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Title: The Critics
Author: Edmund Vance Cooke [
More Titles by Cooke]
As a matter of fact,
I am sure I can act,
And so,
When I go,
To the show,
Not the art of an Irving
Seems wholly deserving,
And though Booth were the star
He'd have many a jar,
If he heard the critique
Which I frequently speak,
As you
Do,
Too.
Written deep in my heart
Is a knowledge of art,
For why?
I've an eye
Like a die.
And where Raphael's paint
Has bedizened some saint,
I note his perspective
Is sadly defective,
And you? O, I know
When you've looked on Corot
The same
Blame
Came.
And the world would have gained
If my voice had been trained,
For my ear
Is severe,
As I hear
De Reszke and Patti.
(I've heard 'em sing "ratty!")
And the crowd has yelled "Bis!"
When a call for police
Should have shortened the score.
Was there ever a more
Absurd
Word
Heard?
And I feel, now and then,
I could handle a pen,
For indeed,
As I heed
What I read,
I observe many faults;
Homer nods, Shakespere halts,
Dante's sad, Pope is trite,
Poe's mechanic, Holmes light,
Yet so easy to do
Is the thing, even you
Might
Write
Quite
Bright!
[The end]
Edmund Vance Cooke's poem: Critics
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