Confession of a Poet

We should rather play the market then!

Poetry is, God knows, no longer the thing.

Ah, five-footed in the New Age to go walking,

isn’t fit for gentlemen.

The harp upon our selfsame nerves we play.

And when we groan, it all comes out in rhyme.

Throwing stones at us we think no crime.

It sounds so fair. Poets are made of clay.

We travel in emotion like you in soap.

We decorate each sorrow and each smart

in bow and wreath—tastefully, we hope.

And sacrifice thrice daily our own heart.

We are, fie on the devil, one rum lot.

Desire is with us cut out to measure.

Whate’er befalls—we make words to treasure.

Whate’er betide—it boils up our pot.

We dispense perception by the yard.

And should a child of ours die,

we hurry up the body into novellæ!

We shame ourselves, shameless as we are.

We should rather get us into trading!

Houses or mine shares, it’s the same to us!

For as a poet in cities to go promenading,

is scandalous...

Erich Kästner