Some days it looks as if I might be limbering up
for my role as a human cannonball
complete with an athletic cup.
When it comes to protecting my thingamajig
I take my cue from the Good Thief
and stay close to Mr. Big.
Mr. Big always gave it his best shot for those few years he found himself in the ring and managed to get out of some pretty tight spots.
Often I'm simply going through the hoops
of practising the Chinese pole
while the ring is cleared of elephant-poop.
For I may unabashedly fly the flag
of the newly independent country of myself
while working on a new car gag,
the one in which I put my trust
in the removal of all sagging springs.
Some bring back the tusks of an elephant in must.
Most afternoons I find myself plying three Indian clubs
as I wait in the cloud-grey vestibule
for a smack in the gub
from the big top's sawdust- and tiger-fug
by which I'm still more often than not revived.
Each elephant sports its own hessian rug.
Some days it looks as if I might be limbering up
while the elephants go huppity-hup
through Uttar Pradesh or the Transvaal.
When it comes to protecting my thingamajig
I couldn't give a fig
about wearing a fig leaf.
Mr. Big always gave it his best shot but even he ended up hanging by his topknot
like one those acrobats from Beijing.
Often I'm simply going through the hoops
rather than actually looping the loop
with Diavalo at Barnum's or the brothers Cole.
Or I may unabashedly fly the flag
for Mr. Big or the Good Thief or any of the ragtag
pickled punks they keep on the top shelf.
The one in which I put my trust
is the motor car that's built of rust
and spit and cardboard and bloody butcher's string.
Most afternoons I find myself plying three Indian clubs
while the world shrinks to the size of an upturned tub
for an elephant who's learned to abide by the rules
of the big top's sawdust- and tiger-fug.
To get nineteen clowns into a Volkswagen Bug
requires the ministrations of at least three midwives.
Some days it looks as if I might be limbering up
for my role as a human cannonball.
When it comes to protecting my thingamajig
I take my cue from the Good Thief.
Mr. Big always gave it his best shot
for those few years he found himself in the ring.
Often I'm simply going through the hoops
of practising the Chinese pole
so I may unabashedly fly the flag
of the newly independent country of myself,
the one in which I put my trust
in the removal of all sagging springs.
Most afternoons I find myself plying three Indian clubs
as I wait in the cloud-grey vestibule
for the big top's sawdust- and tiger-fug
by which I'm still more often than not revived.
Paul Muldoon (born 20 June 1951) is an Irish poet. He has published over thirty collections and won a Pulitzer Prize for Poetry and the T. S. Eliot Prize. He held the post of Oxford Professor of Poetry from 1999 to 2004. At Princeton University he is both the Howard G. B. Clark '21 Professor in the Humanities and Founding Chair of the Lewis Center for the Arts. He has also served as president of the Poetry Society (UK) and Poetry Editor at The New Yorker. His latest book of poems, Frolic and Detour, was published in 2019.