Poet-In-Residence

Special to the 2011 Rogers Cup presented by National Bank in Toronto is a poet-in-residence, who will be on site each day to share her tennis poetry. Priscila Uppal will be writing daily poems which fans can find each day in Poet's Corner of The Daily News, right here on rogerscup.com, and at the Tennis Canada booth on the Rexall Centre grounds. In addition, Uppal is writing a daily blog entitled "The Art of Tennis" on lovemeansnothing.ca. Click here to read the Rogers Cup poet-in-residence's thoughts on tennis books, films, and more. Uppal is also holding a poetry contest. Details below:

Write your own Tennis Poem and win Tennis Glory:

The winning poem, judged by Priscila Uppal, Rogers Cup Poet-in-Residence, will be published in The Daily News on the day of the finals as part of Poet's Corner! So pick up your pens and take your best shot!

Poems must be twenty lines or less.
Poems must be original and unpublished.
Contest entry is absolutely free.
Send your poems to tennispoetry@gmail.com
By Friday August 12, Noon.
Include your full name, phone number and email.
The winner will be announced on Final Sunday.

*If you're under 18 years of age, please also indicate your age

Karaoke Queen for Serena Williams (At the post-championship press conference, I asked Serena Williams for a word or phrase she would like to see in the poem honouring her Roger's Cup win. Her answer: Gnarly. I have never used the word before in a poem. Thanks Serena, and congratulations!) You say it's been a while, I'm a little rusty, because you've been off the circuit, distant from your old haunts, your old posse, trying to sort through baggage and unexpected damage, with bowed head you whisper, I lost my voice. But once on stage the music kicks in, you start to warm up, getting your feet wet, practicing scales, testing high notes, it all starts to come back— how to loosen your chords, open your chest, lungs filling up with the song inside. I'm in my eighties moment! So gnarly, you tease, pleased by how Air Supply supplies a soft soundtrack for your favourite dance—you're All Out of Love, Making Love Out of Nothing At All, The One That You Love—belting out hit after hit composed just for you underneath the spotlight, clutching your customized microphone, heart strung around your throat for all to see, until it's time to shut down shop, send the audience home. This is your 2011 moment and none too soon. You've been imagining your name up on that marquee, singing yourself silently to sleep, believing a voice is never lost, only at rest. It's been a while, you say, almost a decade since I've sung this song in your town. But I'm sure I remember how it goes. It starts with love… And if that ain't gnarly, you say, I don't know what is. (14/08/2011)

POETRY CONTEST WINNERS I want to thank the many poets and fans of tennis from across Canada (and even the United States!) for submitting your tennis verse to the Roger's Cup Tennis Tournament's first-ever Poetry Contest! Your poems were truly inspiring, and I enjoyed reading them all. Unfortunately, like the tournament itself, there can only be one winner. However, I have also been able to select a few runners-up for publication on the website. I'd like to encourage all who submitted to share their poems with the tennis fans they know. Thanks again for your words and your passion for tennis. WINNER: DANIEL SCOTT TYSDAL

Tennis on the Farm There was no tennis on the farm. Hens and roosters spooked by coyotes made the only racket, and a break point meant you couldn't bear to squish even one more potato bug or hack down that final patch of Russian Thistle. But I still recognize this game. The court is the upside-down ocean of that blue sky as it crested a field's green, then golden, then harvested growth. The ball, struck, is the light that burst in sharp beams through the holes in the barn's tin wall, undertaking in the dark a luminous archaeology that made petrified claws and trilobites and spearheads of all the airborne dust. RUNNER-UP: TIM MOOK SANG

On Tennis All my under 14 summer breaks were spent dragged by my family to every tourney in Ottawa my brothers competing and me losing first round then consolation love and love It's not that I didn't want to play, and my parents got me lessons and I knew the rules don't hit it short, don't hit it out and never let the ball bounce twice But nothing helped How I got through the quick matches and long days after drinking pop and hitting with the wall was by repeating in my head my coach's motto those mistakenly reassuring words Tennis isn't all about winners HONORABLE MENTION: CASSIDY MCFADZEAN

I Soar Below Stands: A Riddle I was born out of clay, clothed in a yellow coat, caught in between the court and the clouds, the perfect white lines and my latex bones. I'm confined inside a quadrangle cage, my enclosure tended by two masked guards, the lattice frames of their fretwork faces stinging my skin striking me silly. Their invisible hands harness my movement, guide my trajectory, govern my flight and I dare not diverge in direction or might. Though I'm shackled to the structure and shape of my ruler's rhythm and ruthless drive, I soar below stands, sweep in swift gusts, tear upon the runway and tumble divine. The prize of my voyage, verges on degrees: my push towards the tapestry of net and pull away from the force of its form, balance that lies at the brink of all art. Say who I am, a strange creature or wingless bird who wields flight. HONOURABLE MENTION: GARY WINTER

In the Fan Zone Way up high above it all Up where the court looks so small Trying to keep an eye on the little, yellow ball Or waiting for Ace the mascot come to call With prizes and merriment for one and all Where the shouts are loud ("C'mon Rebecca, you can do it!!!") And tennis fans are just as proud Closer to the overcast shroud Catching raindrops before the lower-level crowd In the Fan Zone Working on your tan Cooling down with a Corona in a can Blocking out the sun with umbrella in hand Trying go stay focused with a short attention span In the Fan Zone Where hard core fans gather and meet Until late at night when the announcer entreats "All the Fans in the 300 seats, C'mon down below the VIP suites" JUNIOR HONORABLE MENTION: NABEELA BHALOO, 14 YEARS-OLD

Match Point The ball is served. All eyes follow it As it lands perfectly in the box And is returned The sun in my eyes As I watch the match The air is warm And filled with excitement. The ball glides In a graceful arc Across the court Like a bird in the sky. And suddenly, match point begins So much depends On so little time. At this moment Anything can happen. And a special honorable mention also to Toronto City Councillor Joe Mihevc, whose poem was already published on the website below.

Tennis Abecedarian Aces break courts; deuces expose faults; grand horrors imagined jettison kneeling loves; memories net oracles; points quarrel records; serves taunt umpires; volleys win x-boxes; yearly zest.

Umpire Love Haiku Even if you find fault with me, let me climb your ivory tower. (13/08/2011)

Sore Winner Or, You Should See My Opponent If it's not a toe blister It's a calf bruise If it's not a foot cramp It's a pinched nerve If it's not a sprained wrist It's a twisted thumb If it's not a sore elbow It's a tender tailbone If it's not a groin problem It's dehydration If it's not a pulled shoulder It's a broken arm If it's not a bum hip It's a trick knee

If it's not a distraction It's a lawsuit It it's not a stress fracture It's fractured stress If it's not bandages It's surgical stitches If it's not a double fault It's a mental meltdown If it's not a back spasm It's sun stroke If it's not a break point It's a set point If it's not a trophy It's a long walk home (13/08/2011)

We Follow the Sun (includes the phrases or concepts: love and hate relationship; "what city am I in today?"; travel; gypsy tour, ten months of summer; "we follow the sun"; balls; winning; and emotions; suggested by players Jill Craybas, Lucie Safarova, Chanelle Scheepers and Anastasija Sevastova) What city am I in today? Irrelevant, the question dissolves like the chalky haze of last night's campfire. Gypsies by nature, we consult our solar crystal ball for glimpses of bright futures, warm ourselves on emerging destinies. Fold tents, pack bags, survey equipment and supplies, stare our fellow travellers in the eyes and follow the sun.

Earth, orchestrate your many seasons. But we, sweat pilgrims, bloom only in heat, prodigals of eternal sunshine. Gypsies by vocation, every city seduces us, a love-hate relationship: love of beginnings, of wishings, of approachable dawn. Then the hatred of losing favour, boarding steel wagons designed for forgetfulness; even triumphant, trophies wrapped tight in emotion, memories shed in an effort to travel light. For us, summer lasts ten months of the year. When you pick a sunflower, pluck the petals with a patient hand, offer us up to the wind. Wish our souls one more safe passage. (12/08/2011)

Three Views of a Baseline Rally Arm Wrestle: You grunt, I grunt. Muscles flex, constrict, pop. Perfect form collapsing little by little until reduced to unanswerable fist pump. Tug of War: My racquet strung to yours, we shuffle to and fro knees bent, backs up, harnessing momentum. We pull each other closer and closer. Then suddenly over the line. Game of Chess: My turn, your turn, each sliver of stratagem captured by the clock, squares chipped away until no corner is safe. Check mate. (11/08/2011)

Confessions of the Rain Or, An Apology for the Delay An elemental prima donna, I can't resist the spotlight, any opportunity to expose you to the immoderate range of my theatrical abilities: the soft, sad tears of lost childhood; drizzle specks of the aimless, fickle lover; melodramatic downpour of grieving mothers; or villainous lightning rage. Yes, my entrances and exits are exquisitely planned. I care only for my own trends, patterns, systems. Even if you try to keep me off the list, trust me, my celebrity is legendary. Ropes will be lifted, security appeased, and I'll be waved right in. Like all divas, I require an audience. You can't help but gaze in wonder and take cover. So why not just scan your ticket, buy a drink, put your feet up, and enjoy the show, as I waltz onto the court, clouds fainting in the sky's arms. (10/08/2011)

Priscila contacted her local city councillor, Joe Mihevc, to ask him to inform members of the community about the Rogers Cup poetry contest. Joe Mihevc sent her an original poem! Priscila would like to urge other Toronto city councillors to take up the challenge and try to top Joe. Even a poem by Mayor Rob Ford would be welcome!

Tennis and the Game of City Politics Whoosh goes the ball across the net, Wham goes the mayor attacking city services. Whoosh goes the ball quickly back over, Wham go Councillors defending what they have built. The back and forth of tennis rivals the ebb and flow of municipal life. Those who watch are captivated by the drama: Run, hit the ball, stay on your toes, Cut taxes, no more gravy trains and no to light rail trains, Save our arts programmes, protect the community, build the city. The bigger the game, the higher the stakes, community watching, Hearts are in it and losing a vote can cut a library system down, Game, set, match - discussion, prioritizing, final vote. Whoosh, wham, watch the ball, whoosh, wham.

Back and forth, ebbs and flows, Understanding the rhythm, letting the game flow through you, But not permitting the game to overwhelm you, Requires a certain Zen quality. The great tennis players must be Zen masters, While good civic leaders must too read the rhythm: Know when to rush the net, when to hold back, when to rally hard, seize the moment and go all out. Those who win embrace the rhythm, Understanding the flow helps one to read, Read oneself and one's opponent, always thinking and moving, Strong forehand, short backhand back, building a momentum, and winning the day! Joe Mihevc, Toronto City Councillor Ward 21, St. Paul's (09/08/2011)

To Serve in Heaven --Better to reign in Hell, than serve in Heaven John Milton Obviously, Milton was no tennis player. Content in his paradise of metal plates and inks and an entourage Of words, I'm not convinced he ever ventured out under the rays Of the actual sun—the solar one—and tossed up a green planet As hopeful prayer into the sky. If so, he would have experienced the music of the spheres As Kepler predicted—a symphony not of trumpets but of Balls and strings, a cosmic racket of questions and answers (you, me; he, she; in, out; let, fault) more truthful than the tomes of treatises on the inner thoughts of our gods.

For in our courts, to serve is not passive. Service is pressure. A marriage Of strength and humility. A petition. A philosophical position. An overhead calculation Just beyond our reach Of potentials and possibilities. For heaven itself is but a world ranking We are willing to concede, as we lace up Our wings and fly just shy of victory, And have a devil of a time. (09/08/2011)

How Do I Love Thee? A Tennis Sonnet (with thanks to Elizabeth Barrett Browning) How do I love thee? Let me count the score. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height My forehand can reach, my backhand can splice Mad rushing to the net, eager for more. I love thee to the level of grand slam play, 'best of' sets, and championship cups, I love thee brutally, I love thee tough, I love thee intensely, with strict command. I love thee with passion put to the test with old griefs and rivals to disappoint. I love thee with a love designed to lose all the close calls. I love thee with worn joints, Fist-pumps, tears, of my life; and, if God choose, I shall love thee better after match point. (08/08/2011)

Ode to Ball Boys and Girls Because it's hot enough to fry an egg on a tennis racquet Because you're as poker-faced as Mounties on Parliament Hill Because you're still young enough Because you aren't too proud to kneel Because a stray ball is like a hair in your ice cream Because a towel for the knees is pretty much for show Because first serve is only first chance Because you never miss the point Because you cover the court with eyes Because you listen in dozens of languages Because you make yourself invisible Because you are visible Because your party trick is scurrying on all fours Because of the synchronicity of rotation Because of your eternal backside view Because you're as ambidextrous as an octopus Because 251 km/hr Because you retrieve aces, faults, winners, errors, all with the same unbiased hand Because there are future Marias and Rogers among you Because you know where that ball's been Because sometimes stars wink Because you chase dreams in front of millions (07/08/2011)

Goddess Not of divine seashell is she born but from earthy mixtures of rubber, grass and clay. They say she does not look down upon her followers but helps them year after year plant promissory seeds. They say the way to her heart is though lungs and tendons, capillaries and synapses. For if she is not fit, she is not fit to rule. In a contest of angles, her pedestal is constructed out of degrees. Modern deity, she proves her mettle before expecting homage, before masses throw sweet garlands upon perfect blistered feet. (06/08/2011)

Stepping Out (with nods to Beyoncé) Ours is no gentleman's game. This is all-out, two-for-one, no-holds-barred, no fresh meat left untouched Ladies Night. And the dance floor's pumping: All the singles ladies. All the singles ladies. All the singles ladies. All the singles ladies. Stepping out, we own this club: from shuffle to swing, salsa to soca, bolero to disco tango to pogo fox trot to hip hop.

Ours is no gentleman's game. This is bottom lines, chase you into corners, heads on silver platters, advantage: ladies. And it's going to be a long night. DJ's spinning up a storm, but we've barely warmed up. If you like it, put a championship ring on it. If you like it, put a championship ring on it. Now put your hands up. Down a few shots. Run up a tab. Bust some funky moves. We've got some cool records to break. (03/08/2011)