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