Crusoe’s Poetry
Since I’m living on this desert island,
I thought it would be good to send this message in a bottle,
so you might understand my isolation better.
Life is tiresome without trinkets,
but the best trinkets are in the mind,
since all that happens happens in the mind in any case.
With this pen in my hand, like a gun, like a spade,
like a telescope or a microscope, like a broom,
like a car or a plane, I can go anywhere,
do anything, be anything I imagine
—Did I mention my pen’s a wardrobe?
This morning I’m on an island
off the west of Ireland and, oh boy, do the waves beat
on the coast, booming like a cannon
—my pen is a tape recorder—
I’ll be back shortly, with some sea shells
from the seaside, just another trinket for you
—you know my pen is a bag as well—
My desk is a desert island,
a safe harbour where the waves are tame.
I’ll write again, when I can,
but maybe, in the meantime,
we can plan to have a meal and a beer
at the pub, so I can show you the trinkets.
