Symposium on the Majors

A symposium on Tweed Majors' poem, "Game Called on Account of Years," posted just below.

Rivers: Tweed, what were you thinking?
Majors: That life is a field of dreams.
Lingua: That your poem is lacking any field?
Majors: No, it’s form is sprawling dreamlike.
Foote: There is no form. It’s dreamy-eyed prose.
Majors: My poem is a dark journey into the pastoral.
Lingua: Your poem is sentimental and living in the past.
Foote: Your meter wanders, slack and meaningless.
Rivers: OK, why introduce the sacrament of Communion?
Majors: Of course it’s a metaphor for the metaphysical.
Lingua: It’s reactionary at best and dictatorial at worst.
Majors: Baseball is mostly always democratic.
Foote: Poetry must be a strong republic, but with protocol.
Lingua: Poetry is anything the reader wants it to be.
Rivers: Very well, and who is this character Harry?
Majors: Harry is a left-handed pitcher nick-named God.
Foote: Oh my God, you’re pretentiously hopeless.
Lingua: There is no God and there is no poem.
Majors: I beginning to think there’s just no Nolo.
Foote: And tell me something I didn’t know.
Rivers: Please, the poem. The ending is worthy of note.
Majors: It’s the central meaning to our very lives.
Foote: It’s trite and weakly enjambed: no rhyme or reason.
Lingua: Well, there are those good qualities I suppose.
Rivers: Alright, and so the last word goes to you, Tweed.
Majors: Read an expanded version in next week’s New Yorker.