Just Another Smack

Schoolmaster Auden gave them full marks,

"the Old Masters," for having understood

"about suffering" its "human position."

The view from Mt. Lectern was clear. They were,

he noted, "never wrong."

One is pleased to see

things put in place, grateful for instruction

-though words like his might well inspire Job

with ruddied fingernails once more to rasp

excruciating music from festers and boils.

Sir, respectfully, is it possible

ever to be right about "suffering?"

-suffering which, after all, is not

just lying around waiting to be mapped,

but has abundantly its awful life.

I mean, sir, our suffering is no

Nativity, is never legendary

like Innocents slaughtered, Icarus plunging.

We lack that consolation. Our suffering

is nameless (like us) and newly whelped

and dying just to claim us for itself.

Perhaps, sir, you never meant all that,

had merely called in Birch the Learned

to make the new-boy romantics smart:

Let them not think their feelings so damned

important, that sort of rubbish and rot!

And one does grant a classic wisdom here

that could help young masters get to be old.

I mean: When they pass out the suffering,

don't insist on getting yours; you make sure

you're the one "just walking dully along."

The other bloke's never hurts as much.

And let's suppose you've gotten off clean,

left that little problem to be brought up

by others, and yourself "sailed calmly on"

into Snug Harbor. Well, twenty years later,

and now your life's a lovely picture,

and you just settling down to enjoy it.

Looks pretty good from where you sit,

lots of bright colors smack in the center,

with some poor sod getting the shaft

off in a murky corner-he won't be missed.

Why, will it to a fine museum, that's

what you'll do!

And then wouldn't you know it.

Out cruising, say, for a little action,

or maybe looking to change its luck,

Suffering just happens to happen by,

big as leviathan and calling you son,

and clouts enormously your shoulder blade,

and dispatches a knee swift to the groin

-by now you haven't breath to shout-

and caves in your ear with a whisper

(the last words you're going to hear,

doubled over now, dropping fast),

"Listen close. It's me. Only I got away.

And my message is strictly for you

-Hey, old fella, you've been elected."