critical opening phrase of this poem will always
be the grip, as the hands unite to form a single
unit by the simple overlap of the little finger.
Lowly and slowly, the club head is lead back,
pulled into position. Not by the hands,
but by the body, which turns away from the
target, shifting weight to the right side
without shifting balance.
Tempo is everything, perfection unattainable, as
the body coils now to the top of the swing.
There is a slight hesitation, a little nod to
the gods, that he is fallible. Perfection
the weight begins shifting back to the left,
pulled by the powers inside the Earth.
It's alive, this swing, a living sculpture, and
down through the contact -- always down --
striking the ball crisply with character.
turn fork goes off in your heart, your loins.
Such a pure feeling is the well struck golf
-- Tin Cup, Warner Brothers, 1996.