And then he tries a very delicate Waltz-like poem
called "Song On Porcelain," which
was translated by my friend Robert Pinsky
so that it does rhyme and does meter.
Wrote "Song on Porcelain."
Rose colored cup and saucer, flowery demitasse,
you lie beside the river, where an armored columns pass.
Winds from across the meadow, sprinkle the bank with down.
A torn apple tree's shadow falls on the muddy path.
The ground everywhere is strewn with bits of brittle froth
of all things broken and lost.
Porcelain troubles me most.
Before the first red tones begin to warm the sky,
the Earth wakes up and moans.
It's the small sad cry of cups and saucers cracking.
The master's precious dream of roses, of mowers
raking and shepherds on the lawn.
The black underground stream swallows the frozen swan
this morning as I pass.
It's porcelain that troubles me most.
The blackened plain spreads out to where
the horizon blurs in a litter of handle and spout
a lively pulp that stirs and crunches under my feet.
Pretty useless foam, your stained colors are sweet,
spattered in dirty waves, flecking the black fresh loam
in the mounds of these new graves,
in sorrow and pain and cost.
Sir, porcelain troubles me most.