Читать книгу Impertinent Poems - Cooke Edmund Vance - Страница 2

You don't buy poetry. (Neither do I.)

Why?

You cannot afford it? Bosh! you spend

Editions de luxe on a thirsty friend.

You can buy any one of the poetry bunch

For the price you pay for a business lunch.

Don't you suppose that a hungry head,

Like an empty stomach, ought to be fed?

Looking into myself, I find this true,

So I hardly can figure it false in you.

And you don't read poetry very much.

(Such

Is my own case also.) "But," you cry,

"I haven't the time." Beloved, you lie.

When a scandal happens in Buffalo,

You ponder the details, con and pro;

If poets were pugilists, couldn't you tell

Which of the poets licked John L.?

If poets were counts, could your wife be fooled

As to which of the poets married a Gould?

And even my books might have some hope

If poetry books were books of dope.

"You're a little bit swift," you say to me,

"See!"

You open your library. There you show

Your "favorite poets," row on row,

Chaucer, Shakespeare, Tennyson, Poe,

A Homer unread, an uncut Horace,

A wholly forgotten William Morris.

My friend, my friend, can it be you thought

That these were poets whom you had bought?

These are dead men's bones. You bought their mummies

To display your style, like clothing dummies.

But when do they talk to you? Some one said

That these were poets which should be read,

So here they stand. But tell me, pray,

How many poets who live to-day

Have you, of your own volition, sought,

Discovered and tested, proved and bought,

With a grateful glow that the dollar you spent

Netted the poet his ten per cent.?

"But hold on," you say, "I am reading you."

True,

And pitying, too, the sorry end

Of the dog I tried this on. My friend,

I can write poetry – good enough

So you wouldn't look at the worthy stuff.

But knowing what you prefer to read

I'm setting the pace at about your speed,

Being rather convinced these truths will hold you

A little bit better than if I'd told you

A genuine poem and forgotten to scold you.

Besides, when I open my little room

And see my poets, each in his tomb,

With his mouth dust-stopped, I turn from the shelf

And I must scold you, or scold myself.