Tao in the Yankee Stadium Bleachers

By John Updike 1932–2009 John Updike

Distance brings proportion. From here

the populated tiers

as much as players seem part of the show:

a constructed stage beast, three folds of Dante’s rose,

or a Chinese military hat

cunningly chased with bodies.

“Falling from his chariot, a drunk man is unhurt

because his soul is intact. Not knowing his fall,

he is unastonished, he is invulnerable.”

So, too, the “pure man”—“pure”

in the sense of undisturbed water.

“It is not necessary to seek out

a wasteland, swamp, or thicket.”

The opposing pitcher’s pertinent hesitations,

the sky, this meadow, Mantle’s thick baked neck,

the old men who in the changing rosters see

a personal mutability,

green slats, wet stone are all to me

as when an emperor commands

a performance with a gesture of his eyes.

“No king on his throne has the joy of the dead,”

the skull told Chuang-tzu.

The thought of death is peppermint to you

when games begin with patriotic song

and a democratic sun beats broadly down.

The Inner Journey seems unjudgeably long

when small boys purchase cups of ice

and, distant as a paradise,

experts, passionate and deft,

hold motionless while Berra flies to left.

Source: Collected Poems 1953-1993 (1993)

Biography

An acclaimed and award-winning writer of fiction, essays, and reviews, John Updike has also been writing poetry for most of his life. Growing up in Pennsylvania, his early inspiration to be a writer came from watching his mother, an aspiring writer, submit her work to magazines. In an interview Updike stated, “I began as a writer of light verse, and have tried to carry over into my serious or lyric verse something of the . . .

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