Two Poems about Hippopotami

Detail from a stained glass window at St Stephen's Episcopal Church, Oxford NC

The Hippopotamus

Behold the hippopotamus!
We laugh at how he looks to us,
And yet in moments dank and grim,
I wonder how we look to him.

Peace, peace, thou hippopotamus!
We really look all right to us,
As you no doubt delight the eye
Of other hippopotami. 

- Ogden Nash

I love this hippo in the Noah's Ark stained glass window at the church where I attended an ordination last night! He (or she - only one is shown but we know the pair made it onto the ark, unlike the unicorns) has a happy face, secure in his salvation I suppose.

And I love both these poems. The thought of what we might look like to the hippopotamus is an interesting one to ponder - as is the vision of the winged 'potamus singing round the throne of God. I can't decide which is my favorite. How about you?

The Hippopotamus

THE BROAD-BACKED hippopotamus
Rests on his belly in the mud;
Although he seems so firm to us
He is merely flesh and blood.
Flesh and blood is weak and frail,	5
Susceptible to nervous shock;
While the True Church can never fail
For it is based upon a rock.
The hippo’s feeble steps may err
In compassing material ends,	10
While the True Church need never stir
To gather in its dividends.
The ’potamus can never reach
The mango on the mango-tree;
But fruits of pomegranate and peach	15
Refresh the Church from over sea.
At mating time the hippo’s voice
Betrays inflexions hoarse and odd,
But every week we hear rejoice
The Church, at being one with God.	20
The hippopotamus’s day
Is passed in sleep; at night he hunts;
God works in a mysterious way—
The Church can sleep and feed at once.
I saw the ’potamus take wing	25
Ascending from the damp savannas,
And quiring angels round him sing
The praise of God, in loud hosannas.
Blood of the Lamb shall wash him clean
And him shall heavenly arms enfold,	30
Among the saints he shall be seen
Performing on a harp of gold.
He shall be washed as white as snow,
By all the martyr’d virgins kist,
While the True Church remains below	35
Wrapt in the old miasmal mist. - T.S. Eliot