Learn More

Karl Shapiro

(10 November 1913 – 14 May 2000 / Baltimore, Maryland)

The Intellectual


What should the wars do with these jigging fools?


The man behind the book may not be man,
His own man or the book’s or yet the time’s,
But still be whole, deciding what he can
In praise of politics or German rimes;


But the intellectual lights a cigarette
And offers it lit to the lady, whose odd smile
Is the merest hyphen—lest he should forget
What he has been resuming all the while.


He talks to overhear, she to withdraw
To some interior feminine fireside
Where the back arches, beauty puts forth a paw
Like a black puma stretching in velvet pride,


Making him think of cats, a stray of which
Some days sets up a howling in his brain,
Pure interference such as this neat bitch
Seems to create from listening disdain.


But talk is all the value, the release,
Talk is the very fillip of an act,
The frame and subject of the masterpiece
Under whose film of age the face is cracked.


His own forehead glows like expensive wood,
But back of it the mind is disengaged,
Self-sealing clock recording bad and good
At constant temperature, intact, unaged.


But strange, his body is an open house
Inviting every passerby to stay;
The city to and fro beneath his brows
Wanders and drinks and chats from night to day.


Think of a private thought, indecent room
Where one might kiss his daughter before bed!
Life is embarrassed; shut the family tomb,
Console your neighbor for his recent dead;


Do something! die in Spain or paint a green
Gouache, go into business (Rimbaud did),
Or start another Little Magazine,
Or move in with a woman, have a kid.


Invulnerable, impossible, immune,
Do what you will, your will will not be done
But dissipate the light of afternoon
Till evening flickers like the midnight sun,


And midnight shouts and dies: I’d rather be
A milkman walking in his sleep at dawn
Bearing fat quarts of cream, and so be free,
Crossing alone and cold from lawn to lawn.


I’d rather be a barber and cut hair
Than walk with you in gilt museum halls,
You and the puma-lady, she so rare
Exhaling her silk soul upon the walls.


Go take yourselves apart, but let me be
The fault you find with everyman. I spit,
I laugh, I fight; and you, l’homme qui rît;
Swallow your stale saliva, and still sit.

Submitted: Friday, April 16, 2010
Edited: Friday, July 29, 2011

Do you like this poem?
0 person liked.
0 person did not like.

Read this poem in other languages

This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.

I would like to translate this poem »

word flags

What do you think this poem is about?

Comments about this poem (The Intellectual by Karl Shapiro )

Enter the verification code :

There is no comment submitted by members..

Trending Poets

Trending Poems

  1. The Saddest Poem, Pablo Neruda
  2. Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night, Dylan Thomas
  3. Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening, Robert Frost
  4. The Road Not Taken, Robert Frost
  5. A Little Light, Carolyn Brunelle
  6. Beautiful Inside, Paul Holmes
  7. Still I Rise, Maya Angelou
  8. A Child's Christmas in Wales, Dylan Thomas
  9. I Knew a Woman, Theodore Roethke
  10. If You Forget Me, Pablo Neruda

Poem of the Day

poet Dante Gabriel Rossetti

A little while a little love
The hour yet bears for thee and me
Who have not drawn the veil to see
If still our heaven be lit above.
Thou merely, at the day's last sigh,
...... Read complete »

   

New Poems

  1. Aristotole's Abstract Acrostical {X 1 to.., Frank James Ryan Jr...FjR
  2. W h i t e n o i s e..., Frank James Ryan Jr...FjR
  3. Of The Nurturing..., Frank James Ryan Jr...FjR
  4. Of Respect To The Rose...(r), Frank James Ryan Jr...FjR
  5. Shethar, Edward Kofi Louis
  6. Seer's See Suns' Shadow as Seven Seals S.., Frank James Ryan Jr...FjR
  7. The Bishop & The Crucifer {Prose}...(r), Frank James Ryan Jr...FjR
  8. Come Out, Edward Kofi Louis
  9. An Idiot's Painkiller Song, Joseph Archer
  10. Beware..., Dr John Celes
[Hata Bildir]