Читать книгу This Place of Prose and Poetry - Lucian Krukowski - Страница 22

Who is what (that one which) I’d like to be

when the smell of being just a What—

especially when it’s old and musty—

is more (on a windy day) than I can bear?

There always are the many others—

all Whats—but reently washed you know.

They wrinkle their noses at my dirty toes,

and denigrate my clever prose.

So why do they come to where I am,

sitting solitary on my rock?

(I chose it long ago —when rocks were cheap).

The Whats I know come trilling

as they always do, about art so new

that it’s a bargain—if you know someone

who can really tell which artist is a What

and how to avoid the one who’s Who.

I once rummaged through the village

to see what I could pillage from out

the heap of now discarded pretty ones—

mostly Who’s who stand and preen awhile,

then sit and argue with each other

about the river flooding more

this year than ever.

Some go swimming in the swollen waters.

I’m not interested in them—they drown too easy.

The ones l care about don’t care to wash their feet.

It’s God‘s will they say, and a damn-fool thing to do—

except in spring when the winter logs get free of ice,

and come floating down to bump the rump

of pretty biddies like your friend Clarice.

Oh! I like you all—Clarice and you and others too.

But the river’s got more dangerous than it used to be—

so don’t swim too far—stay close to me.

Stay right here—where I can keep both eyes

on just the two of you.