I rhapsodised about the Parthenon,
afloat its springy mountain like some white
string instrument that through its columns, slight,
gathered the expanse of the world sky in one
great unifying chord of marble sound –
when suddenly a barrel organ, through
the open doors, across the terrace, spewed
its viscous slobber as its owner ground.
Yes, I thought, Brahman’s the Artist: he chose,
as later Shakespeare did, to juxtapose
the elevated and the tongue-in-cheek.
And what in Cyrano de Bergerac
the baker said, with all his glassware smashed,
I thought, il casse tout, c’est magnifique.