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The Managers —WH Auden, 1948 In the bad old days it was not so bad: The top of the ladder
Was an amusing place to sit; success Meant quite a lot—leisure And huge meals, more palaces filled with more Objects, books, girls, horses Than one would ever get round to, and to be Carried uphill while seeing Others walk. To rule was a pleasure when One wrote a death-sentence On the back of the Ace of Spades and played on With a new deck. Honors Are not so physical or jolly now, For the species of Powers We are used to are not like that. Could one of them Be said to resemble
The Tragic Hero, the Platonic Saint, Or would any painter Portray one arising triumphant from a lake On a dolphin, naked, Protected by an umbrella of cherubs? Can They so much as manage To behave like genuine Caesars when alone Or drinking with cronies, To let their hair down and be frank about The world? It is doubtful. The last word on how we may live or die Rests today with such quiet Men, working too hard in rooms that are too big, Reducing to figures What is the matter, what is to be done. A neat little luncheon Of sandwiches is brought to each on a tray,
Nourishment they are able To take with one hand without looking up From papers a couple Of secretaries are needed to file, From problems no smiling Can dismiss. The typewriters never stop But whirr like grasshoppers In the silent siesta heat as, frivolous Across their discussions, From woods unaltered by our wars and our vows There drift the scents of flowers And the songs of birds who will never vote
Or bother to notice Those distinguishing marks a lover sees By instinct and policemen Can be trained to observe. Far into the night Their windows burn brightly And, behind their backs bent over some report, On every quarter, For ever like a god or a disease There on earth the reason In all its aspects why they are tired, the weak, The inattentive, seeking Someone to blame. If, to recuperate They go a-playing, their greatness Encounters the bow of the chef or the glance Of the ballet-dancer Who cannot be ruined by any master's fall. To rule must be a calling, It seems, like surgery or sculpture; the fun Neither love nor money But taking necessary risks, the test Of one's own skill, the questions, If difficult, their own reward. But then Perhaps one should mention Also what must be a comfort as they guess In times like the present
When guesses can prove so fatally wrong, The fact of belonging To the very select indeed, to those For whom, just supposing They do, there will be places on the last Plane out of disaster. No; no one is really sorry for their Heavy gait and careworn Look, nor would they thank you if you said you were.
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Kosh's Shadow
8/15/2021 3:25:01 PM
buzzsawmonkey
8/18/2021 5:07:19 PM