Their Lonely Betters
A poem in the aftermath
Dear readers:
I felt that it would be abrupt simply to launch PCF back into regular programming after the devastation of Tuesday without a word in response. I do not, however, have any wisdom to offer. I don’t know what it means, and I hesitate to offer any ideas before we have all had time to recover and to think. I will simply offer this poem by W. H. Auden as a reminder to take care of yourself and to take care of each other.
Yours,
John
Their Lonely Betters
As I listened from a beach-chair in the shade
To all the noises that my garden made,
It seemed to me only proper that words
Should be withheld from vegetables and birds.
A robin with no Christian name ran through
The Robin-Anthem which was all it knew,
And rustling flowers for some third party waited
To say which pairs, if any, should get mated.
Not one of them was capable of lying,
There was not one which knew that it was dying
Or could have with a rhythm or a rhyme
Assumed responsibility for time.
Let them leave language to their lonely betters
Who count some days and long for certain letters;
We, too, make noises when we laugh or weep:
Words are for those with promises to keep.
—W. H. Auden
Thanks for reading, from my fancy internet typewriter to yours.
Devastated. Only poetry answers.
Thank you!