Poète en vedette
Marty Gervais
Marty Gervais est poète, photographe, journaliste et historien. Il est l'auteur du best-seller canadien The Rumrunners et a publié plus de deux douzaines de livres de poésie. Gervais est le premier poète officiel de Windsor en Ontario et il a reçu la Médaille du jubilé de la Reine ainsi que le prix du Harbourfront International Authors' Festival pour son travail de mentorat auprès des écrivaines et écrivains en herbe. Ses photographies ont été exposées en France, en Irlande, aux États-Unis et dans tout le Canada. M. Gervais est également l'éditeur de Black Moss Press, l'une des plus anciennes maisons d'édition littéraire du Canada.
Réservations: martygervais@gmail.com
Poème en vedette
Mickey Mantle’s Last At Bat at Tiger Stadium
I remember that day, Sept. 19, 1968 —
I was sitting at a lunch counter at a Coney Island joint
on Lafayette in downtown Detroit, just minutes
from Tiger Stadium and the radio carried
the mellifluous voice of Ernie Harwell — one out
and nobody on the bases. Tigers in the lead 6-1
top of the 8th inning and coming to the plate
the great Mickey Mantle, and on the mound
the cocky Detroit right-hander Denny McLain
who was cruising to his 31st win
and what happened next nobody knows for sure
except maybe McLain, but Mantle signalled
for a fastball, letter high, and McLain standing
tall on the mound — his cap yanked down
shading his eyes, and peered up to get a better look
like someone wearing bifocals, and nodded slowly
and the next thing you knew was the delivery
of a tailor-made pitch, and the ball sailing
like a rocket into the right field seats —a spoon-fed
535th career homer, packaged up with a ribbon
laced around it and a message loud and clear
Here you go! You don’t need to ask twice
Years later, I talked with McLain at a Detroit
radio station — he was nearly 300 pounds
his famous right hand now like a machine crushing
and slamming one tin coke can after another
into a nearby pail all through the broadcast
and I spoke with him another time right
after he got out of jail and was slinging, not fastballs
but slurpees at 7-11 and once more I asked
Do you remember that day with Mantle?” And again
he smiled,“C’mon, I was 24!” But not before
simultaneously and quietly flashing that steely gaze
of a pitcher, chin tucked down, and his big
right hand in slow motion lobbing a fake pitch
