Here's to those who suffer voluntarily,
who rise above the mean and merely momentary
pleasure that we feel sitting on a couch,
eating Cheetos, watching reruns of 'The Brady Bunch';
those who exercise, walk fast (raising weights
with their arms in rhythm to their feet) ,
jog, or actually even run -
as long as there's no clear goal in mind,
no Olympic medal, no short-skirted cheerleaders
proffering kisses;
residents of Blakely, Georgia, and Moosejaw, Saskatchewan,
who steadfastly resist removal to California
and similar climes, knowing intuitively
that delight in perfect weather is born in sub-zero winters,
in summer's humid swelter;
those who do without air-conditioning,
using the money for a violin
or books or trips to the local swimming pool;
those who fast, mortify the flesh, -
or at least skip breakfast occasionally,
refusing to indulge every bodily whim,
letting them ripen, at least now and then,
into actual, robust hunger;
monks in solemn Kentucky silence,
some, I suppose, are misanthropes, here I speak of those
with a normal affection for chat and hubbub
who restrict themselves to a reverent silence,
speech being used only in extremity;
blood donors.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Great poem! Billy Wilson
Thanks, Billy. I'm glad you found it valuable.