Life, 1921-06-16 · page 5 of 36
Life — June 16, 1921 — page 5: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
This is a humorous poem by James J. Montague published in *Life* magazine. The piece gently mocks golfers' aspirations versus their actual abilities. The poem contrasts what the speaker *wishes* to accomplish on the golf course—long, powerful drives with perfect form—against the reality of his mediocre performance. He dreams of hitting 200+ yard drives and making graceful shots, but admits his best actual distance is "a hundred and thirteen feet." The satirical conceit compares the golfer's unrealistic ambitions to a moth's futile desire to reach a star. The decorative border illustration shows a pastoral landscape, reinforcing the leisure-sport context. This is gentle satire of recreational golf culture and human overconfidence in one's abilities.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
THE DESIRE OF THE MOTH FOR THE STAR By James J. Montacue i should love to sing of the full free swing « And the echoing cry of “Fore !” As the ball flies true from the follow through Two hundred yards or more. I should love to write of the arrow flight Of the rapidly dwindling sphere, And its light rebound from the yielding ground Like the leap of a hunted deer. But this song would be, from the likes of me, The climax of self-conceit, For the best I've got from my utmost swat Is a hundred and thirteen feet ! I should love to croon of the delving spoon I would fain recite my profound delight With shimmering metal shod, When an arching approach has sped, That cleaves its way through the clinging clay Fair, straight and clean to the distant green Or shatters the matted sod. And drops, with a backspin, dead. I should love to praise in ecstatic lays I should love to rhyme of the thrill sublime The click of the niblick’s clout When the caddy removes the pin When it dives kerslap ! in the gravelly trap And my club I clasp with a joyful gasp And the pellet comes hurtling out. As my twelve-foot putt clinks in. But I'm well aware as the turf I tear But a chant like that would fall quite flat That I ought to be singing small, Though it lilted in every line, For the divots sail as the sward I flail, If sung by a bard with an average card But it’s rarely I budge the ball. Of a hundred and ninety-nine ! comicbooks.com