DIOGENES
Today he appeared
to me again:
the old man who lives in a barrel;
is content to share it with a dog;
eats, drinks and relieves himself
in public places, like the dog;
calls it his master in all things.
Once, according to ancient legend,
when he was already old and disreputable,
world-conquering Alexander sought him out
and offered him anything, anything
his copious mind could imagine, anything
his body could desire.
Diogenes, it is said,
did not hesitate an instant.
“Stand a bit further off,” he said. “Right now
you are standing in my sun.”
This morning, sitting in our winter garden—
yearning for yesterday’s wine,
kisses and long, hot showers—I suddenly remembered
that stubborn old man. Once, it is said,
he smashed a bowl—his only possession—
after seeing a peasant boy
drink from the public fountain.
You—always intent
on what works best, and concerned
with sharing the world—said:
“Why didn’t
he give the bowl
to the boy if he no longer wanted it?”
But Riaz, from the other side
of an ascetic turn
only dimly dreamed of
in my philosophy,
just smiled and said: “Of course.
He wouldn’t want to corrupt
the boy; to encourage anyone
to want anything that wasn’t
essential.”
So now, even in this
quiet, water-wise garden,
I can feel the lashing
of the old man’s tongue.
Brave and reproachful, he stands at my shoulder
each time I click to buy
something I don’t need;
each time I reach out, one more time,
to assure myself that you’re still here—
beyond reason, beyond
anything I could have hoped
to earn or deserve;
just here, beyond argument or philosophy—
just because.
- Jacques Coetzee
