۝ Peter ۝

۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝~۝

Peter
By Marianne Moore
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Strong and slippery, built for the midnight grass-party confronted by four cats,
he sleeps his time away -- the detached first claw on his foreleg which corresponds
to the thumb, retracted to its tip; the small tuft of fronds
or katydid legs above each eye, still numbering the units in each group;
the shadbones regularly set about his mouth, to droop or rise

in unison like the porcupine's quills -- motionless. He lets himself be flat
­tened out by gravity, as it were a piece of seaweed tamed and weakened by
exposure to the sun; compelled when extended, to lie
stationary. Sleep is the result of his delusion that one must do as
well as one can for oneself; sleep -- epitome of what is to

him as to the average person, the end of life. Demonstrate on him how
the lady caught the dangerous southern snake, placing a forked stick on either
side of its innocuous neck; one need not try to stir
him up; his prune shaped head and alligator eyes are not a party to the
joke. Lifted and handled, he may be dangled like an eel or set

up on the forearm like a mouse; his eyes bisected by pupils of a pin's
width, are flickeringly exhibited, then covered up. May be? I should say,
might have been; when he has been got the better of in a
dream -- as in a fight with nature or with cats -- we all know it. Profound sleep is
not with him, a fixed illusion. Springing about with froglike ac­

curacy, emitting jerky cries when taken in the hand, he is himself
again; to sit caged by the rungs of a domestic chair would be unprofit­able -- human. What is the good of hypocrisy? It
is permissible to choose one's employment, to abandon the wire nail, the
roly-poly, when it shows signs of being no longer a pleas­

ure, to score the adjacent magazine with a double line of strokes. He can
talk, but insolently says nothing. What of it? When one is frank, one's very
presence is a compliment. It is clear that he can see
the virtue of naturalness, that he is one of those who do not regard
the published fact as a surrender. As for the disposition

invariably to affront, an animal with claws wants to have to use
them; that eel-like extension of trunk into tail is not an accident. To
leap, to lengthen out, divide the air -- to purloin, to pursue.
to tell the hen: fly over the fence, go in the wrong way -- in your perturba
­tion -- this is life; to do less would be nothing but dishonesty.

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~:~ Poetry Rare Please ~:~

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
In the stye of my previous Tuesday's Redux, For Iris-2 and the others who used to dine here with me and Marianne Moore, guest of honor.

A Last Homage For Marianne Moore
..On the demise of her Roast Cafe 6/4/2007-

We await Monday's special du jour..
Per usual this rhymes with Marianne Moore..
In honor of She who must be obeyed..
I render her one last accolade.
Never again will she tender a seat
Or lamb or mutton on Pinsky's beat..
Marianne never tendered a boar..
Faux poetry she'd put out the door.

Marianne told me this restaurant will close
For lack of poems and well chilled prose..
The tables will move to seat her upstairs
With Lear and Pope and Milne's odd bears..
No more will she deign to check her hat
And join us on Tuesday's to chew the fat..
Since this became a Fast Food place..
Pinsky's Hack-Shack will live on in disgrace.

In this time of reform and corporate go-getters
We would be conundrums to serve our betters..
Free speech will be served in media's fetters
To adorn the hot plates of Editor's letters..
When Socrates died it was almost too late..
For again here speech must serve the State..
Alas Poor Yorick.. this graveyard's Slate.

So once again Marianne, I bid you 'Adieu.'
You came, you saw, you laughed and knew
The die was cast when Pinsky threw
The Muses out and brought in his crew;
He papered these walls with rabbit skin glue
To dine with Al Fresca on saccharine lite..
This kitchen is closed, no Moore delights.

Artemesia ©5/31/2007

(permission granted in comments of post below)