Image result for wh auden

When he was doing something he was thinking about something else.

If you are not paying attention, you’ll get run over by a car

And no philosophy will save you.

Pity yourself. This is what you are,

A scrap which the cook at supper gave you,

The cook, the God of somebody else.

Conqueror or poet, you live in a limited box,

No better than Louisa, the typist,

In her room; no better than Jonathan who fixes the locks.

Auden, the lazy, was finally the best,

Too lazy to be a genius through and through.

He would wake, smoke, write a poem, rest;

It’s quiet. Don’t disturb him. I’m warning you.



  1. Desdi said,

    April 10, 2019 at 12:27 pm

    • thomasbrady said,

      April 11, 2019 at 2:10 pm

      One of my favorite poems. I made a film of it in film class, but the tape was misplaced and lost. One of my saddest losses.

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