A Poem After Chesterton’s ‘A Ballad of Theatricals’, by M.D. Skeen

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IRL

—after G.K. Chesterton’s “A Ballad of
Theatricals” (reprinted below)

Though all the emails I receive—
surprisingly politely read—
Although the students can deceive,
Although the work is fast indeed,
Although, the angel in the chat
She comes by wifi not by wings,
Though all the programming seems pat,
Believe me, there are real things.

Yes, real people living lives—
not influencers, just simple folk,
who work outside and drink in dives,
And some are rich but most are broke.
There is an earth with sea and land
Filled with fallen human beings
who have five fingers on each hand—
Believe me, there are real things.

It’s tempting to live a life online—
An avatar behind a screen—
But one cannot from life resign,
And time ignores your cute machine.
The world around us crumbles on,
The crickets chirp, the blackbird sings,
And we are here, then we are gone—
Believe me, there are real things.

ENVOY.

Princess, though you use a filter,
the time you spend online, it brings
perceptions twisted way off kilter—
Believe me, there are real things.

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A Ballad of Theatricals

by G.K. Chesterton (1874-1936)

Though all the critics’ canons grow—
Far seedier than the actors’ own—
Although the cottage-door’s too low—
Although the fairy’s twenty stone—
Although, just like the telephone,
She comes by wire and not by wings,
Though all the mechanism’s known—
Believe me, there are real things.

Yes, real people—even so—
Even in a theatre, truth is known,
Though the agnostic will not know,
And though the gnostic will not own,
There is a thing called skin and bone,
And many a man that struts and sings
Has been as stony-broke as stone . . .
Believe me, there are real things

There is an hour when all men go;
An hour when man is all alone.
When idle minstrels in a row
Went down with all the bugles blown—
When brass and hymn and drum went down,
Down in death’s throat with thunderings—
Ah, though the unreal things have grown,
Believe me, there are real things.

ENVOY.

Prince, though your hair is not your own
And half your face held on by strings,
And if you sat, you’d smash your throne—
—Believe me, there are real things.

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M.D. Skeen works as an attorney in Denver, Colorado.