Marianne Moore

Those Various Scalpels

Those
various sounds, consistently indistinct, like intermingled echoes
  struck from thin glasses successively at random—
      the inflection disguised: your hair, the tails of two
  fighting—cocks head to head in stone—
      like sculptured scimitars repeating the curve of your  
              ears in reverse order:  
                                                                       your eyes,
            flowers of ice and snow
 
sown by tearing winds on the cordage of disabled ships: your
      raised hand
an ambiguous signature: your cheeks, those rosettes
  of blood on the stone floors of French châteaux,
with regard to which the guides are so affirmative—
         your other hand
 
a bundle of lances all alike, partly hid by emeralds from Persia
   and the fractional magnificence of Florentine
      goldwork—a collection of little objects—
sapphires set with emeralds, and pearls with a moonstone, made fine
  with enamel in gray, yellow, and dragonfly blue;
     a lemon, a pear
 
and three bunches of grapes, tied with silver: your dress, a magnificent square
cathedral tower of uniform
  and at the same time diverse appearance—a
species of vertical vineyard, rustling in the storm
  of conventional opinion—are they weapons or scalpels?
      Whetted to brilliance
 
by the hard majesty of that sophistication which is superior to opportunity,
these things are rich instruments with which to experiment.
   But why dissect destiny with instruments
   more highly specialized than the components of destiny
           itself?
Other works by Marianne Moore...



Top