Majestic Haystack

Majestic Haystack

by Marianne Moore

Majestic Haystack, Empress of my life,

       Your ample waist

Just fits the gown I fancy for my wife,

       And suits my taste;

Yet there you stand, flatfooted, square and deep,

An unresponsive elephantine heap,

Coquetting with the stars while I’m asleep—

       O cruel stack—

Coy, silent monster, matron of the fields,

        I sing to you;

And all the fondest love that summer yields

        I bring to you

Yet there you squat, immense in your disdain,

Heedless of all the tears of streaming rain

All eyes drip over you—your breathless swain;

        O stony stack!

Stupendous maiden, sweetest when oblong,

        Does inner flame

Now smolder in thy soul to hear my song

        Repeat thy name?

Or does thy huge and ponderous heart object

To the advances of my passion and reject

My love because it’s airy and elect?

        O wily stack!

 ~ ❇ ✾ ❈ ✾ ❇ ~

You’ve spurned my love as though I were a worm,

But next September when I see thy form

I’ll woo her with an equinoctial storm

        I have that knack!

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A Grave by Marianne Moore

A Grave

by Marianne Moore

Man looking into the sea,

taking the view from those who have as much right to it as

           you have to it yourself,

it is human nature to stand in the middle of a thing,

but you cannot stand in the middle of this;

the sea has nothing to give but a well excavated grave.

The firs stand in a procession, each with an emerald turkey-

           foot at the top,

reserved as their contours, saying nothing;

repression, however, is not the most obvious characteristic of

           the sea;

the sea is a collector, quick to return a rapacious look.

There are others besides you who have worn that look —

whose expression is no longer a protest; the fish no longer

           investigate them

for their bones have not lasted:

men lower nets, unconscious of the fact that they are

           desecrating a grave,

and row quickly away — the blades of the oars

moving together like the feet of water-spiders as if there were

           no such thing as death.

The wrinkles progress among themselves in a phalanx — beautiful

           under networks of foam,

and fade breathlessly while the sea rustles in and out of the

           seaweed;

the birds swim through the air at top speed, emitting cat-calls

           as heretofore —

the tortoise-shell scourges about the feet of the cliffs, in motion

           beneath them;

and the ocean, under the pulsation of lighthouses and noise of

           bell-buoys,

advances as usual, looking as if it were not that ocean in which

           dropped things are bound to sink —

in which if they turn and twist, it is neither with volition nor

           consciousness.

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According to a note by Chris Burgess(crisco@mail.utexas.edu) on his Marianne Moore Home Page , “A Grave” was written shortly after the sinking of the Lusitania and after Moore’s brother Warner joined the Navy as a chaplin and went out to sea. The sea was one of Moore’s favorite topics, but she was also very much aware of the sea as a grave. The sea, for Moore, was both beautiful and deadly. Once, when she and her mother were standing together admiring the sea, a man came and stood in from of them, Moore’s mother remarked about how people seem to feel the need to stand in the middle of things instead of stepping back to get the full picture, and this incident became part of the poem. (Source: Marianne Moore: A Literary Life by Charles Molesworth)