Mr. Ullubux Umpires a Cricket Match

The blaze photographers will catch my white

Tunic, and turn me to some ancient priest,

My three fingers in an heraldic pose

Held up to catch the darting evening light;

Nor do I now suppose

These will betray my function in the least.

Rather I am that god's priest who has ruled

Vast countries for so long, the mystery

Carved from such a solidity, composed

And calm: it is the gazer's eye that's fooled

By this superimposed

Judgment-I stand in calm conformity.

I take my stance behind the wickets, cool

And orthodox: with me decision rests,

And I am confident to give it rightly,

Though in my house they treat me as a fool.

I would not take on lightly

So difficult a task, to umpire contests

Of bodily skill and mental clarity,

The arm, the eye, the leg in strict control,

Cunning of Ulysses in the bright mind;

But such an empire was devised for me

Where, short of being blind,

I could not fail to judge aright. My whole

Being is bent to this solemnity.

Spectators clap, and these photographers

Have represented me, solid, unmoved

By the excited movements of the three

Principal players, proved

Excitement of the limbs. Who can disperse

These far from orgiastic rituals?

Who can control the game but I? I hold

This whole world in the fingers of my hand.

And now at last the vivid evening falls

And the last shadows stand

Around us. All the air is fixed and cold.

I pull from the green earth the three symbolic

Sticks; and the players now retire, to chat

Together, drink, go home to bed, and find

Another life as real as this, authentic

Symbol for the tired mind.

Ill keep my photograph to wonder at.

Structure

42 lines · 8 stanzas