The smallest citizen of Königsberg
spent a lifetime parasitically attached to his timepiece
whose faultless clockwork began to turn at precisely 5 a.m.
when not another soul had stirred and even god was still dreaming
scion of a master saddler in his red-cloth nightcap
customary black frock Kant built a saddle to master the world
seven sharp he clasps his hands behind his back and wends his way to school
where fate has gathered flocks of men who’ve forsaken hearth and home
put their livelihoods at risk to hear this wizened old man discourse on the celestial body
Herr Professor raps the lectern now and then looks up to gaze
from one object to another like an aging orangutan confronted with civilization
dismissing class Kant hurries home to his consonants and vowels
neither emperor nor geyser can break his stride
stroke of one his valet appears by his inkwell and bows, saying:
“Sir, the soup is on the table.”
of music and art our scholar professes scant interest
abhors the very sound of marriage dines but once a day
for as Confucius is alleged to have said “noli satiari ex delicatissimis cibis”
dinner behind him our aging wraith takes the air
with an elegant gait tips his hat at every peer and grandee allows the local belles
to kiss his hand is wont to turn each lane and byway his neighbors go by on
into a segue to observations on the beautiful and sublime and winds up at the citadel
where he halts his step before the ancient stones then quickly turns for home
there he dons a sleeveless shirt tidies up the house a bit peruses his journals
at dusk he waits to light the lamp takes his station by the window
where he and the church steeple stare each other down
ten sharp Kant snuffs out the light and goes to bed
and when he lays his massive Prussian brow upon his pillow
the Enlightenment is finally free to put two thoughts together
“Yimannuer Kangde” © Yu Jian. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2011 by Steve Bradbury. All rights reserved.
