from poetry of
Stevie Smith
(Florence Margaret Smith, 1902–1971)

We know because we wish it so

That is enough, they cried,

And straight within each infant eye

Stood up the flame of pride,

And if you do not think it so

You shall be crucified.

Then tell me, darling little ones,

What’s dood, suppose Bog is?

Just what we think, the answer came,

Just what we think it is.

They bowed their heads. Our Bog is ours

And we are wholly his.

But when they raised them up again

They had forgotten me

Each one upon the other glared

In pride and misery

For what was dood, and what their Bog

They never could agree.

Then why did he hurry to let him in?

He could have hid in the house.

It was not right of Coleridge in fact it was wrong

(But often we all do wrong)

As the truth is I think he was already stuck

With Kubla Khan.

He was weeping and wailing: I am finished, finished,

I shall never write another word of it,

When along comes the Person from Porlock

And takes the blame for it.

I am hungry to be interrupted

Forever and ever amen

O person from Porlock come quickly

And bring my thoughts to an end.

•   •   •

I felicitate the people who have a Person from Porlock

To break up everything and throw it away

Because then there will be nothing to keep them

And they need not stay.

•   •   •

Why do they grumble so much?

He comes like a benison

They should be glad he had not forgotten them

They might have had to go on.