My life has been burdened (and enlightened!) with many lonely tasks, to include trying to keep alive the grand tradition of biting light verse and also a yet more marginalized genre: sports poetry. Herewith my latest. English only in this case, and though I have fond memories of Yvan Cournoyer. Jean Béliveau, Guy Lafleur . . .

The truth might extend beyond the next Stanley Cup

The other night his name was Jones, Jones of all things:
The enemy on whom the game somehow seemed to hinge.

Tonight Teräväinen, on top of every puck.
Another night Pasternak, of all people, got stuck

In my craw, throughout the game, this name; this beast;
To some alien genealogy condemned my team?

The day before, a fourth liner, best left unknown;
Now – what? – it’s him! – a breakaway? Shooting? Goal. Groan.

Of most Presidents’ faces I’ve seen more than enough.
News, lies, ads on TV – OK, we’ll keep buying stuff.

At least products and services are a kind of dope;
But sports – like dreams – come with hopes.

Beware, however, the cloying phonemes.
“Osterkamp,” for example, has just lit the lamp.

And it’s not just hockey; it’s more than a game;
Some strange, other someone is ever to blame?

— Poem and portrait by William Eaton. Other sports poems posted on Montaigbakhtinian: A poem about Ash Barty(!) and The masters (golf poetry). And there is, too, an essay On Playing and Missing. As for “biting light verse” (and trilinguality), various examples may be found, to include Se révéler ¿sin divertirse? – mais no, no, no!