bee.

You coming with me?

—

Good gracious! God, alive! Have you heard
that serpentine sound that has wrapped its evil
coils around our youth, some barely old enough to drive?
And none old enough to ward off that seductive spell,
the primal drums, that howling screech from horns
no Gabriel would ever blow.
I would not believe it had I not been there myself
on Saturday night,
dressed in a sport coat so as not to raise alarm.
I would not believe it, but there it was: the drinking,
the swearing, the constant pounding of rapacious noise
making the youth of our town press against each other,
waist to waist, hip to hip, rubbing and churning
as if together they might resist the Tempter’s charms.

Good God, almighty. Let us pray.

—

I don’t know what it is. Maybe it’s the jacket.
Maybe it’s the booze, or the way we jam together.
Maybe it’s how Sonny hits his high-hat or the way
I run my fingers over the keys and put this horn
to my lips, so natural like I was holding it
when I came screaming into this world.
Maybe it’s ’cause it’s so late,
but something gets ’em worked up.
Look at those girls, running hands over their hips
and battin’ their eyes at me when I know full well
they wouldn’t give me a second look on the bus
or at the department store on a Tuesday morning.
Look at that old buzzard in the plaid jacket,
looking at me like he’d just bit into a crabapple!
Look at all them rosy-cheeked college boys,
with their Southern Comfort,
noddin’ and grinnin’ at me like we was brothers.

Damn, these people are strange.

 

Inspired by I Need Art and Coffee, by Romare Bearden