But in order to convince Tweed to risk the blogosphere, I had to promise him he could have the first poem:
Game Called on Account of YearsThe others will discuss the poem tomorrow. All have forsworn any code of any kind.
There’s nothing in the dark but past
concerns of days when I was younger
and my breathing was more like
paper airplanes and summer
breezes resplendent with dandelions.
I roared with youth on Sundays,
after Communion lessons, playing
baseball by the field behind the river.
Harry threw a fast ball and I fouled
it back. We heard the splash like years
rippling outwards to this day. No one
had ever thought to bring a back-up.
Tweed Majors 2005
3 comments:
Son Rivers, Ry Foote and Tweed Majors? I suppose a poet called John Smith is out of the question?
Yeah. But I almost went with Bob Jones.
Alan, although I heartily endorse your criticisms, I am afraid Tweed thinks them fastidious and forced. He says there is an inner rhythm of his soul reflected in the flow of the poem's words, and the meter that you speak of is something modern American poetry has overcome.
As for enjambments, he believes the laziness you speak of is the current of a river, like the great Mississippi that flows in the bloodstreams of true American poets.
Third, the setting, sequence, and tenses are muddled like physics itself, exhibiting the true macro-energy of the living.
Lastly, he feels sorry that you don't get the ending, but maybe in time, you shall see the light.
A wink and nod to you my friend. And thanks for playing along.
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