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More poems by Marianne MooreMarianne Moore | Print this page.Print | View and Write CommentsComments | Books by Marianne MooreBooks by Marianne Moore

The Steeple-Jack

Marianne Moore

Dürer would have seen a reason for living
  in a town like this, with eight stranded whales
to look at; with the sweet sea air coming into your house
on a fine day, from water etched
  with waves as formal as the scales
on a fish.

One by one in two's and three's, the seagulls keep
  flying back and forth over the town clock,
or sailing around the lighthouse without moving their wings --
rising steadily with a slight
  quiver of the body -- or flock
mewing where

a sea the purple of the peacock's neck is
  paled to greenish azure as Dürer changed
the pine green of the Tyrol to peacock blue and guinea
gray. You can see a twenty-five-
  pound lobster; and fish nets arranged
to dry. The

whirlwind fife-and-drum of the storm bends the salt
  marsh grass, disturbs stars in the sky and the
star on the steeple; it is a privilege to see so
much confusion. Disguised by what
  might seem the opposite, the sea-
side flowers and

trees are favored by the fog so that you have
  the tropics first hand: the trumpet-vine,
fox-glove, giant snap-dragon, a salpiglossis that has
spots and stripes; morning-glories, gourds,
  or moon-vines trained on fishing-twine
at the back door;

cat-tails, flags, blueberries and spiderwort,
  striped grass, lichens, sunflowers, asters, daisies --
yellow and crab-claw ragged sailors with green bracts -- toad-plant, 
petunias, ferns; pink lilies, blue
  ones, tigers; poppies; black sweet-peas.
The climate

is not right for the banyan, frangipani, or
  jack-fruit trees; or for exotic serpent
life. Ring lizard and snake-skin for the foot, if you see fit;
but here they've cats, not cobras, to
  keep down the rats. The diffident
little newt

with white pin-dots on black horizontal spaced-
  out bands lives here; yet there is nothing that
ambition can buy or take away. The college student
named Ambrose sits on the hillside
  with his not-native books and hat
and sees boats

at sea progress white and rigid as if in
  a groove. Liking an elegance of which
the sourch is not bravado, he knows by heart the antique
sugar-bowl shaped summer-house of
  interlacing slats, and the pitch
of the church

spire, not true, from which a man in scarlet lets
  down a rope as a spider spins a thread;
he might be part of a novel, but on the sidewalk a
sign says C. J. Poole, Steeple Jack,
  in black and white; and one in red
and white says

Danger. The church portico has four fluted
  columns, each a single piece of stone, made
modester by white-wash. Theis would be a fit haven for
waifs, children, animals, prisoners,
  and presidents who have repaid
sin-driven

senators by not thinking about them. The
  place has a school-house, a post-office in a
store, fish-houses, hen-houses, a three-masted schooner on
the stocks. The hero, the student, 
  the steeple-jack, each in his way,
is at home.

It could not be dangerous to be living
  in a town like this, of simple people,
who have a steeple-jack placing danger signs by the church
while he is gilding the solid-
  pointed star, which on a steeple
stands for hope.

Added: 30 May 2002 | Last Read: 21 Oct 2018 4:25 AM | Viewed: 9484 times

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URL: http://plagiarist.com/poetry/4467/ | Viewed on 21 October 2018.
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