Poetry Exchange

True, we do work hard here at the Salzburg Global Seminar. But most of us, being dedicated and fervent academics, get understandably restless when we work in front of a computer screen all day, producing not essays and research, but spreadsheets and biographies. I think it was waiting to happen for a few days, and finally the dam broke. Our dedicated vice president, Edward Mortimer, wrote a response poem to a clumsy poem written by Roger Angell; the rest is a thread of what followed over the course of the afternoon. Needless to say, the day passed more quickly when this bit of entertainment lightened intensity of the work load.



Rebuke of Roger Angell
...
Is this what you call ein Gedicht?
It reads to me like something sick'd
Up by a cat whose latest meal
Comprised more names than I could reel
Off in a month of zealous dropping,
Trimmed with a rich and creamy topping
Of facile rhymes that make you wince
And certainly do not convince.
Who are these people? Half at least
I know not if they're man or beast,
But hope that one within my range'll
Say WHO THE HELL IS ROGER ANGELL?

--Edward Mortimer

A Defense of Roger Angell

...
Ah, Roger Angell is a scribe
Of baseball, sports and various jibe
He spits a rhyme of games and men
And is published in mags and rags like when

He wrote his famous The Summer Game,

Five Seasons, Late Innings, and other frames

That describe the diamonds, bases, and bleachers

All part of the most American features.
Strike one, strike two, strike three you’re out!
But we must Once More Around the Park, no doubt,

From left to right and up the middle

The catcher and pitcher must end this riddle.
Who’s on First then you ask in rhyme?
Oh, just the writer of note for our ole pastime!

--Ben Glahn

A Criticism of A National Sport

...

Baseball? Of course. I might have guessed –
The sort of man whose every jest
Comes “out of left field” or, or declineth
To reach the “bottom of the ninth”.
But in a real game like cricket
He’ll score no run, nor take no wicket…

--Edward Mortimer

Hating the Game

...

Sir, do forgive me my impudence
But I must display true prudence
In defense of Ben and of our sport
Vis-à-vis this quick retort:
Baseball’s lasting kind appeal
Will, to the cunning eye, reveal,
A deep tradition, wrought in pride,
Mark’d by a graceful, measured stride.
Never has a sport conceived
By man or god been thus received
As baseball has, in our great nation
Which showers it with adoration:
I’ll pay no mind to that persuasion
Which sharply scorns this occupation.

--Travis Campbell

An Encouragement and a Challenge to Ben Glahn

...

The poet’s work, I’m sure you know,
Goes without praise, quite often; though
Nary should he end that craft
By which his truths inform the daft,
Lest men (whose stripes of ignorance
Pay each of us poor consequence)
Are let to run with idle minds
Whilst Time her fragile thread unwinds.
Speak then, of baseball, and Sport, at length
Restore the mighty Man his strength
Relax our minds and ease our stress:
Let your pen to paper press.

--Travis Campbell

A New Battle

...

I wonder how you can brag and boast
About the sports your nations host.
As foreign as your language is to me,
Are you rumblings about the sporting spree.
My origins, as all you know, gave rise poets and philosophers
Compared to which my wit just greatly suffers.
Alas, the aesthetes, to whom I can not aspire,
Unable to withhold all guns and fire,
Give me reason to believe,
The only cure to this enduring beef
Is shots and bangs that pierce even the Great Hall
Borne on neutral ground in a game of proper foosball.

--Daniel Sip

A Tip to Baseball, A Wag to Bonds

...
Excellent idea you have done thrown
Into the chance of electronic drone
But lest it not slip down forgot
I answer here to fill the lot.
You speak of ball and sport and Man,
Yet I know not which your thoughts demand.
My presumption yells The Babe, for sure!
Alas, I fear you mean that one, so poor,

That from his heart wrought green for fame

Swatted 73, but will not be bronzed with filthy name.
Now tis done my renounce o’ him,
I say not sorry nor sing no hymn.
Instead suggest I do the Game
Of which we speak must not go lame.
Come clean good men and hit your stride,

With dreams of spring and much yuletide!

--Ben Glahn

No Need for Name Calling

...
I’d advise you, sir, to tread on soft
For men, by words, I have slain oft
And lesser crimes did they transgress
Than to tarnish the great and strange success

Of players gone (though surely, here

I can admit my secret fear:
There was afoot some cheating scheme
Which tarnished up my oldest dreams)
Nonetheless, the paramount
Conclusion of our poet’s bout
Should be the union of our skills
To trump the rhymes of those whose ills
Condemn our sport, for we both call
Supreme the game of base-and-ball.

--Travis Campbell

A Truce Accord

...
Indeed my friend I can accept
the path on which your verse has stepped

I am advised to chart my course

to keep the choir from remorse

by treading soft with poets strength

but not to cross that dangerous length

where mortals trip and break apart

'neath the weight of tainted hearts.
A union fast of clever tongue,
Ah! never a song was better sung.
To the game itself I do not retort,
for the 60 nights til pitchers report
are better spent on prose on wit,
in the icy calm that winter does emit.

--Ben Glahn

Onwards and Upwards

...
Well pleased am I, upon this news
That poets skilled have called a truce
And now turn wits to pleasures fine:
To conversation, and to wine
To politics, and global cause
Stopping only yet to pause,
And give reflection to our squads,
Who, in March, will stretch their quads,

And trot to first, to short, and right

And against the other clubs, shall fight

To claim that treasured, vaulted prize:
Above the other teams, to rise.
How like our lives, this sport does seem--

That often too, each man does dream

To scamper out amongst the crowd

His noble voice to trumpet loud,

And silence doubt, to turn it back,

To brave maleficent attack,

To test his merit 'gainst the rest

In order to discern the best,

Bring calm to old, and hope to youth

With but one line of regal truth.

--Travis Campbell