Or not show at all....
|Me demonstrating carving at the Architectural Heritage Center|
I'm glad we did it anyway as it allowed everyone present time to try their hand at carving. Though after all the work of hauling tools, concrete, room and floor protection -lots of cardboard, the experience had me craving Wistlwa Szymborska's poem, Poetry Reading, from her book view with a grain of sand.
To be a boxer, or not to be there
at all. O Muse, where are our teeming crowds?
Twelve people in the room, eight seats to spare-
it’s time to start this cultural affair.
Half came in side because it started raining,
the rest are relatives. O Muse.
The women here would love to rant and rave,
but that’s for boxing. Here they must behave.
Dante’s Inferno is ringside nowadays.
Likewise his Paradise. O Muse.
Oh, not to be a boxer but a poet,
one sentenced to hard shelleying for life,
for lack of muscles forced to show the world
the sonnet that may make the high-school reading lists
with luck. O muse,
O bobtailed angel, Pegasus.
In the first row, a sweet old man’s soft snore:
he dreams his wife’s alive again. What’s more
she’s making him that tart she used to bake.
Aflame, but carefully-don’t burn his cake!--
we start to read. O Muse.