God, A Poem

God, A Poem


A nasty surprise in a sandwich,
A drawing-pin caught in your sock,
The limpest of shakes from a hand which
You'd thought would be firm as a rock,

A serious mistake in a nightie,
A grave disappointment all round
Is all that you'll get from th'Almighty,
Is all that you'll get underground.

Oh he said: 'If you lay off the crumpet
I'll see you alright in the end.
Just hang on until the last trumpet.
Have faith in me, chum-I'm your friend.'

But if you remind him, he'll tell you:
'I'm sorry, I must have been pissed-
Though your name rings a sort of a bell. You
Should have guessed that I do not exist.

'I didn't exist at Creation,
I didn't exist at the Flood,
And I won't be around for Salvation
To sort out the sheep from the cud-

'Or whatever the phrase is. The fact is
In soteriological terms
I'm a crude existential malpractice
And you are a diet of worms.

'You're a nasty surprise in a sandwich.
You're a drawing-pin caught in my sock.
You're the limpest of shakes from a hand which
I'd have thought would be firm as a rock,

'You're a serious mistake in a nightie,
You're a grave disappointment all round-
That's all you are, ' says th'Almighty,
'And that's all that you'll be underground.'

1983


James Fenton

O voyeur

Gosto das tuas pernas grossas a aparecerem debaixo das calças arregaçadas
Gosto da forma como os teus pés descalços se agarram ao chão

No principio vivemos em equilíbrio agarrados à firmeza das nossas convicções
Um dia resultado de um movimento natural descobrimo-nos com outro ponto de vista

Os nossos corpos são como barcos à vela navegando ventos inconstantes
Nós e a nossa doença mantemos um equilíbrio, desfeito este será a nossa morte

O teu corpo forte, a tua postura exigente, o teu humor seco
Tudo isso cai perante a finura das tuas mãos, elas traem-te…bem como uma certa luz
Que vem com o teu sorriso. Nada disto importa, tudo isto é rapidamente esquecido
Como velhas fechaduras roídas pela ferrugem, já sem portas para abrir.

This Be the Verse

This Be the Verse
By Philip Larkin 1922–1985

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.


But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another’s throats.


Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don’t have any kids yourself.

Philip Larkin, “This Be the Verse” from Collected Poems.