Some dear and faithful brothers think
I drink and smoke too much,
which is to say
any at all.
any at all.
And oh, I write poetry too.
I use the word poetry quite loosely and what might be called poetry around here is usually no more than notes or reflections on something that happened during the day. I am not such an artisan nor dream to ever reach such lofty heights as to consider myself a poet... though maybe, someday, by the grace of God.
However, Johann Sebastian Bach was a true master and here's a gem he wrote reflecting on his pipe (English translation found here, and German here):
Whene'er I take my pipe and stuff it
And smoke to pass the time away
My thoughts, as I sit there and puff it,
Dwell on a picture sad and grey:
It teaches me that very like
Am I myself unto my pipe.
Like me this pipe, so fragrant burning,
Is made of naught but earthen clay;
To earth I too shall be returning,
And cannot halt my slow decay.
My well used pipe, now cracked and broken,
Of mortal life is but a token.
No stain, the pipe's hue yet doth darken;
It remains white. Thus do I know
That when to death's call I must harken
My body, too, all pale will grow.
To black beneath the sod 'twill turn,
Likewise the pipe, if oft it burn.
Or when the pipe is fairly glowing,
Behold then instantaneously,
The smoke off into thin air going,
'Til naught but ash is left to see.
Man's fame likewise away will burn
And unto dust his body turn.
How oft it happens when one's smoking,
The tamper's missing from it's shelf,
And one goes with one's finger poking
Into the bowl and burns oneself.
If in the pipe such pain doth dwell
How hot must be the pains of Hell!
Thus o'er my pipe in contemplation
Of such things - I can constantly
Indulge in fruitful meditation,
And so, puffing contentedly,
On land, at sea, at home, abroad,
I smoke my pipe and worship God.
From "The Second Little Clavier Book For Anna Magdalena" by J.S. Bach
