Too many are content

The poetry of Stephan Crane is like an old, leather shoe to me.  His poems are form-fitted to my foot.  I have read, reread, memorized, used as illustration, and recited the short, pithy lines he created because they speak volumes.  I am an admirer of ideas succinctly stated.  Crane is the best.

From time to time, when I get frustrated, I call up a Crane poem.  It comforts me.  It lets me know that my frustration is not new, that the behavior I get frustrated about is the behavior that frustrated him and hundreds of thousands before him.  So, I pull out his poem from my collection or from my mind and recite.

A youth in apparel that glittered
Went to walk in a grim forest.
There he met an assassin
Attired all in garb of old days;
He, scowling through the thickets,
And dagger poised quivering,
Rushed upon the youth.
"Sir," said this latter,
"I am enchanted, believe me,
To die, thus,
In this medieval fashion,
According to the best legends;
Ah, what joy!"
Then took he the wound, smiling,
And died, content. 

On this weekend, through the week, and next weekend as well, institutions in grim forests cloaked in medieval garb, scowl with drawn daggers at youths who look at them, thank them for the legendary knowledge and skills they learned, shake a hand, and cry "What joy!" for the sheepskin that will wound them and kill them, its value drawn from the 19th and 20th centuries.  But they will die content.


Crane is right, at least for another decade.  I am fortunate to live in the days of another poet who speaks of everyday matters, Bruce Springsteen.  My hope is the same as his.  I may be deluded, though, because hope springs eternal...