Apparently the Wall Street Journal hired someone to write poems about the Olympics.

Guggenheim fellowship-winning poet Kwame Dawes has eleven published books of poetry. Not only a poet, Dawes has published two novels, a play, a volume of short stories, and a nonfiction book about Bob Marley--because why the hell not? He's won numerous awards for his writing. He gets around.

Which is why it's curious? surprising? odd? head-scratching? that Dawes has been writing poetry for the Wall Street Journal (pssh, duh), inspired by events occurring in the Winter Olympics (obviously).

15 poems. In all, Dawes has written 15 poems about the Winter Olympics. Fifteen! Shaun White, wardrobe malfunctions, the Philippines lone representative, and Lolo Jones all receive the poetic treatment. Showing who's the teacher's pet, the Jamaican bobsled team receives two poems.

But here's Dawes' poem about Bob Costas and the inability to overcome pink eye--or something. You know it's classy poetry when we're talking about creepy eye infections.


Bob Costas’s Pink Eye and Sochi’s Brown Water 

Costas’ eyes have stayed pink, the jokes
too easy since pinko is old as eras are old
and Putin’s pink is the color of his steak,
though his connections to the sewers
and pipes plumb old depths and Costas
can’t be blamed for passing on the shower,
and going for the rag to wipe his eyes.

Americans are losing everything—this is
the march of almost arrivals and who can
blame them when whole villages of pain
impervious Norway folks hurtle over snow
as if born to this red-faced miracle of power,
while the normal Americans lose everything—
golds slipping away, silvers, bronzes—you know
their names, the parade of painful loss.

There is salt in the snow at the foothills
where the Jamaican bobsledders are shirtless
leading a limbo line through the subtropical
steam pot of Sochi of global warming.

The water is brown, it is not rum.

Everyone is a rainbow child, and on Sunday
the rainbow curved over the mountain,
and someone said, Hallelujah! then thought,
how ironic, how emptily ironic. 

Luge sliders travel at eighty miles per hour—
they can die on these fragile bits of fiber glass
and this is why we howl with relief
at their arrival intact at the end of the run.

And in Raleigh the pile up is not a joke.

And on CNN, the Paul guy is making jokes.

And in Syria, remember, in Syria

A dog with a beard won the Westminister Dog Show

All isn’t well with the world.