“….Pardon me, deserts, that I don't rush to you bearing a spoonful of water….”
Wislawa Szymborska-Under One Small Star
Maybe my father was disappointed,
By my plump refusal,
To represent our family,
At the monthly meeting,
Of the ‘Village Development Co-operative’.
I never really volunteer to sit,
For hours in the community hall,
Infested with dust, fleas, and cobweb.
The very sight of the wooden benches,
Slept on by stray dogs,
In the absence of gatherings,
And the yellowing walls,
Where rain water has painted,
Blackish splotches,
Is as loathsome to me,
As the stinking water and silt,
In the gutter.
But, what I abhor most,
Is being in the company,
Of village folk- the rustic, the verbose and the vulgar,
The very same people,
Who spice up life,
And keep the world running.
O the spade and the scythe!
It`s as absurd and as paradoxical as this:
I, who sympathize with them,
In my poetry,
Seek to avoid their society,
In real life,
At my parents` expense.
Who am I, then?
An honest hypocrite?
A snobbish humanist?
Or a damnable mélange
Of both?
