It’s funny that a web search for the term “gravitable” should return a poem dedicated to the relationship between man and his under-appreciated objects.
Every Thing
by Harold Monro
Since man has been articulate,
Mechanical, improvidently wise,
(Servant of Fate),
He has not understood the little cries
And foreign conversations of the small
Delightful creatures that have followed him
Not far behind;
Has failed to hear the sympathetic call
Of Crockery and Cutlery, those kind
Reposeful Teraphim
Of his domestic happiness; the Stool
He sat on, or the Door he entered through:
He has not thanked them, overbearing fool!
What is he coming to?
But you should listen to the talk of these.
Honest they are, and patient they have kept;
Served him without his Thank you or his Please .
I often heard
The gentle Bed, a sigh between each word,
Murmuring, before I slept.
The Candle, as I blew it, cried aloud,
Then bowed,
And in a smoky argument
Into the darkness went.
The Kettle puffed a tentacle of breath: -
Pooh! I have boiled his water, I don’t know
Why; and he always says I boil too slow.
He never calls me ‘Suliie, dear,’ and oh,
I wonder why I squander my desire
Sitting submissive -on his kitchen fire.”
Now the old Copper Basin suddenly
Rattled and tumbled from the shelf,
Bumping and crying: ” I can fall by myself;
Without a woman’s hand
To patronize and coax and flatter MC,
I understand
The lean and poise of gravitable land.” It gave a raucous and
tumultuous shout, Twisted itself convulsively about, Rested upon
the floor, and, while I stare, it stares and grins at me.
The old impetuous Gas above my head Begins irascibly to flare and
fret, Wheezing into its epileptic jet,
Reminding me I ought to go to bed.
The Rafters creak; and Empty-Cupboard door
Swings open; now a wild Plank of the floor
Breaks from its joist, and leaps behind my foot.
Down from the chimney, half a pound of Soot
Tumbles and lies, and shakes itself again.
The Putty cracks against the window-pane.
A piece of Paper in the basket shoves
Another piece, and toward the bottom moves.
My independent Pencil, while I write,
Breaks at the point: the ruminating Clock
Stirs all its body and begins to rock,
Warning the waiting presence of the Night,
Strikes the dead hour, and tumbles to the plain
Ticking of ordinary work again.
You do well to remind me, and I praise
Your strangely individual foreign ways.
You call me from myself to recognize
Companionship in your unselfish eyes.
I want your dear acquaintances, although
I pass you arrogantly over, throw
Your lovely sounds, and squander them along
My busy days. I’ll do you no more wrong.
Purr for me, Sukie, like a faithful cat.
You, my well-trampled Boots, and you, my Hat,
Remain my friends: I feel, though I don’t speak,
Your touch grow kindlier from week to week.
It well becomes our mutual happiness
To go toward the same end more or less.
There is not much disimilarity,
Not much to choose, I know it well, in fine,
Between the purposes of you and me,
And your eventual Rubbish Heap, and mine.
