Poetry Archives

The Greatest Writer of to-day
(With Maupassant I almost set him)
Said to me in a weary way,
The last occasion that I met him:
“Old chap, this world is more and more
Becoming bourgeois, blasé, blousy:
Thank God I’ve lived so long before
It got so definitely lousy.”

Said I: “Old chap, I don’t agree.
Why should one so dispraise the present?
For gainful guys like you and me,
It still can be extremely pleasant.
Have we not Women, Wine and Song -
A gleeful trio to my thinking;
So blithely we can get along
With laughing, loving, eating, drinking.”

Said he: “Dear Boy, it may be so,
But I’m fed up with war and worry;
I would escape this world of woe,
Of wrath and wrong, of hate and hurry.
I fain would gain the peace of mind
Of Lamas on Thibetan highlands,
Or maybe sanctuary find
With beach-combers on coral islands.”

Said I: “Dear Boy, don’t go so far:
Just live a life of simple being;
Forgetting all the ills that are,
Be satisfied with hearing, seeing.
The sense of smell and taste and touch
Can bring you bliss in ample measure:
If only you don’t think too much,
Your programme can be packed with pleasure.

“But do not try to probe below
This fairy film of Nature’s screening;
Look on it as a surface show,
Without a purpose of a meaning.
Take no account of social strife,
And dread no coming cataclysm:
Let your philosophy of life
Be what I call: EXTERNALISM.

The moon shines down with borrowed light,
So savants say—I do not doubt it.
Suffice its silver trance my sight,
That’s all I want to know about it.
A fig for science—’how’ and ‘why’
Distract me in my happy dreaming:
Through line and form and colour I
Am all content with outward seeming. . . .”

The Greatest Writer of to-day
(I would have loved to call him Willie),
looked wry at me and went his way—
I think he thought me rather silly.
Maybe I am, but I insist
My point of view will take some beating:
Don’t mock this old Externalist—
The pudding’s proof is in the eating.