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And then he tries a very
delicate Waltz-like poem

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called "Song On
Porcelain," which

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was translated by my
friend Robert Pinsky

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so that it does
rhyme and does meter.

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Wrote "Song on Porcelain."

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Rose colored cup and
saucer, flowery demitasse,

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you lie beside the river,
where an armored columns pass.

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Winds from across the meadow,
sprinkle the bank with down.

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A torn apple tree's shadow
falls on the muddy path.

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The ground everywhere is strewn
with bits of brittle froth

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of all things broken and lost.

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Porcelain troubles me most.

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Before the first red tones
begin to warm the sky,

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the Earth wakes up and moans.

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It's the small sad cry of
cups and saucers cracking.

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The master's precious
dream of roses, of mowers

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raking and shepherds
on the lawn.

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The black underground stream
swallows the frozen swan

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this morning as I pass.

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It's porcelain that
troubles me most.

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The blackened plain
spreads out to where

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the horizon blurs in a
litter of handle and spout

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a lively pulp that stirs
and crunches under my feet.

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Pretty useless foam, your
stained colors are sweet,

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spattered in dirty waves,
flecking the black fresh loam

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in the mounds of
these new graves,

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in sorrow and pain and cost.

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Sir, porcelain troubles me most.