Stevie Smith(1902–1971)
No Categories!
I cry I cry
To God who created me
Not to you Angels who frustrated me
Let me fly, let me die,
Let me come to Him.
Not to you Angels on the wing,
With your severe faces,
And your scholarly grimaces,
And your do this and that,
And your exasperating pit-pat
Of appropriate admonishment.
That is not what the Creator meant.
In the day of his gusty creation
He made this and that
And laughed to see them grow fat.
Plod on, you Angels say, do better aspire higher
And one day you may be like us, or those next below us,
Or nearer the lowest,
Or lowest,
Doing their best.
Oh no no, you Angels, I say,
No hierarchies I pray.
Oh God, laugh not too much aside
Say not, it is a small matter.
See what your Angels do; scatter
Their pride; laugh them away.
Oh no categories I pray.